Page 34 of July’s Cowboy Dallas

“Heeling.”

“Good.” She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint freckles across her nose. “Don't get stepped on.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Her mouth twitched. “I mean it, Dallas.”

“I know.”

She reached up and adjusted the collar of my shirt, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

My pulse kicked up. Sadie Hollister was fixing my collar in the middle of the rodeo grounds like she'd been doing it for years. Like she planned to keep doing it. A man could get drunk on less.

“Go make your catch,” she said.

So I did.

Being a heeler meant coming in after. Reading what someone else started. Making the catch no one cheered for first, but everyone needed.

I used to think that said something about me. Maybe it did. Wasn't that the same story I kept telling myself about Sadie? That I only got to be useful, never wanted?

Maybe I'd been hearing it wrong.

The header was Cole Driscoll, a steady hand from the valley who didn't waste movement. He nodded once when I rode into the box, and I settled into position, rope ready, eyes on the steer.

The gate opened.

Cole's loop flew clean, catching horns, and I was already moving, reading the steer's momentum, the way his hindquarters shifted as Cole pulled him around. My rope left my hand smooth, the loop opening wide, and I caught both hind legs in one clean sweep.

The flag dropped. The crowd cheered. But I wasn't listening to them.

I was looking at Sadie, standing near the rail with her arms still crossed, her smile small and real and meant only for me. That mattered more than our winning time.

It occurred to me, riding out of the arena, that I'd spent my whole life making catches nobody watched. Now the only person I wanted watching was, and I'd have thrown that loop a thousand more times just to keep her looking at me like that.

The trouble started an hour later, near the back gate.

I'd just finished coiling my rope when I saw Roy Pritchard moving along the fence line toward the pulled stock trailer. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near it. Holt had made that clear after Sadie's report went through.

But there he was, shoulders tight, head down, walking like a man with something to hide.

I started toward him. Then I saw Sadie. She'd seen him too. And she was already moving.

Every instinct in me wanted to get between Sadie and whatever Roy was about to do.

I didn't. I moved beside her instead.

Roy reached the trailer and yanked the door latch, muttering something under his breath. Inside, the brindle steer shifted his weight, his injured leg still favoring, his ears pinned back in stress.

“Roy.” Sadie's voice cut sharp across the dirt. “Step away from that trailer.”

Roy froze, then slowly turned. His face was hard, lined with frustration and something uglier. “This is Hollister business, Sadie. You've done enough damage already.”

“That steer is pulled stock. He doesn't leave until I clear him.”

“He's taking up space we need for⁠—”

“For what?” Sadie crossed the dirt toward him, her boots kicking up dust. “For more animals with forged papers? More certifications you copied from Dr. Hendricks's old files?”