Page 5 of Jack of All Trades (The Morrison Brothers #4)

"This is stupid," I mutter to myself as I sit in my rental car outside the Pine Haven Fairgrounds. "So incredibly stupid."

The evening air is filled with the sounds of country music, cheering crowds, and livestock. The scent of fried food and hay drifts through my partially open window, and my stomach twists with a combination of hunger and nerves.

I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes, debating whether to go in or drive away. I told Rex I was going to explore the town, which isn't entirely a lie. I am exploring, just a very specific part of town where a certain cowboy happens to be performing.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jack:

*Not sure if you’re coming tonight, but your name's at the ticket booth if you are.*

I stare at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I could make up an excuse. Say I'm not feeling well. Say I got lost. Say anything that would let me drive away from here and pretend I never considered watching Jack Morrison risk his life on the back of an angry bull.

But something keeps me from typing those excuses. Maybe it's curiosity about what he sees in this so-called sport. Maybe it's a desire to understand what drives him to do something so dangerous. Or maybe, and this is the thought I keep pushing away, maybe I just want to see him again.

*I'm here. Just parking.*

I hit send before I can change my mind, then grab my purse and step out of the car. The fairgrounds are busy but not packed. This is a local event, not a major competition. Still, there's an energy in the air that's undeniably infectious.

At the ticket booth, a middle-aged woman with a weathered face and kind eyes smiles at me. "Name, honey?"

"Maya Torres," I say, feeling oddly self-conscious. "Jack Morrison left my name?"

Her smile widens. "Sure did. You're all set." She hands me a ticket and a small badge that reads "COMPETITOR GUEST."

"Thanks," I murmur, pinning the badge to my jacket.

"Jack’s one of our best," she says. "You picked a good night to come watch."

I open my mouth to explain that I'm not "with" Jack in any meaningful way, that I'm just here out of curiosity, but the woman has already turned to the next person in line.

Inside, the fairgrounds are alive with activity.

Food vendors line one side of the dirt pathway, selling everything from corn dogs to funnel cakes.

Children dart between adults, some with painted faces and cotton candy.

It's like every small-town fair I've ever seen in movies, but somehow more authentic.

I follow the flow of people toward the main arena, a circular dirt ring surrounded by metal bleachers. The announcer's voice booms over loudspeakers, introducing the next competitor in what appears to be a calf-roping event.

I find a seat about halfway up the bleachers, not too close but not too far back either. From here, I have a good view of the entire arena and the chutes where the bulls and riders wait their turn.

My phone buzzes again:

*I see you. Blue jacket, third section, halfway up. I'm in the competitor area behind the chutes. White shirt, black hat.*

I scan the area he's described and spot him immediately. Even from this distance, Jack stands out. He's leaning against a fence, talking to another rider, his posture relaxed but alert. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up toward the bleachers and raises a hand in greeting.

I give a small wave back, then immediately feel silly. What am I doing here? I barely know this man.

But that's not entirely true, is it? After spending time together planning Rex's party, I know that Jack is thoughtful and organized. I know he kept his parents' home because it meant something to him. I know he notices small details. I know the rodeo means everything to him.

I know more about Jack Morrison than I care to admit.

The announcer's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Next up in the bull riding competition, from right here in Pine Haven, put your hands together for our local champion, Jack 'Steady Hand' Morrison!"

The crowd erupts in cheers, and I find myself sitting straighter, eyes fixed on the chute where Jack is now positioning himself on top of a massive black bull.

His face is a mask of concentration as he wraps the rope around his hand, securing himself to the animal that's already shifting restlessly beneath him.

He's wearing protective gear, a vest and what looks like a helmet with a face guard, but it suddenly seems woefully inadequate for what he's about to do. The bull must weigh close to a ton, all muscle and fury, with horns that could easily gore a man.

My heart hammers against my ribs as Jack nods, signaling he's ready. The gate swings open, and the bull explodes into the arena, twisting and bucking with violence.

Jack moves with the animal, his body responding to each buck and spin with a strength that seems impossible given the circumstances.

