I’d kept my promise from the barn. We’d gone at it again yesterday morning against the workbench in the equipment shed, and again last night with her pinned to my mattress and my hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake up the whole house.
Ice rattled in her plastic cup as she laughed at something Wren said, the late sun catching the tan lines on her bare shoulders. I knew better than to keep looking, especially with my family standing right there, but she made it difficult.
Before my self-control could snap entirely, a small, solid weight slammed into my knees.
"Uncle Brock!"
I blinked, forcing my eyes away from Sienna, and looked down. Maisie grinned up at me, her pink cowboy hat swallowing half her face. She bounced on her heels, clutching a stiff coil of nylon rope.
Right. The kids' roping clinic. The whole reason I'd ended up here today.
"You ready to catch a steer?" I asked.
Her little fingers disappeared inside my palm as I steered her through the crowd toward a patch of grass in the town square, which had been roped off for the kids. At the orange netting, I hunted for my so-called assistant.
My brother stood ten yards away, leaning against the bed of a display truck, inhaling a funnel cake. He already had powdered sugar all down the front of his dark shirt.
"Colt!" I yelled.
He turned with his mouth full, looking guilty. I pointed at the hay bale sitting in the grass with a plastic steer head mounted on it.
“You’re the dummy today. Get over here.”
He groaned, swallowed, and brushed sugar off his chest at the same time. He ambled over and hauled the heavy bale out into the center of the pen.
Parents and kids gathered at the fence. Over by the rail, Sienna stepped up next to Wren and Wyatt, watching me with an amused smile.
I forced my focus down to my niece. Maisie gripped the rope in both hands.
“I’m pointin’ it up, Uncle Brock,” she said, her face wrinkling in concentration.
“Good. Now wait for the target.” I straightened up and tipped my hat back, glaring at my brother. “Any day now, Colt.”
Twenty feet away, Colt grinned, tapped the plastic horns, and let out a ridiculous, high-pitched “Moo.”
“He’s not even trying to sound like a cow,” Wren muttered from the rail.
“Don’t distract him,” Wyatt said, arms crossed, fighting a smile. “This is the most important work he’s done all week.”
“Hey,” Colt protested. “I’m providing realism. Okay, Maisie! The steer is running! It’s getting away!”
“Throw it, bug,” I said.
Maisie swung the loop over her head, jerking with the effort, and let it fly. The rope sailed about six feet and dropped short. Colt scrambled forward like a maniac, snatched it, and jammed it over the plastic horns. He yanked it tight just as Maisie pulled back on her end.
"Got him!" Colt yelled from the dust, throwing his hands up like he’d been shot. "The beast is down! Stop the clock! Somebody get this cowgirl the grand prize—a giant ice cream!"
Maisie dropped the rope and started jumping up and down.
The line of waiting kids immediately started yelling for ice cream too. A chorus of "My turn!" erupted down the line.
Wyatt stepped into the pen and slapped Colt a loud high-five. “Hell of an assist.”
He scooped Maisie up, burying his face in her neck while she giggled. As he carried her toward the food trucks, he looked back at me over her pink hat and gave me a deeply amused grin.
“Good luck with the mob,” he called.
Sienna had her phone out, recording the chaos. She caught my eye, lowered the screen, and gave me a slow, knowing wink.
