Page 16 of Wild & Worthy

I head back to camp to find the asshole in the rig beside me has moved, so I decide to straighten out my truck and camper. Unfortunately, I don’t get far, because the left rear wheel makes a low, grinding shhh-shhh-shhh that I didn’t notice this morning. I crouch down in the dirt, staring at it.

"That your rig?"

I stand up, dusting my palms on my jeans. The man is leaning against the fence of the neighboring rig. He’s maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. He’s got an edge about him that cowboys don’t normally possess. His flannel is rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms littered with tattoos, and hair the color of a midnight sky.

When he smiles, it’s not the sly, shit-eating grin Chace uses—it’s just... soft. Kind. He has eyes that crinkle at the corners, the kind that make you want to suck in a sharp breath. For a second, the frustration about Chace and the truck just... blurs.

"Yeah," I say, my voice coming out more husky than I wanted.

"Heard it when you pulled in. Sounded like trouble." He pushes off the rig, his movement relaxed. "Mind if I look?"

I step back. He crouches down, his broad shoulders shifting under his shirt as he runs a hand along the inside of the wheel well, feeling for something. He rocks the tire, then stands up, wiping his palms on his thighs.

"Wheel bearing's loose," he says. "Not blown, just needs tightening. You got a socket set?"

"In the truck." I gesture towards it.

"I can do it now. Should only take ten minutes." He holds out his hand. "I'm Ryder. Ryder Cross"

A flicker of surprise runs through me. He doesn't look like the guys I’m used to seeing around the arenas—the ones who wear their cocky bravado like a badge of honor.

"Addie Dawson," I say.

"Clark Ranch." He nods at the logo on my chair. "Hmm, never heard of ‘em, but I saw your run Saturday out in Ashford. You've got a hell of a hand."

"First season on the circuit."

"Yeah?" He’s looking at me—really looking—and there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes that feels warm and uncomplicated. "How's it feeling so far?"

"Ask me after I get this wheel fixed and don't die on the highway."

He grins at me, and my pulse jumps in a small, involuntary flutter. It’s nice to have a conversation that doesn't feel like I’m standing in a ring waiting for a hit. "Fair enough. You want me to grab my tools or yours?"

Just then my phone buzzes in my pocket, and Chace’s contact name flashes across my screen.

Cocky Asshole: How’s it going, Sunshine? Miss me?

Just like him to completely ignore the multiple text messages I’ve sent him. I look at the phone and roll my eyes, then look back up at Ryder, who’s waiting on my answer.

"Sorry, my travel partner is late,” I mutter, shoving my phone in my back pocket without responding. “Mine are fine. Over here." I say, motioning towards the backseat of my truck.

After the truck is fixed, I’m standing over a camp stove outside my camper, stirring a pot of SpaghettiOs. It’s cheap, it’s easy, and it’s the only thing I can reliably cook without burning. My Ma likes to joke that I could burn water. She’s basically right.

Ryder fixed the wheel bearing in under twenty minutes. He didn't make a thing of it, didn't linger to ask for a thank-you, just handed back my socket set and headed back to wherever he came from. He was genuinely nice. Is he attractive? Sure, but I’m not out here to find a man. I have no time to lose focus on guys.

I’m thinking about how easy that interaction was when my phone buzzes against the plastic camp table I set up.

Cocky Asshole: Running behind. Won't make it until Sunday. Will be there in time to head out to the next stop together. Sorry.

I read it once. Then I read it again, the words mocking me from the screen. I set the phone face-down on the table and stir the pasta, my movements sharp and jerky.

Fine.

I knew this would happen. I said it out loud in the bar, in front of everyone. Eli looked me in the eye and told me Chace was reliable. He told me Chace was trustworthy. He told me this was the right move, and I sat there and let him talk me into it because the alternative was walking away from the only real shot I’ve had in years.

Now, I’m standing alone in a fairground in Billings, heating up noodles from a can on a camp stove while Chace does whatever Chace does. Probably holed up with some chick. I saw the look the waitress gave him the other night.

I guess he’ll just show up whenever he feels like it.