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AMOS

Y ou hear about McCoy?”

I look up from checking my bull rope, the leather worn smooth from countless rides. Wyatt Callahan leans against the metal chute, having already finished his equipment check. Behind us, bulls snort and shift in their holding pens, hooves scraping concrete.

“No, what happened?”

“Got trampled by a bull last week. Completely smashed his pelvis and one of his knees. Doctors say he’ll never ride again.” Wyatt’s voice carries that careful neutrality cowboys use when talking about injuries that could happen to any of us. “Thirty-two years old and it’s over for him.”

My hands still on the rope. Jim McCoy—I rode against him in Austin two months ago. Watched him take second place with a ride that looked effortless. Now he’s done. Forever.

“Makes you think, doesn’t it? What we’re gonna do when our bodies can’t take this anymore.”

I test the wrap on my rope, buying time before answering. At forty-one, I’m not much older than McCoy. This life is hard on the body, but most of us cowboys keep going until our bodies give out.

“Yeah, it does.” I scan the familiar chaos around us—cowboys adjusting gear, the smell of leather and dust, the constant background noise of livestock. “This is all I know how to do.”

“At least you don’t have family breathing down your neck about settling down and taking over the ranch.” Wyatt adjusts his hat brim. “My old man calls twice a week asking when I’m coming home to help with the farm. Three brothers, and they all want me to be the one who gives up rodeo.”

The irony cuts deep. Wyatt has what I’ve always wanted—family land, roots, people who want him home—and he’s running from it. Meanwhile, I check my phone, hoping for a message from my mother.

Nothing. Just like yesterday and the day before and the days before that.

She hasn’t spoken to me much since I decided to stay on the circuit instead of taking that desk job in Tulsa, where she settled with her new husband. Steady paycheck, she said. Benefits. A chance to build something stable. Everything she worked double shifts to give me the opportunity to have.

Instead, I chose the same path that broke her heart when my father took it. This life is all I know, and I’m pretty sure I’d lose my damn mind sitting behind a desk all day long.

“Your mama still giving you grief about staying on the road?” Wyatt asks, reading my expression.

“She’s not giving me anything. That’s the problem.” I coil my rope with more force than necessary. “Hasn’t returned my calls in weeks.”

Despite the weight of the conversation, my mind keeps drifting to this morning.

Rebecca—the serious woman with drive and a dream, and a solid love and respect for family.

It impressed me that she obviously recognized me, but didn’t throw herself at me like most women do.

She’s different than other women, in more ways than one, and in ways that make my soul yearn to spend more time with her.

“You listening to me?” Wyatt waves a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About what? You look like someone hit you with a branding iron.”

I finish my prep work, mind still half elsewhere. “Nothing important. I should get ready for this ride.”

But as Wyatt walks away to flirt with a barrel racer, I find myself heading in the opposite direction. Away from the chutes and toward the exhibition hall. Toward Rebecca.

I tell myself I’m being friendly. But the truth fills my chest and heart in a way I’ve never felt before—I want to see her again.

I need to see her again. I want to taste whatever she’s cooking – whether it’s chili or anything else.

I want to watch her eyes light up when she talks about honoring her grandfather’s legacy.

Everything in my body and soul aches to be with her.

The exhibition hall buzzes with energy as the chili cooks work at their prep stations. The air carries a dozen different mouth-watering aromas—garlic, cumin, smoke, heat—but the only chili I’m interested in is Rebecca’s.

She stands behind her station wearing an apron over jeans and a fitted t-shirt that hugs her curves.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s completely focused on stirring the simmering pot.

Behind her is a photo that I assume is her grandfather, laughing at a picnic, surrounded presumably by his children and grandchildren.

“This smells incredible.” I approach slowly, relishing watching her do something she obviously loves.

She glances up, and I catch the slight surprise in her expression before she gives me a big smile. “Amos. What brings you to the cooking competition?”

“Curiosity.” I gesture toward her pot, but stare deep into her blue eyes. “If you’re willing to share a taste with me.”

She ladles a small portion into a paper cup, steam rising between us. “Tell me what you think, cowboy.”

The first spoonful stops me cold. Heat builds slowly on my tongue, layered with smoky depth and spices I can’t identify.

“Damn, darlin’. That’s got some serious heat. I like things with a little spice.”

Her eyebrow arches, and a playful look sparks in her eyes. “You say you want spice, cowboy, but can you really handle it?”

The challenge in her voice makes my pulse zoom faster than when I’m on a bull.

