Page 1 of Homebound

1

THE COWBOY KILLER

WYATT

“She’s gonna have to ride ’em hard,” a cowboy drawls in the rodeo stands.

My eyes slide to the two guys next to me. One has a giant mustache, and the other has one of those old Western bolo ties around his neck. They blend into the crowd with their Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and felt Stetson hats.

Actually, who in their right mind wears a felt cowboy hat in the middle of a Texas summer?

That’s like putting a coat on your head in a dry sauna. They’re sweating more than me, and I have to tie back my hair at the nape of my neck because I’m sweating my ass off.

But I’m sweating for an entirely different reason—nerves, not heat.

I shift my gaze to the arena, where cowboys kick up dust, getting ready for the bull riding. It’s the main event everyone gears up for at the small-town rodeo, and it’s the reason I’m scooting forward on the edge of these bleachers with my eyes glued to the chute, watching, searching for her.

The same her I haven’t stopped thinking about since I left this town three years ago, with my heart all kinds of black and blue. I didn’t expect my chest to hurt this much coming back to Granite Falls, but I can’t stop googling heart attack symptoms, which isn’t all that surprising.

I google everything now that I’m a dad.

“There’s no way she can stay on that bull for all eight seconds,” the mustached cowboy next to me grunts. “She’s been practicing on easier ones, and this one’s aggressive as all get out.”

His friend shrugs. “She’s only got to make it six seconds since she’s in the Women’s Bull Riding League.”

“Yeah, but I hear our little cowboy killer’s been trying to stay on for all eight since she’s gunning for the PBR draft,” he says.

The Cowboy Killer.

I go rigid at the nickname, scooting closer on the bleachers to hear more of their conversation. The guy sips his beer, curling a lip. “Bet she doesn’t last four seconds on the back of that bull.”

Asshole.

“Bet she only makes it two,” the other one quips.

Make that two assholes.

I pull out a crinkled twenty, giving them my fiercest glare for betting against her. I’d bet my entire wallet on that woman. She saved my life all those years ago, so I owe her everything. “Twenty says she makes it all eight seconds on the back of that bull and then some.”

The cowboys scan my white T-shirt, their gazes fixating on the smashed pea stain left by my daughter, Vienna, this morning. I won’t sugarcoat it... I look like I puked on myself.

Fun times.

Thanks to my twelve-month-old baby girl, my laundry bill is through the roof, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Puke-green pea stains and all. She’s my mini-me—dirty-blond waves, big green eyes, and my cleft chin (or “chin butt,” as both my moms like to call it).

The cowboy with the Western bolo tie nods his hat to me. “I take it you’re a fan of our cowboy killer if you’re willing to go all in on a bet?”

“You could say that,” I huff out.

You could also say that I’ve been obsessed with that woman since I was eight, but I’m not about to get into a pissing contest with these guys. I might play for the NHL, but I’m a lover, not a fighter.

“So, how do y’all know her?” I drawl, aiming for casual and coming up short. My accent always thickens when I come back home.

They smirk at each other.

The guy strokes his mustache. “Our cowboy killer’s got a bit of a… reputation ’round here in Granite Falls.”

I narrow my eyes. He better not be insinuating what I think he is. “For being one of the best bull riders in the state of Texas?”