Page 15 of Wicked Cowboy

Before I can protest, Grandma materializes at my elbow like she was summoned. “You heard the girl,” she says, taking my empty boat. “Go on.”

“Grandma—”

“Move those long legs, Rhett Carson.”

I should argue, but I don’t.

Frankie holds out her hand, mock-solemn. “For research,” she says. “I need to understand local customs.”

“Right,” I say, and slide my palm against hers.

Her fingers are warm. The contact lights a fire in me. I set my other hand at her waist, light, cautious, like the first step onto a creek rock you’re not sure will hold. She steps in without hesitation, fitting like she’s always known where to land.

We move. It’s nothing fancy or even good. We move together to the slow waltz, the guitar’s teasing out of the night. The lights throw soft halos across her hair. She watches my mouth like she’s thinking about the kiss we shared and hoping it will happen again. My pulse goes uneven. I focus on not stepping on her boots and fail twice. She laughs into my shoulder, and the sound sinks right under my ribs.

“You’re not terrible,” she says.

“High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

I don’t. I breathe, and for a minute the rest of the world blurs—the crowd, the noise, the years I spent teaching myself to keep things quiet. It all fades until it’s just her, close and real and dangerous in precisely the way I’ve been pretending I don’t want.

The song ends, and applause breaks out for the musicians. We stop moving, but don’t let go. Her eyes stare into me, and I suddenly know I’m going to make this woman mine.

“Rhett,” she says softly.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you for letting me in a little.”

It’s a small sentence. It lands like truth. “Don’t make a habit of it,” I say, but the words come out warm.

“Too late.”

Before I can lean in to kiss her perfect mouth, a posse of small goblins barrels between us, chasing a kid in a handmade ghost sheet. We jump apart, laughing. The spell thins but doesn’t break.

“Hayride needs you,” Luke calls from the tractor, cape flapping, fangs gleaming. “There’s a line.”

“On it,” I say.

Frankie squeezes my hand once, quick and sure. “Go be the wicked cowboy,” she teases.

The night stretches long and bright. We run rides, restock cider, and send kids into the haunted maze with flashlights and bravado. Every time the wagon turns back toward the barn, I scan the edge of the crowd and find her. She’s helping a kid fix a bent witch hat, talking to Millie Mae with her hands flying, listening to Grandma with that respectful smile that makes Martha soften like dough. She fits in my world—probably better than I do.

When the last run of the hayride returns and the lights dim and the music winds down, I’m not ready for it to end.

Luke drops onto the wagon bench beside me, flicking off the tractor. “Admit it,” he says, smug. “Best Haunt in years.”

“Not bad,” I allow.

He jerks his chin toward Frankie, who’s saying goodnight to Grandma at the porch. “It’s her,” he says. “You’re different when she’s around.”

“Go haunt your fog machine.”

He sobers, just enough to surprise me. “Don’t mess this up, Rhett.”

I stare at the dark beyond the lights, where the creek runs and the land breathes and the sky keeps its own counsel. “I don’t even know whatthisis.”