No. Knox held up his hand. “Don’t move.”
But before he could stop her, she landed at the gate. It rattled.
Movement stirred from the depths of the pen.
And the woman opened her mouth to scream.
Kelsey had just wanted something to eat. A calm night in the privacy of her tour bus, ratcheting down from the adrenaline of the stage.
A moment to step outside of the persona, the headlines, the woman on the posters, to be just a girl.
A girl without demons, without the crazy that threatened to possess her brain.
Problem was, she knew better than to go out into a crowd of strangers in a chaotic tent full of raucous cowboys. She’d broken nearly all of her rules…for what?
A Styrofoam container of buffalo wings?
She should have eaten the stale Cheetos in her trailer. Then she wouldn’t have lost it when she’d stepped off the rail of the bar, fallen backward and into the hands of the tattooed cowboy next to her.
He hadn’t meant to trigger the memories, to ignite the latent panic that always simmered inside her. Didn’t deserve, really, the way she’d reacted, twisting away from him as if he might be committing a crime. Maybe he’d been trying to help…
She’d simply stopped thinking and reacted, despite the words of her counselor pinging through her—Breathe. You’re not in danger. Don’t run.
Except, that’s exactly what she did. Her feet simply took off, a primal response, and before she knew it, she’d pushed through the crowd to the fresh outside air.
Her brain caught up then, slowed her down to a reasonably normal walk. She’d pressed her hand to her chest. Breathe. You’re safe—and she might have successfully clamped down on the moment, wheeled her way past the self-recriminations—Why can’t you be normal? Don’t make a scene!—if it weren’t for the voice that followed her out of the stupid tent and thundered in her wake.
“Stop!”
Hardly. And no, probably no one was going to hurt her, not anymore, but the rush of her pulse in her ears cut off any remaining thought, his words—even her sense of self-control—and she’d, well, panicked.
At least she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t melted down into a fetal puddle on the path.
Although her all-out sprint away from the voice, back toward the RV park certainly didn’t seem normal.
Her stalker followed her down the shadowed valley between the tent and the next building, and—what if he followed her all the way back to her tour bus?
It wasn’t as if Dixie or Gloria or even Carter would be around to…what? Protect her?
She knew better, hello. She could depend on no one but herself.
So Kelsey had ducked into the barn, hoping to lose the stalker in the shadows.
A gut reflex, born from old habits, but yeah, a stupid move. She should have made for the bustling carnival, although given the crowds, that might have been just as foolish.
She slowed, the redolence of farm animals, hay, dirt, and not a little feral trouble rising around her. She found herself lost, winding farther into the maze of pens and stables.
She turned down a row that looked like it might open up—
No. A pen cordoned off the end, and she turned around.
Stalker came up behind her. Tall, over six feet, he wore a cowboy hat—she saw that outlined against the high windows of the barn that reflected the ambient carnival light. His face hung under shadow, however, and she couldn’t help but back up, against the cold bars of the pen.
A scream pressed into her throat.
He held up his hand. “Don’t—”
And that’s when she felt a humid breath wash over her. Thick, foul, and—
She opened her mouth.
In two steps the cowboy advanced on her, slapping his hand over her scream. His voice careened into her ear, a low, guttural tenor. “Shh.”
As if that might make it better. She clawed at his hand, yanking it from her mouth, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away from the cage.
Then he released her so fast she didn’t have time to push him away, to slap him, or even reach into her self-defense training and chop him in the neck, maybe disable him enough to get away.
He put his hands up, backing away from her. “I understand the urge, but screaming is only going to rile these animals up.” His voice emerged quiet, but steady, and possessed an easy, almost languid western drawl, something weirdly soothing.
In the cage, some three feet away, the door rattled. A breath huffed out.
“That’s Hot Pete,” the man said. “He’s a little high-strung.”
On the tail end of his words, the door shook, as if something big had rammed against it.
She jumped.
He stepped between her and the beast, his voice now directed at the cage. “Hey there, Petey. Calm down. She didn’t mean to mess with your beauty sleep.” He’d changed his voice, modulated it to a soft timbre, almost a tune.
She looked over his shoulder, and her eyes had adjusted enough to see the dark, shiny eyes of a red, hairy bull, nearly six feet to its shoulders, its horns glinting against the bare light. It snorted, and she jerked.
But she didn’t run. Although probably she should, with Cowboy’s back turned to her, but it was the way he was still talking to the bull that tugged her in, glued her in place.
“There you go, buddy. See, we’re all friends here.” Then he launched into a song, the words nearly a whisper. “‘Three-thirty in the morning, not a soul in sight…city’s looking like a ghost town, on a moonless summer night…’”
The words rumbled through her. Wait—Garth Brooks.
“I know this song,” she said.
Cowboy glanced at her, kept singing. “‘Raindrops on the windshield—’”
“‘The storm’s rolling in…’” She caught the tune.
“‘And the thunder rolls…’” The smallest of smiles tweaked up his face.
The bull shifted, moved away from the door, and the man reached in through the bars and patted the animal’s body. Started in on the next verse of the song.
She hummed, listening to his low tenor, watching as the bull moved back into the shadows. The man’s voice dropped away, and he turned, looked at her, and nodded with his head toward the door.
