Page 15 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“It’s sand, Fable. Just sand.”

Panic rose in my chest. “No, it’s not sand. It’s full of fecal matter and . . . and . . .”

The thought of stepping into the dirt, of being surrounded by it, was too much. Watching from a distance was one thing, but being in it was a completely different story. My eyes dropped to my sparkling boots, pristine and clean, and the idea of ruining them made my stomach churn. “I’ll get these dirty.”

It was a stupid excuse, and it was dumb, but I couldn’t go there. I looked down and waited for the inevitable judgment, the teasing or the eye roll. But Harleigh didn’t do any of that.

Without missing a beat, she turned to John, grabbing his attention. “John, we’re way too pretty to be walking through all that dirt. Mind if we take the back way and meet up with you?”

He gave a quick nod, barely glancing back as he led the group toward the arena.

She smiled, her grip on my hand tightening as she guided me back toward the hallway—the same one where I’d caught Mike and Trishelle earlier.

“Thanks for understanding,” I said meekly, feeling both relieved and embarrassed.

“Always, Fabs,” she replied, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve got you.”

The weight in my chest loosened slightly as we walked, her easy acceptance making the moment feel less humiliating. I might not have been ready to tackle the dirt, but at least I wasn’t facing it—or avoiding it—alone.

“One day, I will be better.”

“It’s okay to ask for accommodations, too. People get it.”

“Mike didn’t.”

“Mike is a dick.”

I giggled. “He’s a douche.”

I laughed, the tension from earlier easing, as Harleigh and I rejoined the rest of the group. We slipped back in as the guide was already explaining the intricacies of the chute system, gesturing toward the gates where the bulls waited.

While his explanation was interesting, my attention drifted to a conversation happening in the corner of the arena. An older guy wearing a shirt with our company logo was gesturing animatedly, his voice sharp as he spoke to a bull rider.

The rider, younger and blonde, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, looked no older than me. He stood there, his hands resting on his vest as the older man went off on him.

I took a small step backward, the guide’s words fading into the background. The conversation in the corner was far more intriguing.

“You’re going to the doctor the moment we get back. Beau told me you thought we were going to Idaho this weekend.”

“Fucking big mouth,” the blonde guy muttered, smacking his hands against his vest. “Can we get through Idaho first and talk about it later?”

The older man scowled, his face lined with frustration. I stepped back again, straining to catch more of the exchange as their voices dipped lower, becoming harder to hear.

And that’s when it happened.

My boot heel caught awkwardly on the other, and within seconds, I was falling—no, tumbling—backward in the most ungraceful way imaginable.

I landed with a hard thud on my butt, the impact jolting through me. Any buzz I’d had was gone in an instant, replaced by the sharp sting of embarrassment.

The conversation stopped, both men immediately turning toward me.

“Y’alright there?” the older man asked, reaching down to help me up.

The moment my hands hit the ground, my heart started racing for a completely different reason. The dirt clung to my skin, gritty and unclean, and all I could think about was the germs. It felt like tiny pins and needles crawling over me, burrowing into my hands. The faint smell of sweat and manure from the arena filled my nose, and my stomach churned.

“S-Sorry,” I mumbled, avoiding their gazes as I took their hands and let them hoist me back to my feet.

My cheeks burned, and I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at the blonde rider, who was biting back what looked like a grin.