Page 95 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“That’s it, Cowgirl.” I rubbed the resin into the rope. “Hold it right there.”

Her jaw tightened at the nickname, but she didn’t correct me. Didn’t pull away. She held the strap, her fingers inches from mine as I worked.

And for a second—just a second—I let myself enjoy it.

With one last swipe of resin, I clenched my grip around the rope and nodded. “Alright, we’re set. Let’s see if I still remember how to ride.”

“Ha,” she said jokingly, but her eyes were wide.

“You good?”

The bull bucked in the shoot, and her grip tightened around my vest. “Y-yeah.”

“I can get off⁠—”

She shook her head. “No. I-I’m okay.”

“You tell me if you want me to stop.”

I kept my grip firm on the bull rope, and with my free hand, I reached forward, tapping the bull’s broad head. The animal shifted, nostrils flaring, but its gaze remained locked in the wrong direction. Stubborn son of a bitch.

“What’s wrong?” Fable gripped the strap she’d pulled tight for me.

I exhaled through my nose, giving the bull another firm tap between the eyes. “We gotta get him to look out toward Dalt. If he comes out of the gate buckin’ backward, it ain’t safe for anyone.”

“Can I help?” she asked, and I glanced up.

God, she looked serious, like she actually wanted to be in this with me.

I should’ve told her no. Should’ve told her to step back and let me handle it. Instead, I let my mouth get ahead of my better judgment.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Come down to the gate. Get close, but not too close—just enough to catch his attention.”

She hesitated but did as I said, stepping down carefully. The bull’s ears flicked, catching her movement.

“Now tap him,” I told her.

Her hand hovered for a second before she gently pressed her palm against the Bendy’s massive forehead between his horns. The second she did, the bull huffed and shifted its stance, eyes flicking toward where Dalton waited outside.

“There you go.” I grinned. “You’re a natural.”

Her lips parted slightly, and she stared at the bull. A hesitant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The kind of smile someone wore when they accomplished something they never thought they could.

Her fingers flexed like she wanted to reach out again, to prove to herself it wasn’t a fluke. That she wasn’t standing on the sidelines anymore—she was part of it. Part of this. My world.

“You ready, Dalt?”

“Let’s go, Banks,” he called, and I gave a quick nod beneath my gold helmet, feeling the rush of adrenaline coil tight in my gut.

I glanced up one last time at Fable, catching the way she was still watching me—wide-eyed, hesitant, but glowing with something that looked a hell of a lot like excitement.

“See ya in eight seconds, Cowgirl.”

32

Fable

The second the chute flew open, Beau shot out like a fucking force of nature. His thick thighs clamped down on the bull’s heaving body. His grip on the bull rope was brutal, forearm flexed tight as the animal bucked hard, trying like hell to throw him. His free hand hovered above his head, fingers splayed, counterbalancing every twist.