I lean closer, genuinely intrigued by this woman who doesn’t seem impressed by championship buckles or rodeo charm.

“Try me, Spice Girl. I’ve been riding angry bulls since I was sixteen.

I think I can handle whatever heat you’re serving. ”

“Bulls are predictable. They buck hard, then they’re done.” Her eyes hold mine, direct and unapologetic. “My kind of heat builds slow and lasts all night.”

I cough quickly and shift how I’m standing, my jeans suddenly too tight as blood rushes south and wakes up my cock.

The provocation in her tone makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and see what else she likes to do with that sassy mouth.

The way she’s flirting with me is different from the calculated, empty flirting of the women who throw themselves at me.

Rebecca is a woman who knows exactly what she’s offering and clearly expects me to prove I’m worthy of it.

“Well now, that sounds like a promise I’d like to see you keep.”

I take another taste, deliberately licking my lip as I savor the complex flavors. Her gaze tracks the movement, and her pupils dilate slightly. When our fingers brush as she hands me a napkin, I don’t pull away immediately.

“Your grandpa?” I nod toward the photo behind her.

“It is, yes.” Pride fills her voice as she points to different faces. “He taught me everything about cooking. My family means everything to me.”

The wistfulness that hits me must show on my face.

She studies my expression with sudden gentleness. “What about your family?”

“It’s complicated. Being a cowboy is a hard life.”

I deflect by asking how long she’s been cooking and competing. She shares her dreams about the distribution contract, how winning is something she wants to do to honor her grandfather.

I find myself genuinely interested, asking questions about her grandfather’s methods, the way she describes balancing flavors like an artist mixing paint.

This isn’t small talk. I want to understand what drives her, what makes her eyes brighten when she talks about preserving family legacy – and the more I talk to Rebecca, the more I’m deeply impressed with her.

“Excuse me, I’m Polly Williamson from Heartland Tastes magazine.”

We both turn as a polished woman approaches with a photographer in tow. She carries herself with professional confidence, tablet in hand and press badge hanging from her neck.

“I’m chatting with all the competitors. We’re doing a feature on the winners and mentions for the runners-up. I’d love to talk to you about your story—oh, I didn’t know you had your husband with you. We’d love to talk to you both.”

Rebecca’s expression is startled, then a shadow of disappointment clouds her eyes. “Oh, we’re not—”

Polly Williamson continues as if she didn’t hear Rebecca. “We love featuring stories about couples building something together. Much more appealing to our readership than single competitors.”

I instantly understand the importance this publicity would mean for Rebecca. This magazine feature could change everything for her—the visibility, the credibility, just getting her name out there. If fudging things a little helps her get what she wants, it’s worth any awkwardness.

“We’d be happy to talk. My girlfriend has an incredible story for you.”

Rebecca’s eyes widen, but she keeps her mouth shut as she stares at me.

Polly Williamson lights up. “Wonderful! This is exactly the kind of authentic love story our readers adore. Can we schedule something for tomorrow morning?”

“Absolutely.” I slide my arm around Rebecca’s waist, feeling her stiffen slightly before relaxing against my body. “Whatever helps get Rebecca’s story out there.”

After Polly Williamson walks away with promises to call later, Rebecca turns to me with exasperation and something that might be gratitude.

“I bet they didn’t ask the men if they had their wives with them.”

“Probably not.” I keep my arm around her, not wanting to let go of her.

“But you know what? I didn’t have to do that, but it’s plain as day how important this is to you.

If fudging things a little helps you get what you want, it’s worth it.

Plus, this means I’ll get to spend more time with you, and that is all this cowboy could hope for. ”

Color rises in her cheeks as she bites her lip, and I know I have a shot. Not just at helping her, but at something real with this woman who challenges me and makes me want to be better than I’ve ever been.

“I’m riding this evening, and there’s the square dance after. I’d be honored,” I tip my hat at her, “if you’d join me for both.”

She’s fully blushing now, but smiling in a way that unlocks something deep within me and makes me think this is the kind of moment – and Rebecca is the kind of woman – that you get a shot at only once in a lifetime. “It’s a date, cowboy.”

As I walk away from her station, I catch myself glancing back at her workspace, watching her return to work with complete focus and a big, beautiful smile on her face.

I can’t stop thinking about the passion that lights her up when she talks about family legacy, the challenge in her eyes that sees beyond what other women see.

She’s the kind of woman I want to build a legacy with.