A few steps later, she bumped her shoulder against my right arm. “You didn’t have to do that. Now I’m gonna smell like cedarwood and lavender for a month.”
“I can live with that.”
I was already thinking about burying my face in her neck later.
A familiar voice cut through from my left. "Well, now. Brock Wilder. Heard you put on a hell of a show in Cheyenne last month."
William Briggs was leaning against a streetlamp, hat so beat-up it looked like it grew on his head. He was a retired PRCA judge who had settled down in Redbow.
He pushed off the post when he saw Sienna and tipped his brim.
"William," I said. "Good to see you, sir."
“Good to see you too, son.” His eyes moved to Sienna, warm and curious. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, miss.”
“Sienna. Just visiting from Chicago.”
“Chicago.” William tilted his head. “Went once. ’99. Stayed three days and spent most of them turned around. Got in a cab and thought I’d wandered into a stampede.”
She laughed. “Still accurate.”
“You make it out to any of the rough rides yet?” he asked.
Sienna glanced at me. Her brow pinched for a fraction of a second—thinking of Wyoming dirt roads, no doubt. I shook my head and pointed discreetly at my own chest.
She looked back at William. “I have, yes. Brock gave me a front-row seat to my first one. The Cody rodeo.”
“Well, you’ve got a good one to show you the ropes. This cowboy here is one of the best.” He tipped his hat again. “And Brock, good luck this season. I’ll be watching.”
William drifted off into the crowd. I turned to Sienna and closed the gap, tipping my head so my stubble brushed the skin behind her ear.
“You think I’ve already shown you a rough ride, darlin’?” I said low. “I haven’t even started.”
Her breath hitched. I felt the tiny shiver run through her.
I figured she’d step back and remind me we were in public. Instead, she turned her head, mouth an inch from my jaw.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because the second your shoulder’s healed, I want you to show me just how rough you can get.”
Every bit of blood in my body went south.
She gave me a sweet smile and walked toward the food tents, hips swaying in those little denim shorts.
I stood there for three full seconds, pulse hammering, fighting the urge to throw her over my shoulder and haul her to the truck.
I caught up to her behind the funnel cake stand, in the narrow strip of shade between the tents. My fingers hooked her hips.
“You think you can say something like that and just walk away?—”
“Actually, I think she can.”
Sienna jumped, spinning around so fast she nearly dropped her bag.
Wren stepped out from behind a stack of empty wooden pallets, arms crossed over her chest. She looked between us with an eyebrow raised.
“So,” Wren said. “Are we telling Dad at dinner, or is this gonna stay a terribly kept secret? Because you two are the worst hiders I’ve ever seen.”
Sienna flushed. “Wren, it’s not—we were buying food.”
