Grumpy Cowboy (Single Dad Collection)

“See, doll, rodeo’s more than a show—it’s a lifestyle. It’s grit and nerve and a whole hell of a lotta work. Even me, with the livestock rearin’, it’s a science, ya know? Not quite as crude as all those city folks seem to think,” Clay explains as we walk.

I suck my lips into my mouth as he adds, “No offense, of course.”

I laugh. “Of course.”

Clay leads us around one end of the arena toward the stands, and with a quick glance back at Rhett to see he’s still with us, I admit, “Since I’ve never actually seen a rodeo in person before, I don’t even know all the things that can be done. I mean, other than riding stuff, what actually happens?”

“Well, there’s quite a few events today, and at an actual scored event, even more. But I imagine you’ll see some bull and bronc ridin’, steer wrestlin’, ropin’, mutton bustin’, and probably a barrel race exhibition or two. Anythin’ else, Rhett?”

“Just some ranch sortin’ and a cuttin’ and reinin’ horse exhibition. And food and drinks and fireworks, of course.”

Clay laughs and rubs his belly with his free hand. “Oh yeah, the food. My favorite part.”

He turns toward me, rotating us both so he can look at Rhett directly as he asks, “Tell me you got that taco truck again, I beg ya.”

“We did.” Rhett grins. “Plus, another. Two taco trucks for you to eat your heart out.”

Clay chuckles. “Okay, okay, I’m starting to like you a little again.”

My cheeks feel like helium balloons, they shoot upward so easily. I’ve never spent a lot of time around people like this—people who tease and taunt and give one another shit, but at the end of the day would do anything for that very same person.

My life has walked a much more distinct line—people were either nice or mean, and there wasn’t any crossover between the two in the name of playfulness. I’m not sure how to reconcile the two, other than I feel a lot happier knowing there’s at least some good in everyone around me rather than having to try to decipher from the jump if someone is good or evil.

Clay releases my arm to climb up the bleachers a few rows and then reaches back down with a hand to help me up. I’m about to take it—because holy hell, that’s pretty chivalrous—but Rhett’s hands settle on my hips and take me by surprise.

I’m not offended by his touch—to be honest, it feels too good.

But I am seriously shocked at how easy it is for him to lift me from one row of bleachers to the next without even moving from his spot on the ground. I don’t weigh a ton, but I am a full-grown woman, and he does have a bum knee. Apparently, though, his superhuman, rancher-god type of strength trumps all of the above.

A smidge self-conscious over the sudden heat I feel flooding my face, I look down to double-check my footing—and hide my face—and spin around to take the seat next to Clay. Rhett follows behind, carefully climbing up the rungs with his braced knee, and takes the seat on the other side of me, effectively blocking me in between two huge cowboys.

If I would have attempted to predict where I’d spend my time celebrating the Fourth of July a couple months ago, I can tell you for sure, it wouldn’t have been here. If Taylor and Carla could see me, looking like this, sitting where I am, they would flip.

Rhett leans toward me, whispering, “The first thing that’ll happen is the opening ceremonies. Usually, all the barrel racers and steer wrestlers and ropers’ll ride their horses around the arena a few times, carryin’ the flag as ‘God Bless America’ plays, and then they’ll all come to a stop in the center for the national anthem. Then we’ll get into the mutton bustin’ first.”

“Right. Of course.” I pause and chew on my lips silently for a few seconds before asking, “And mutton bustin’ is…”

Rhett chuckles softly. “Mutton bustin’ is a kids thing. They’ll ride sheep kinda like they’re bulls. It’s all just for fun, though.” He pauses. “Well, technically, all of today is just for fun, but you know what I mean. Mutton bustin’ is usually the first step in a young cowboy’s career.”

I hum. Huh. Kids on sheep. Sounds pretty cute, to be honest.

Clay elbows me suddenly, pulling my attention to the other side as several cowgirls and cowboys come riding into the arena, all of them with huge poles and flags tucked into a pouch on their stirrups. Their horses are sleek and shiny, and their outfits are decked out ornately. The women are in full hair and makeup, rhinestones on their chaps and shirts and boots and, quite frankly, everything.

I’ve never worn an outfit like that before—people would look at me like I had two heads in Salt Lake City—but I’ve got to admit, I’m pretty into it.