Page 30 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

We settle into easier conversation after that, but the awareness never fades.

Every bump in the road shifts us closer.

Every turn has me leaning into one or the other.

Cash’s hand brushes my knee when he shifts gears.

Walker’s arm ends up along the back of the seat, not quite around me but close enough that I feel its warmth.

“So,” I say as we pass a sign announcing the rodeo five miles ahead, “you two really went all out tonight. Ironed shirts and everything. Should I be impressed?”

“Cash even showered, and used soap,” Walker says solemnly.

“Revolutionary,” I agree. “What’s next, using actual shampoo instead of a bar of soap on your hair?”

“Let’s not get crazy,” Cash protests. “Baby steps.”

“Is that why you smell so good?” I ask before my brain can stop my mouth. “The soap upgrade?”

They both go still for a heartbeat.

“Do we smell good to you, sugar?” Cash’s voice drops lower, teasing.

My face flames. “I mean… objectively. You smell like… clean. Clean is good.”

“Clean,” Walker repeats, and I can hear his smile. “That’s what we smell like?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” I mutter, slouching lower in the seat, which only presses me more firmly between them.

“Can’t help it,” Cash says. “Not often that a pretty Omega notices how we smell.”

“Pretty sure every Omega in three states notices how you smell,” I correct. “I’m certain you are noticed everywhere you go. ”

“But we only care about one Omega’s opinion,” Walker says quietly, and I catch my breath.

Before I can figure out how to respond to that, we’re pulling into the rodeo grounds, passing a huge sign with the words Thunder Creek Arena .

The parking area is a field converted to rows of vehicles, trucks as far as the eye can see. Some beat-up work trucks, others shiny and new. People mill between them, some tailgating from their truck beds.

“Wow,” I breathe as Cash finds a spot. “This is like a pickup-truck convention.”

“Welcome to a night out in Montana,” Walker announces. “Trucks, horses, and delicious food.”

“Don’t forget the beer,” Cash adds, cutting the engine. “Lots of beer.”

They come around to help me down, and I’m very aware of my dress as Cash’s hands span my waist. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me gently on the ground but keeping his hands on me a beat longer than necessary.

“Ready for your first rodeo?” Walker asks, and something about how he says those words leaves my stomach burning up.

“That sounds like a line from a bad pickup attempt,” I inform him.

“Is it working?” He grins, hand finding the small of my back to guide me through the crowd.

“Jury is still out.”

They flank me as we make our way to the entrance, close enough that their heat engulfs me.

The crowd is thick, filled with families and kids, groups of teenagers trying to look cool, older couples in matching Western shirts.

But I notice the looks we get, specifically from women who track Cash and Walker with hungry eyes before landing on me with considerably less warmth.

One brunette in particular actually stops mid-conversation to stare.

“Friends of yours?” I ask sweetly.

“Just admirers,” Cash says, steering me past them with a hand on my elbow. “Hazard of being devastatingly handsome.”

I burst out laughing. “Your humility is inspiring.”

“I’m very aware of my best qualities,” he agrees.

Walker pays for us at the entrance, and we stroll into the arena.

It’s set up like a small stadium with metal bleachers forming a horseshoe around a dirt-covered oval.

Gates at one end lead to what I assume are holding pens.

Barriers line the arena edges, and everything smells like dirt and animals and fried food.

“This is incredible,” I say, taking it all in, smiling at experiencing something new. “It’s like stepping into a movie.”

“Wait’ll you see the actual events,” Walker says, guiding me up the bleacher steps. His hand hovers near my waist, ready to steady me if I wobble in my boots.

We find seats about halfway up, a perfect view of the arena without being too close to the dust. The metal bench is narrow, keeping me pressed between them even here. Cash immediately volunteers to get food and drinks.

“Corn dogs?” he asks with a wink. “As promised?”

“And beer,” Walker adds. “The large ones.”

“On it.” Cash bounds down the steps with energy that makes several women turn to watch.

Alone with Walker, I’m even more aware of his presence. He shifts to face me slightly, arm along the back of the bench, creating a private bubble in the crowded space.

“You really do look stunning,” he murmurs with a voice low enough that only I can hear. His gaze tracks over me slowly, taking in the dress, the boots, the effort I made. “That dress…”

“You liked it when I tried it on,” I remind him.

