And for tonight, she was all mine.

MELANIE

It felt like a dream, just sitting next to Painter, holding his hand while we watched the rodeo. I was still embarrassed over what’d happened out at the Armory, of course. But his presence seemed to fulfill that strange craving I’d felt from the moment I’d met him—like an aching itch inside me was finally satisfied. (Well, not totally satisfied, but you know what I mean.)

On the far side of him, all the club people were laughing and talking and cheering. We were quiet. I don’t know about him, but I was scared to say the wrong thing, to break this weird spell that had fallen over us . . . so I sat back to watch the roping and the barrel racing, savoring every second in his presence. Didn’t hurt that the side of Painter’s leg pressed against the side of mine, every inch of it hot and hard and so close I could’ve just reached out and dug my fingers in deep, if I’d had the nerve. Somehow I managed to hold off—I’d already humiliated myself once in the last twenty-four hours.

Still, when Painter wrapped his arm around me, I told myself that I might as well enjoy it, seeing as it’d gotten dark and was starting to get cold. (Okay, so it was at least eighty-five degrees and I was sweltering, but what’s a woman to do under those kinds of circumstances?)

The rodeo was winding down when his fingers started moving across my shoulder. I could smell him all around me—male sweat, which was weirdly sexy. Leather from his cut. A hint of beer, although not too much. He’d only had a couple over the course of the night.

I wanted to lean over and sniff his neck like a creeper.

The Devil’s Jacks and Reapers who’d come with us had gotten louder with time, although not so much that they were obnoxious. I’d seen the way people shied away from us, though. I understood why, too. I still remembered how I’d felt the first time I’d seen London with Reese—he’d looked like a monster to me. Then the monster had taken me in and given me a home, so I guess I couldn’t exactly point fingers.

My head had fallen to Painter’s shoulder, and I found myself drifting as he continued to rub my arm. Somehow along the way, my hand fell to his thigh despite my best intentions. I wasn’t feeling him up, exactly, but I was definitely feeling him. Strong, thick muscles tensed beneath my touch. And I do mean tensed—he wasn’t relaxed at all. Not even a little. Painter was all coiled strength and power just waiting to break free in a burst of violence or . . . something. Best not to think about that.

God, but I wanted him.

By the time the bull riding started, I’d fallen into a Painter-induced haze. I watched lazily as big Dodge Ram trucks pulled out into the arena to drop off the barrel for the rodeo clown.

“Ladies and gentlemen, now is the time you’ve all been waiting for—does anyone like bull riding?” asked the announcer.

The crowd went crazy, cheering as loud music poured through the speakers.

“We always save the best for last here at the North Idaho Rodeo, and tonight you’ll see ten men brave the most dangerous eight seconds in all of sports. First up is James Lynch, all the way from Weezer, Idaho. This is his third year on the circuit, and he’s looking to take home a prize tonight. Feel like giving him a little encouragement?”

All around us, people shouted again as the music got louder. I sat up a little straighter, watching as two men came out to stand on either side of a gate against the back fence, loose-limbed and ready for action. One of them looked almost familiar, although it was hard to tell from so far away. Seconds later the gate opened, and the bull exploded out. Lynch held on tight to the ropes, one hand held high in the air as the massive animal tried to buck him off. I found myself forgetting to breathe as eight of the longest seconds in history ticked slowly by, counting down on the big display board.

He’d almost made it when the bull twisted, and then he was flying through the air. One of the men who’d been flanking the gate darted in between the bull and the fallen rider, using his body to distract the beast. The other grabbed the cowboy, pulling him to his feet.

Holy shit.

Lynch ran for the fence, jumping up against the metal bars as men waiting on the other side pulled him over. Riders raced into the arena toward the bull, chasing it toward the far gate.

The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds, tops.

“Better luck next time, James,” the announcer said. “Now let’s take a moment to put our hands together for our bullfighters this evening, folks. You saw them in action just now—these athletes have a tough job out here, because it’s up to them to protect our cowboys once they hit the dirt. They do it the hard way, too. Tonight is a special night for one of them . . . He’s playing for his hometown crowd for the first time this weekend. Chase McKinney is a Coeur d’Alene boy, born and raised right here in this community. Chase, how does it feel to be here tonight?”

Around me people exploded in excitement as one of the bullfighters raised a hand, waving at the grandstands before giving a thumbs-up toward the announcer. No wonder he looked familiar—he’d been a few years ahead of me in high school. Not that I really knew him, but I’d seen him around. Pretty sure he’d been a senior when I was a freshman . . . Past Painter, I saw both Em and Kit on their feet, hooting and shouting like crazed monkeys.

“Next up is Gordo Gallagher, an experienced bullrider down from Calgary, Alberta,” continued the announcer as Chase moved back toward the gate. “He’s looking for points and prize money, and it’d sure be nice if he could go home with both. Give him a warm North Idaho welcome!”