Page 34 of August’s Cowboy Braxton

“You will be.”

“So will she.”

I leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “She taught me how to perform.”

His arm slid around my waist. “Then give her a show.”

The next day, final rehearsal gave me plenty to work with.

One junior contestant cried over a missing hair ribbon. Another forgot which hand she was supposed to wave with. A horse nearly climbed the rail when a photographer tested his flash too close, and the sound system died halfway through the anthem.

Those were all normal problems. I could handle normal.

I found the ribbon, moved the photographer, tracked down someone who understood the soundboard, and promised a nine-year-old that no one had ever been disqualified for waving with the wrong hand. For a few minutes at a time, I almost forgot someone had been stalking me.

Braxton stayed close without interfering. I always knew where he was. Near the announcer’s booth. At the arena gate. Talking quietly with Torin while his gaze scanned the crowd.

Evie appeared at my side halfway through rehearsal with a coffee in each hand. “You look exhausted, honey.”

I took the cup. “You always know what a woman wants to hear.”

“I save the good stuff for people I love.”

Once, that would have warmed me. It hit me differently now.

Her gaze slid toward Braxton. “Is he still hovering?”

“He’s helping.”

Evie leaned against the rail. “Men like him are good in a crisis. They know exactly where to stand and how to make a woman feel safe.”

I waited.

She took a sip from her own cup. “Until the crisis is over.”

There it was. A small, careful cut placed exactly where she knew I was vulnerable. A week ago, it would have worked. Maybe part of it still did. But now I could see her aiming.

“Good thing I’m not looking for someone to stay.”

Her smile sharpened for half a second. “Of course not. You’ve always been far too independent for that.”

She squeezed my arm and disappeared into the crowd.

Braxton joined me a minute later. “What did she want?”

“To remind me that you’ll eventually get bored and leave.”

His gaze followed Evie. “Subtle.”

“She usually is.”

My phone buzzed. I expected it to be a text from Torin about finalizing plans. Instead, a photograph filled the screen.

It was a child’s hand with a pink and silver rhinestone bracelet around the wrist. I recognized it immediately.

Martina Hernandez. She was eight years old and nervous about her first parade appearance. She’d shown me that bracelet earlier because her grandmother had given it to her for luck.

The message underneath made my stomach drop.