“It was perfect on you just as it is now.” His fingers brush my bare shoulder, light as air. “Been thinking about you in it since yesterday.”

“Just in it?” The flirty question escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes darken. “About you out of it too. Couldn’t sleep last night. Kept remembering how you felt, how you tasted…”

My breath catches hard in my throat.

“Tell me you thought about it too,” he insists, voice low, leaning closer until the warmth of him is like a sun I shouldn’t get too close to. “Tell me you remember how perfectly you fit against me.”

“How could I forget?” I whisper, almost without meaning to.

“Good.” His hand slides down my arm, fingers trailing heat and raising goose bumps in their wake. “Because I plan to make a lot more memories you can’t forget.”

“That’s very confident of you.”

“I know what I want, Sophia.” The way he says my name wrecks me a little. Like it belongs to him now. “Question is, do you?”

I should pull back. I should rein this in before I dive so deep I forget which way is up.

But instead, my body leans into his like it’s not mine at all.

Maybe it isn’t around him. Being this close to Walker does something to me.

It makes me feel braver, bolder. Like maybe I could be the kind of woman a man like him wants, strong and shameless and certain.

Before I can say anything crazy, movement in my peripheral vision saves me. Cash is heading our way, somehow balancing three beers, corn dogs, nachos, and what looks like fried Oreos like a one-man county fair.

“How are you carrying all that?” I ask, grateful for the interruption, and a little disappointed too.

“Talent,” he states, grinning as he hands things off to us. “Plus I sweet-talked the girl at the stand into giving me a carrier box.”

“Of course you did,” Walker mutters, settling beside me again but not quite touching .

We dig into the food just as the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, welcoming everyone to the weekly rodeo series. I bite into my corn dog—delicious, obviously—but it’s not enough to distract me from the simmering heat still clinging to my skin.

And the way Walker keeps looking at me like I’m already his.

The gate clangs open, and the first bronc rider bursts into the arena like a cannonball with legs.

The horse bucks wildly, twisting and snapping its body like it’s trying to launch the cowboy into the stratosphere.

The crowd erupts around us, and I jolt in my seat, pressed tighter between two very solid cowboys.

Walker leans in, voice low against my ear. “Eight seconds. That’s all they need to stay on and not be disqualified. Only one hand is allowed to hold the rope. The other can’t touch the horse or themselves.”

“That sounds kind of doable,” I murmur, but I’m already watching with rapt attention.

“Wait and see,” Cash says beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes mine with every shift. I glance over. He’s watching the ring, but I don’t miss the little smirk tugging at his mouth.

The buzzer sounds just as the crowd shouts, “Eight!” and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “That was intense.”

Walker grins. “That was a good one. Sometimes they don’t even last three seconds.”

I tear my eyes from the arena to find both men still close, Walker’s arm still draped behind the back of my seat and Cash’s knee resting firmly against mine.

It should feel claustrophobic, but somehow it doesn’t.

Somehow it feels as though they’re anchoring me like the three of us make up a closed circuit that hums when we’re together.

We watch several more events—riding, barrel racing, roping—with the crowd whooping and cheering as riders fly through patterns or cling to chaos. I’m halfway through my beer, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and attention, when a shadow falls over us.

I glance up to see a blonde. Barbie-shaped. Walking like she owns the floor under her boots. Her eyes lock on Cash.

Jeans so tight I’m surprised she’s breathing, and a top that’s doing less work than my napkins. She leans over me like I’m not even here, letting her perfume, something aggressively floral, invade my space as she plants a hand on Cash’s shoulder.

“Cash,” she purrs. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“Brittany,” he states politely, his smile thinner now. He doesn’t move any closer. Doesn’t even blink. But he doesn’t back away either.

Meanwhile, Walker’s fingers tap once against the back of my shoulder.

My jaw’s already tight, my skin flushed, and I can practically feel the irritation fizzing beneath my ribs like shaken soda. Not jealous. Just… highly observant. Of everything. Like the way Brittany is practically climbing over me to get to Cash and blocking my view of the arena.

I shift slightly in my seat, resisting the urge to elbow her away, or at least hand her a map labeled Personal Space, Learn It .