Page 9 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

We were by the announcer stand again, and John was grinning. He was watching the scene with an almost stunned expression, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw me, he gave a quick wink and a satisfied nod.

Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was seeing my work come to life, but something shifted in me. Pride swelled in my chest, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I took another sip, savoring the moment, and slowly unzipped my jacket. The bold Cowboy Pillows lettering on my top peeked through, and for once, I didn’t care how ridiculous it might look.

I was here. Out of my house. Out of my comfort zone.

Harleigh turned to me, her eyes narrowing like she could read my mind. “Well, look at you.”

“Look at me,” I said back, a little surprised by my own confidence.

The crowd buzzed around us, the smell of dirt and BBQ hanging in the air, the sound of cans opening echoing everywhere. My work, my night, my moment.

For once, I wasn’t hiding in the background, surviving the day. I was here, and for the first time in a long time, I was living.

The arena buzzed with energy as the lights dimmed, drawing the crowd’s attention to the center. A spotlight illuminated the announcer standing tall and proud in his crisp Western shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat that seemed to glint under the light. He was standing right by us, so it was easy for us to see.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Professional Bull Riders Tour, right here in the heart of Chicago.”

The crowd erupted in cheers, whistles, and applause, the noise reverberating through the metal rafters.

The announcer went on to explain the rules, his voice steady and clear despite the excitement in the arena. “Tonight, you’ll see the best of the best—our top bull riders competing against the best bulls in the world. Each rider has eight seconds to prove themselves. Eight seconds, folks. But it’s not about staying on. Style matters, too. Judges score the ride, fifty points for the bull and fifty for the rider, with the best score out of one hundred taking home the glory.”

He paused for effect, letting the tension build before continuing. “And remember, these bulls aren’t animals—they’re athletes, trained and bred for this.”

The lights dimmed, and music blasted through the arena as smoke and fog filled the air. The crowd roared to life.

As the smoke cleared, the announcer’s voice returned. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s meet tonight’s bull riders.”

The doors to the back chute opened, and one by one, the riders walked into the arena. Each was announced by name, hometown, and ranking, a spotlight following them as they strode toward the center.

I leaned closer to Harleigh, studying the group. “Wow,” I said, a little louder than I intended. “They’re all . . . a little short . . ..and young?”

“But they know how to buck, baby,” she said, punctuating it with a ridiculous hip-thrusting motion.

I gagged dramatically. “Oh my God, Harleigh. That’s disgusting.”

She laughed, clearly proud of herself.

“And you call them bull riders? Or cowboys?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Bull riders. Not cowboys. They could be both if they work on a ranch, but these guys are professional bull riders. It’s a whole thing. Different vibe.”

I nodded slowly, realizing I was woefully underprepared for this entire experience.

The riders lined up, tipping their hats to the crowd as the announcer hyped them up. The crowd roared again, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch. It was finally time to get the show started.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big round of applause for tonight’s milestone rider—his one-thousandth career ride—Beaudreau ‘Beau’ Banks!”

The crowd erupted, everyone standing and clapping. The energy in the arena was electric, and I found myself rising to my feet along with everyone else, curiosity piqued.

I watched as he stepped into the spotlight, raising one gloved hand to acknowledge the cheers. His thick mustache framed a face with dark brown hair that fell to the base of his neck. His chaps were deep red with intricate designs that caught the light, giving him a striking presence.

The oversized screen above the arena zoomed in on him as he tipped his hat to the crowd, but my eyes stayed locked on the real thing. There was an air of experience that set him apart from the others. He looked older, more seasoned. And wow.

“Hot, right?” Harleigh’s voice broke into my thoughts, pulling me out of whatever moment I was having.

“I’m engaged,” I said quickly, the words rushing out as my cheeks burned.

She grinned, clearly not buying it. “He grew up near us. He’s a little older than us—about ten years—but he was always at the ranch, practicing on Dad’s bulls. Comes from a whole legacy of bull riders. He’s kind of a big deal.”