Cowboy Cash
Yes ma’am.
A selfie of him, big buckle on display, hat pulled low over his eyes, and a mischievous smile appears.
*swoon*
I can almost hear his chuckle.
Sitting on a settee in the lounge at Lizzie’s house, my curiosity about the rodeo eats at me. Resolving that nothing with Duke will be fixed if I hide out here, I decide to go over to Waylon’s.
When I walk in a little while later, I see him behind the bar, as usual, a towel draped over his shoulder. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattooed forearms on display. I feel a flutter in my belly at the sight of the bright colors and the strong, veiny hands, going about his tasks. Instead of the hat I expect, he has a ball cap, turned backwards on his head.
He seems different tonight, somehow.
“Hey, Duke,” I say as I find a stool at the end of the bar and hop up.
“Hey, Caroline, the usual?”
“Oh, after my last performance, I think I’ll just take a beer.” I expect a small smile or a smirk or something. Instead, he just turns away from me and grabs me a beer. I slide a fifty across the counter which gets a raised brow. “I left before paying my tab, last night.”
“Keep it.” He slides it back.
“Duke, take the money,” I tell him seriously. Not only does he look different tonight, but the easy banter, the joking tone, it’s disappeared completely. The frostiness that’s appeared instead is icing me out of the room. “Hey, I’m sorry about last night.” I try to thaw the air between us.
He swipes up the money, turning to add it to the register, ringing in the drinks I had.
“It’s fine, Caroline.” He turns up the television hanging above him as the announcer calls out Cash’s name.
The men in the bar clap for him. After his name, there are lots of acronyms I don’t know. He told me about the Bull Rider’s Association, but the others may as well be a foreign language. All I know is, he must be good. Like really good.
I watch as the bull erupts from the chute, my cowboy on his back. He has one hand wrapped up in a rope and the other hand thrown in the air. He wears leather chaps with tassels hanging down that swing with his movements and a leather vest with logos of various companies on it. His body moves in tandem with the angry beast. It’s like the bull is an extension of his body. Or he is an extension of the bull. The movements are like a dance; they have a raw elegance I can’t even begin to describe. After what is simultaneously the shortest and longest eight seconds of my life, he’s pulled from the back by some rodeo guys and rushed to the gate that he quickly climbs over.
Pulling out my phone, I open our text thread.
That was, by far, the coolest thing I’ve ever watched.
The whole bar watches, waiting for the scores. Ninety-three point four flashes on the screen and his name moves to the top of the leaderboard. The next highest score is ninety-one. We watch the rest of the show while I nurse my beer. Hostility and sadness radiate off Duke.
I want to talk to him, fix it. But I can’t. I tried and he isn’t taking it.
Once all the riders are done, they announce the winner.
“Ashley Colter, another buckle to hang on the wall!” the announcer says to Cash, who stands beside him with a huge smile on his face.
“Thanks, man. Hurricane Warning put on a good show for me.” I laugh at the name of the bull before Cash holds his buckle in front of the camera. “This buckle is for my own Hurricane waiting for me at home. For you, darlin’,” he tells the camera before walking off.
Smiling huge, I finish my beer as my phone starts ringing.
Cowboy Cashflashes across the screen. Leaving a ten-dollar bill, I get up, and without looking back, I walk out of Waylon’s and away from Duke—again.
“Hey, Cowboy.”
“Hey, Hurricane.”
“That was beautiful. Like literally so beautiful. I had no idea. Seeing you up there was so cool,” I tell him breathlessly.
“You at Waylon’s? It’s quiet.”
