Page 72 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

I pointed up, using it as my out. “We should get going.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “We should.”

His smile was soft as he jogged toward the passenger side of the truck, pulling the door open with ease. I climbed in, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around me.

I was soaked to the bone, but when I glanced over and saw how drenched he was, I laughed. Beau’s jeans clung to his legs, dripping water as he slid onto the leather seat with a loud, unfortunate squelch.

A grin stretched across my face. “You’re gonna get sick before your event this week.”

He pulled onto the main road, wipers swiping back and forth against the misty windshield. “Nope. Real cowboys never get sick.”

“I thought you weren’t a cowboy. You’re a bull rider.”

He huffed out a laugh, but he didn’t argue.

The rest of the drive was quiet. My body was still cold, but my skin felt different—clean. Like something had been scrubbed away, washed off by the rain.

When we pulled into my driveway, he let the truck idle as I peeled off the blanket and reached for the handle.

“Thanks for the ride,” I murmured, glancing at him one last time.

“Get warm, Cowgirl.”

I slipped out and hurried to the front door, feeling his headlights casting a soft glow against my back.

Inside, I kicked off my boots, stood in the dim entryway, and let out a slow breath. My hair was still dripping, my clothes clinging to me, but underneath it all, I didn’t feel heavy.

I felt . . . new.

I had no idea what the hell had happened, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to run from it.

24

Fable

“Alright, Harleigh’s been around stock auctions her entire life, so I bet she’ll keep you on track. But I’ll give you a quick overview of what they look like.”

Maribel looked to be in her late forties or early fifties. She wore a button-down shirt tucked into well-worn jeans, a massive belt buckle cinching everything together. She had the no-nonsense air of someone who’d spent her life in barns and arenas, and I had no doubt she could outwork most of the men here.

“This here is the stock auction barn, along with our indoor arena.” She gestured toward the large structure ahead. “Beaudreau can show you around it later, though I think he prefers the outdoor one.”

The indoor stock arena was big, and the air was thick with the scent of dirt, hay, and sweat. It was dirty, and I tried to avoid touching anything, but I could feel Harleigh’s eyes on the back of my head as Maribel walked us around.

The chutes stood tall on the other side, heavy-duty metal bars, their gates worn from bulls slamming against them.

Maribel tapped one of the chutes with her knuckles. “This is where we load ’em in. These are the bucking chutes. When we’re training, we strap a dummy to the bull’s back and buck ’em out.”

I nodded, turning toward her. “The dummy. Right, I remember reading this, so remind me what it does again?”

“A weighted rig that sits where a rider would. Has a timed release, so it pops off after a few seconds. Gets the bull used to the motion without a person on its back,” she explained. “Helps train ’em, make sure they’re ready for the real deal.”

I turned to Harleigh. “And how do the stock auctions work again?”

“Buyers watch the bulls move—either in the pen or on video. They’re looking at how they’re built, how they carry themselves, their attitude. A lot of it comes down to bloodlines. If the bull’s got champion genes, the bids get real high.”

Maribel nodded. “Yep. And if he’s a proven sire, meaning he’s thrown good calves before, people’ll pay big money for his genetics.” She smirked, tilting her head. “Ain’t much different from bull riding itself—you either got it in your blood, or you don’t.”

“And what exactly are you looking to gain by adding a project marketing manager?” I paused, glancing at Harleigh before flashing her a grin. “Two project marketing managers.”