To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before. D. R. Graham

her to start walking again. I have to pull her elbow to sidetrack her past a manure pile. “Watch where you’re stepping.”

      “Oh. Ew.” She hops over closer to me and wrinkles her nose. “Is that what I think it is?”

      “Yeah. That’s why we all wear boots. We’ll have to get you some for next time.”

      Her cheeks light up like a pink sunset and the corners of her mouth turn up in the slightest smile as she keeps her eyes fixed on the grass. I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed because she almost stepped in manure, or if she’s happy about the inadvertent invitation to come along again next time. Maybe it wasn’t inadvertent.

      I stop in front of the back pen to show her the bulls.

      “Yikes. They have horns.” She stands five feet back from the fence. “Why in the world would someone try to ride a beast like that? Bull riders must have a death wish. Or they’re not right in the head.”

      I chuckle. “Everybody in rodeo is not right in the head. But once it’s in your blood you can’t help it.”

      “Was your dad in rodeo, too?”

      “Yeah. He was a bulldogger.”

      Her eyebrows angle dubiously. “What type of event do they do with dogs?”

      “It’s not with dogs. Bulldogging is what they call steer wrestling. The rider slides off a horse at full speed and wrestles the steer to the ground.”

      “Really? Is that a practical skill? Do you have to actually tackle cows on the ranch?”

      “No. Not exactly.” I chuckle. “Sometimes the ornery ones need to be wrestled with when we’re branding. I’m better at roping them, though. I used to compete in the roping event when I was younger.” I wink. “But the ladies like the bronc riders better.”

      The wink makes her bite her bottom lip. Damn, that’s a move that’s going to drive me crazy if she keeps doing it. I exhale and remove my hat to run my hand through my hair. She doesn’t even know how sexy she is. Unfortunately, my body definitely does.

      As we walk, she asks me more about rodeo and ranching. I’m not normally the chattiest guy in the world, but I like answering her questions because she’s genuinely interested in the answers. And since I’m also more than interested in getting to know her better, we talk the entire time as I show her the rest of the fairgrounds.

      When we return to the participants’ lot, Chuck and BJ are both sitting on the tailgate, wrapping their riding arms. They’re grinning at the way Della just looked up at me with her big doe eyes. Avoiding their eager-to-get-paid expressions, I turn to face Della. “I need to warm-up and get ready. Do you want to hang out here with us or head over to the grandstand to watch the barrel racing? It’s going to start soon.”

      She glances at the stands and then over at Chuck and BJ. “I’m interested to learn about what you guys do for your pre-game warm-up, or whatever you call it. But I wouldn’t want to be in the way if I stayed.”

      “You won’t be in the way. You’ll probably get bored watching us stretch, though. And you’re definitely going to wish you didn’t have to listen to Chuck’s inappropriate jokes. But you’re welcome to hang out here.” I pull out a fold-up lawn chair from the back of the truck and set it up for her.

      “I won’t be bored, but I don’t want to mess up anybody’s routine by lingering.”

      BJ hops off the tailgate and slides on his leather vest. “Making lewd comments to girls is part of Chuckie’s warm-up routine. And I personally perform better with an audience, so you’ll be doing both of us a favor.”

      She looks over at me. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”

      “Positive. Sit down.” I slide the chair over for her and then open my bag to grab my spurs and boot ties.

      Chuck, who’s only wearing his compression shorts, sits on the grass to stretch his hamstrings. “So, Della. Back to our earlier conversation about how you’ll celebrate if any of us scores in the nineties; what kind of underwear are you wearing under that pretty dress of yours?”

      “Shut up, Chuckie,” both BJ and I say at the same time.

      “What? That is a legitimate question. If she’s going commando I’m about to have the ride of my life.”

      I shake my head and shoot her a you-asked-for-it look. Either she’s inexplicably amused by his infantilism or she’s trying to prove that he can’t get to her.

      Chuck and BJ both have good rides—seventy-nine and eighty-three. I’m up last. My horse is loaded in the chute. And I’m nervous as hell. I underestimated how having Della here would affect my performance. It almost feels like the first time I ever rode.

      “Woo!” Chuck slaps my back and then hooks the latigo. “I hope Della is warming up for that commando back flip because I feel a ninety coming on. Show her how it’s done, Havie.”

      Motivated by his enthusiasm I strap on my neck collar and climb into the chute. After pulling my hat down over my forehead I wedge my glove into my rigging, roll my fingers, and crack my arm back for a tight fit. Lean back. Heels up. Nod.

      The gate opens and the world literally blurs. I pull my knees up and drag my spurs along the horse’s shoulders, hitting his rhythm. The crowd roars because they can sense it’s a good ride. Better than good. Eight seconds of ripping on a horse that’s bucking like a champion.

      The buzzer goes and the pick-up horse nudges next to me. I slide over its backside and land on my feet. As I tip my hat, I scan the crowd. Della is bouncing up and down in the front row and whistling with her fingers in her mouth. I point at her and then turn to watch the scoreboard. Too bad she was joking about the back flip because my score is definitely going to be at least a ninety.