Like they might be creeping out of a sleeping child’s room.
Her heartbeat had slowed to just a distant rush in her chest as he pointed their way out of the barn and onto the pathway that led to the carnival.
“You dropped this.” He held out her wallet.
Her wallet. Not a gun. Not a knife, nothing that might actually harm her. And oh, please, let the ground open up and swallow her right now, here, and let her vanish forever.
“Thanks.” She took the wallet.
“Are you hurt?”
She glanced up at him. For the first time, she got a good look at her pursuer-slash-hero. He wore a grim line to his mouth, surrounded by the stubble of cherry-brown whiskers and dark brown sideburns that, in the light of the carnival, seemed flecked with red. But his eyes, oh his eyes. Blue-green, the color of the forest, deep and penetrating. As if she could run into his gaze and happily disappear.
His voice threaded through her, as if it might be made of rawhide, designed not to break, to weather time and elements, as sturdy as the land he probably worked. Because yes, he wore cowboy like a second skin, the no-nonsense aura of hard work and get ’er done, and given the way he’d sung to his bull, he knew his way around animals.
He even stuck his thumbs in his belt buckle, letting his hands land there, nailing the cowboy persona down in spades. Probably used those wide shoulders to rope in culprits, to wrestle steer, and now her imagination had run away with her, but seriously, under that black T-shirt and jean jacket she guessed he might be all hard-work-hewn body, washboard abs, and powerful arms.
Which he now crossed over his chest, as if trying not to follow his question by skimming his hands over her body to check for brok
en bones. Instead, his eyes did it for him—and not in a way that would make her step back, but with concern etched into his hard jawline.
“Do I need to go back there and put some hurt on anyone?”
He wasn’t smiling, and she couldn’t tell if he was serious—maybe. Which sort of unrooted her for a moment.
Um… “No. I tripped. There was this little ledge at the bar and I reached over for the container and…I don’t know. Fell back. And my wings went flying, and I bumped into this guy and…” Now she just wanted to cover her face with her hands and slink away.
“You’re okay, then?” He unwound his arms, glanced back at the beer tent. Waved his hand to someone standing outside on the pathway. The someone headed back into the tent.
She nodded. “I’m just…” Oh, who was she kidding? It wasn’t like she could hide the craziness from him, not after he’d chased her down and kept her from being—what, eaten? maybe slimed—by a mad bull.
“I sometimes panic about…I have issues—”
“Like not wanting some strange man to grab you? That feels pretty normal to me.”
And then he smiled, something soft, his mouth lifting up on one side, and it was so charming, the fist in her chest simply let go. Left her free to stand there in the semi-light, to smell the spring air, listen to the carnival music, and realize that maybe, right now, she was safe.
“Knox Marshall,” Cowboy said and held out his hand.
“Kelsey. Jones.” She slipped her hand into his. What she suspected—a working man’s hand. Muscled, lean, and calloused.
She waited for a flicker of name recognition on his face, and when she got none, her chest unknotted a little more.
“Your dinner is in the dirt back in the tent.” He gestured with his head toward the tent. “Can I get you something to eat?”
His suggestion raked up the savory redolence of fried cheese curds, french fries, cotton candy, and popcorn.
“I think their kitchen is closed,” she said. “We’d ordered from the restaurant in the arena, but I had…um, plans, so I couldn’t pick it up right away, so they left it out in the tent.”
He didn’t follow up her stutter on the word plans, and she didn’t want to fill in the blanks.
It would only raise eyebrows, and besides, she’d changed her life. Tonight had simply been a fluke. A throwback response to old wounds.
“I could offer you some…fair food?” He glanced toward the carnival, and her stomach totally betrayed her, roaring to life at his suggestion. She pressed her hand against it and gave him a wry look.
“Maybe we could tame that beast with some high-calorie, bad-for-you cheese curds?”
She smiled then. “I’d sell everything I own for cheese curds.”
He laughed, and it found her hollow spaces.
And then she was walking down the semi-shadowed path with a near stranger, evidence that yes, she had outrun her demons. Really.
The path led them into the carnival area, a midway filled with games, food, and thrill rides—a rollercoaster called the Comet, a whirly named the Enterprise, another ride aptly named Extreme, resembling a giant hammer with a carriage that spun in a circle while swinging around a massive arm. Blinking lights, screams, and the sense of carefree trouble gave the night a sweetly dangerous mix.
“I’d probably lose my lunch on any of these,” Knox said, eyeing the rides.
At the very end of the grounds, a massive Ferris wheel rose, its glittering lights casting a glow over the entire fairgrounds and the city of San Antonio beyond.
Knox nodded toward a vendor stand and, before she could stop him, pulled out his wallet and purchased a basket of cheese curds. The smell alone could make her weep.
The last time she’d eaten, she might have downed a bag of chips as she and the girls had been rehearsing under the stage lights, trying to nail their new finale.
Tomorrow night everything could change for them in the space of the opening act.
Now, she popped a curd into her mouth, let the salty, cheesy goodness and the slight tang of the beer batter soothe the ragged edges of tonight’s craziness. She held the basket out to Knox, and he took one.