His free arm is raised above his head, his spine arched perfectly to maintain his balance.

It's like watching a deadly dance, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

The crowd counts aloud: "One! Two! Three!"

The bull makes a particularly vicious twist, nearly dislodging Jack, but he adjusts instantly, shifting his weight to stay centered.

"Four! Five! Six!"

Another violent buck sends Jack forward, but he recovers, his movements so perfectly timed it seems like he can predict what the bull will do before it happens.

"Seven! Eight!"

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd erupts.

Jack has made the full eight seconds. He releases his grip on the rope and pushes off, flying through the air to land on his feet several yards away from the still-bucking bull.

Rodeo clowns rush in to distract the animal as Jack jogs toward the fence, acknowledging the cheers with a wave of his hat.

I realize I've been holding my breath only when my lungs start to burn. As I exhale, I realize that I'm on my feet, clapping along with everyone else. I quickly sit back down, embarrassed by my reaction.

But the truth is, what I just witnessed was impressive. Terrifying and completely unnecessary, but impressive nonetheless. The power and control it must take to stay on a bull like that. I can't even imagine.

The announcer reads out Jack's score: 87 points, putting him in first place so far. The crowd cheers again, and I catch sight of Jack as he exits the arena, surrounded by well-wishers and other competitors slapping him on the back.

My phone buzzes:

*What did you think?*

I can almost hear the grin in his text. I overthink my response.

*Dangerous and foolish. But I can see why people watch.*

His reply comes quickly:

*High praise from Maya Torres. I'm honored. Meet me by the concession stand in 20? I need to get my gear sorted.*

I should say no. I should leave now, having satisfied my curiosity about rodeo. I should not agree to meet Jack Morrison for what could only be described as a... well, not a date. Definitely not a date.

*Ok. The one with the funnel cakes?*

*That's the one. Get yourself something to eat if you're hungry. My treat.*

*I can buy my own food, Morrison.*

*Never doubted it for a second.*

I can't help but smile at our exchange. There's something refreshingly straightforward about talking to Jack. He teases but never pushes too far. He offers but doesn't insist. It's a delicate balance that few men seem to master.

I make my way to the concession area, where the smells of fried dough, grilled meat, and sweet cotton candy mingle in the air.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since lunch.

After a brief internal debate, I join the line for funnel cakes, figuring if I'm going to indulge in fair food, I might as well go all out.

"First time at the rodeo?"

I turn to find an older man in line behind me, his weathered face creased in a friendly smile.

"Is it that obvious?" I ask.

He chuckles. "You've got that look. Half fascinated, half terrified."

"That's... surprisingly accurate," I admit.

"You here with family?" he asks.

"No, I'm just—"

"She's with me, Mr. Henderson," Jack's voice comes from behind us. He's changed out of his riding gear into clean jeans and a fresh shirt, his hair slightly damp like he's just showered. He still wears his black cowboy hat, though, the same one he tipped to the crowd after his ride.

"Jack Morrison!" Mr. Henderson's face lights up. "Saw your ride. Best of the night so far."

"Appreciate that," Jack says with a genuine smile. "How's Mrs. Henderson doing?"

"Better now she's got that new hip. Doctors say she'll be dancing again by Christmas."

"Glad to hear it. Tell her I said hello."

Mr. Henderson nods, then gives me a knowing wink. "You picked a good one to show you around, miss. Jack here knows everybody worth knowing in Pine Haven."

Before I can correct his assumption, it's my turn to order. I ask for a funnel cake with strawberries, and when I reach for my wallet, Jack gently touches my arm.

"I got this," he says quietly.

"Jack—"

"Please? Consider it a thank you for coming tonight."

There's something in his expression, a sincerity that's hard to refuse. I sigh. "Fine. But I'm buying next time."

The words are out before I can stop them. Next time. As if there will be a next time.

Jack's smile widens, but thankfully he doesn't comment on my slip. He orders a funnel cake for himself and pays for both, then leads me to a relatively quiet table at the edge of the eating area.

"So," he says as we sit, "you actually came."

"I said I would," I reply, breaking off a piece of the warm, sugar-dusted dough.