He moaned a little as he savored the treat.
“I know, right? I’m from a little town on the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin that specializes in cheese curds. They win the cheese contest.”
Down the row, country music wheedled out from a stage, and they wandered over to a band tucked into a side street, some locals trying to make a name for themselves. They’d gathered a small crowd.
She well remembered those days, playing for tips and the small but faithful audience. Still lived it, on a higher level, perhaps. She slid onto a bench, listening.
Knox sat next to her. Not too close, but enough to feel his presence.
“They’re good,” she said after the first song. “The lead singer knows how to work his audience.” Tall, dark blond hair, wearing a pair of black Converse high tops, ripped jeans, and a baseball hat on backward, the crooner made eye contact with a few ladies and had them swooning.
To her recollection, Kelsey had never swooned over a man. Run from them, pushed them away, even feared them, but swooning?
She didn’t have room for swooning. For charm or anything, really, beyond a basket of cheese curds under a starry sky.
Knox leaned back on the bench. “I guess so,” he said in response to her comment. “I don’t go to concerts.”
“Do you listen to country music?” She didn’t know why his answer caught her breath.
He lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes. I listen to whatever my mother has playing in the house.”
His…mother?
He must have sensed her question because he looked over at her. “I run the family ranch, in western Montana, just outside the small town of Geraldine, south of Glacier National Park. Seems silly to build an entire house for just me.”
Oh. Right. She offered him the last cheese curd, but he waved her off. She finished it and wiped her hands on a napkin. “So, I take it you knew that bull in the barn.”
“Yeah. He’s one of our stars. We breed bucking bulls—have a PBR champion named Gordo who’s sired a number of other winners. Hot Pete is his best issue. He’s four years old, and was a PBR Finals bull the last two years, a world champion. I’m working out his contract for the NBR-X.”
She nodded, and maybe her face gave her away, because he raised an eyebrow. “What—?”
“I just… Isn’t it cruel? To make them buck like that?”
“Make them…oh, you’re thinking of the strap we put on around their hindquarters to make them buck.”
She nodded. “I’ve…been to a few rodeos. Seen the protesters.”
He shook his head. “I love my animals. They’re valuable athletes just like the cowboys, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. The bulls wear a strap that adds pressure, but it doesn’t hurt them. And I promise, it doesn’t cut into their, um, sire abilities.” He met her eyes again, and a streak of solid heat poured through her.
“People get killed riding bulls,” she said.
“People can get killed taking a walk in the park.”
Oh, she knew that. Too well.
“It’s a sport that’s been around since the 1930s. And every year it gets a little safer. But yeah, it’s dangerous.” He leaned forward, his muscled forearms on his legs. Thick, sinewed, and—
“Did you ever ride bulls?” She wasn’t sure why she asked, but it just felt like maybe—
“A long time ago. Not anymore.”
Something about his tone spoke just a little of wistfulness.
Then he looked at her, and a smile hitched up the side of his face. “You have to be young and a little crazy to get on the back of a bull like Hot Pete.” He wore the smallest glint of dare in his eyes and for a second…
“You want to ride him, don’t you?”
He frowned at her, then looked away. “No.”
Except… “You do.”
He considered her a moment, then, “Maybe. But those days are gone. I’m too…”
“Old?”
He drew up. “Practical. I haven’t been on a bull for years. And I have a ranch to run. I don’t have room in my life for…”
“Crazy?”
He seemed to stare through her. Nodded, slowly.
She looked away. Right. She didn’t know why his response pinched. Except, it wasn’t like she’d ever see him again. With any sort of luck, after tomorrow she’d have a permanent gig with NBR-X and be moving on to the next fairground, the next basket of cheese curds, maybe even another try at buffalo wings in the beer tent.
Without the debacle.
Because she just needed steady, safe, and consistent, and then maybe the demons would die for good.
“Are you here all weekend?” she asked, not sure why.
“Leaving tomorrow right after the rodeo.”
Oh. Well, good.
“You?”
“After the show, tomorrow night.” Really, it was the truth. “I’m just here with a couple girlfriends for the weekend.” If she said anything more, he might hear hope in her voice. No, not hope…she’d put any ideas of romance long behind her. Who would want anyone with her wounds?
“Right,” he said and got up. Stared down at her. “We probably need a ride on the Ferris wheel.”
She raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the circle glimmering against the dark. “Really?”
He nodded, and those blue-green eyes made it seem like exactly the right idea.
He led the way and she followed, frustrated at her fluttering heart.
And why, when he climbed into the basket, she took his proffered hand. Sat next to him, under the stretch of his arm.
They ascended slowly, stopping for more passengers, and he said nothing beside her, not drawing her close, simply letting his arm linger behind her.
In case, perhaps, she got cold.
But the night air contained just enough warmth to keep a shiver at bay, and as they rose, the entirety of San Antonio spread out below them. The sparkling lights of the Grand Hyatt, the spire of the Tower of the Americas, the bright orange tower of the Weston Centre behind the Crowne Plaza. Orange, red, gold, and below them, the midway, the screams and blinking lights of the rides adding festivity to the night.
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