"No, you said you'd think about it." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "I'm glad you decided to come."

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "I was curious. Rex talks about rodeo sometimes, but I've never seen it up close."

"And what's the verdict?" Jack asks, his expression genuinely interested in my opinion.

"It's... not what I expected. It's more athletic than I thought it would be. More technical."

Jack nods. "Most people think it's just hanging on for dear life. And sometimes it is," he admits with a laugh. "But there's a lot of skill involved too. Reading the animal, anticipating its movements, keeping your center of gravity in the right place."

"Is that why they call you 'Steady Hand'?" I ask, remembering the announcer's introduction.

Jack's cheeks color slightly. "Yeah. I've got a reputation for staying centered even on the toughest bulls. It's all about finding your balance point and maintaining it, no matter what."

There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm not going to be the one to point it out.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask instead.

"Started competing in junior rodeo when I was twelve," he says. "Been riding professionally since I was eighteen."

"And how many injuries?"

He grins. "Counting or not counting the bruises?"

"Serious injuries," I clarify, surprised by how much I care about the answer.

"Let's see." He counts on his fingers. "Broken wrist when I was nineteen. Three cracked ribs at twenty-two. Dislocated shoulder last year. And a concussion that put me out for a month about four years back."

Each injury he lists makes my stomach tighten. "That sounds... painful."

"Part of the job," he says with a shrug. "Every profession has its risks."

"Most professions don't involve being thrown from a raging bull."

Jack laughs. "Fair point. But I love what I do, Maya. The risks are worth it to me."

I look at him across the table, trying to understand. "Why? What's so amazing about it that makes risking your neck worthwhile?"

He's quiet for a moment.

"It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't felt it.

But there's this moment, right when the chute opens and that bull makes its first move, where everything else just..

. disappears. All the noise, all the worries, all the expectations.

It's just you and this force of nature, and either you find your balance or you don't."

His eyes have taken on a distant look, like he's seeing something I can't.

"For those eight seconds, I know exactly who I am and what I'm supposed to be doing. There's a clarity to it that I don't find anywhere else."

His words resonate with me more than I'd like to admit. That search for clarity, for a place where you know exactly who you are. Isn't that what I've been looking for? Isn't that partly why I'm considering moving to Pine Haven?

"I can understand that," I say softly. "Not the bull part, but... the clarity part."

Jack's gaze returns to me, warm and surprisingly gentle. "Yeah?"

I nod, then quickly change the subject, not ready to share more. "So, about Rex's party. I ordered the cake today. Chocolate with buttercream frosting. And I've got most of the food planned."

Jack allows the pivot in conversation, though his eyes tell me he noticed it. "Sounds perfect. I talked to Maggie about borrowing chairs, and she's happy to help. She's bringing them over Friday morning before the party."

"Good." I take another bite of funnel cake, the sweetness exploding on my tongue. "This is really good."

"Best in the county," Jack agrees. "Though don't tell Mrs. Larson I said that. She thinks her funnel cakes are unbeatable. She’s been our neighbor since before I was born. Makes the best apple pie you've ever tasted, but her funnel cakes are like eating sweetened cardboard."

I laugh at his description. "I'll remember to politely decline if she ever offers."

"Wise choice." He grins, then glances over my shoulder and nods a greeting to someone. "Word of warning. Pine Haven's rumor mill is about to kick into high gear."

"What do you mean?"

"We're being watched," he says, his voice low but amused. "Betty Wilson at your four o'clock. Town gossip. By tomorrow morning, half of Pine Haven will think we're dating."

I resist the urge to turn and look. "That's ridiculous. We're just eating funnel cake."

"In Betty's world, sharing food in public is practically an engagement announcement."

Despite myself, I laugh. "Small towns."

"You have no idea," Jack agrees with a rueful smile. "Does it bother you? The gossip, I mean."

I consider the question. In Seattle, I value my privacy, my anonymity. The idea of being the subject of small-town gossip should horrify me.

But strangely, it doesn't.

"I don't care what people think," I say finally. "Let them talk."