Chapter 10- Too Perfect.

SAWYER.

Ricky and I were judging her.

Again.

We stood a few feet away from the picnic tables, holding our plates piled high with barbecue ribs, baked beans, and potato salad, while our eyes practically burned holes through the pretty little woman sitting beneath the oak tree.

Because Chloe Anderson was eating barbecue ribs.

With a fork.

And a fucking knife.

I mean, who the hell asks for silverware at a barbecue? And I wasn't talking about a plastic fork to eat potato salad.

Oh, no.

The princess had specifically requested a steak knife.

A steak knife.

I'd actually made her repeat herself because I thought I'd misheard.

And now there she sat, cutting delicate little pieces of meat from ribs so tender they practically fell off the bone.

The same ribs my father had been cooking since before I stopped wearing diapers.

I watched her lift another perfectly cut bite to her mouth.

Then I looked at Ricky.

"Where the hell did this woman come from?" I chuckled.

Ricky shook his head, looking equally fascinated.

"Are you sure she ain't some kind of royalty from England?"

I snorted.

"What?"

"Look at her, man. Look at the way she eats. She eats like one of them fancy-ass people from Bridgerton."

I nearly choked on my drink.

I turned toward him so fast I almost dropped my plate. "Hold the fuck up."

Ricky glanced at me. "What?"

"Did you just say Bridgerton?"

He frowned. "Yeah. So?"

I stared at him.

Then I started laughing.

Hard.

"What the fuck, Ricky? You watch that woman shit?"

"Shut the fuck up!" he hissed, glancing around to make sure nobody had heard me. "Claire makes me watch it with her!"

That only made me laugh harder. "Oh, Jesus Christ!"

"Keep your damn voice down!"

I bent forward, trying to catch my breath.

"Richard McAllister. My best friend. The same man who once punched a bull in the nose because it wouldn't get out of his way."

"That bull was bein' an asshole."

"And now you're sittin' on the couch watchin' English people court each other?"

"There's more to it than that, dumbass."

I straightened.

"Oh, really?"

He took a bite of his ribs.

"Yeah."

I grinned.

"Enlighten me."

"There's politics. Family drama. People screwin' around behind each other's backs."

I blinked.

"Well, I'll be damned. You're a fan."

"I ain't a fan!"

"Got a favorite character?"

"Fuck you."

"Come on, Ricky. Don't be shy."

He pointed his fork at me.

"Keep it up, Monty, and I'll tell everybody about the time you cried watchin' The Notebook."

My smile vanished.

Ricky's grin faded almost immediately. "Shit, man. I didn't mean—"

"That was one time," I muttered.

He nodded.

"Yeah. I know."

I stared down at my plate.

It had been a couple of months after Adeline's funeral.

I'd been sitting alone in our living room, trying to find something to watch because the silence in that house was driving me out of my goddamn mind.

And there it was.

The Notebook.

Adeline's favorite movie.

She'd made me watch it so many times I could practically recite the damn thing.

I'd always complained about it.

Always told her it was too long, too sappy, and that no man in his right mind would willingly sit through that much crying.

But she'd just laugh, curl up against me, and tell me I didn't have a romantic bone in my body.

That night, I'd watched the whole thing.

Alone.

And when it ended, I'd cried like a fucking baby.

Not because of the movie.

Because I'd never get to watch it with her again.

"You remember that night?" Ricky asked quietly.

I swallowed.

"Yeah."

He shifted his weight.

"Sorry, brother. That was a shitty joke."

I shook my head.

"Don't worry about it."

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then Ricky nudged my shoulder.

"She would've laughed her ass off if she'd known you finally admitted you'd watched the whole movie."

A small smile tugged at my mouth.

"She would've never let me live it down."

"Nope."

I chuckled under my breath.

"Probably would've made me watch it every damn weekend."

"Knowing Adeline? Absolutely."

I shook my head, the ache in my chest settling into something familiar.

Then I lifted my gaze.

And there was Chloe.

Sitting on that table, carefully cutting another piece of barbecue rib with her knife and fork.

Still looking like she'd accidentally wandered into a country barbecue instead of a fancy restaurant. And just like that, I found myself smiling again.

Well, I'll be damned.

I hadn't forgotten Adeline.

I never would.

But somehow, this strange little woman was reminding me that there were still reasons to laugh. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't something I needed to feel guilty about.

She was still sitting beneath the oak tree, listening to something Sally was saying while carefully cutting another piece of meat.

"Seriously, though," I muttered. "Who eats ribs like that?"

Ricky followed my gaze.

"Apparently, your princess."

"She ain't my princess."

"Whatever you say, Your Majesty."

I elbowed him.

"Asshole."

He laughed.

Then Chloe looked up.

And caught us.

Both of us.

Staring at her like a couple of idiots.

Her green eyes moved from Ricky to me.

Then to our plates.

Then back to our faces.

She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Oh, shit.

"Is there something wrong, gentlemen?" she called pleasantly.

Ricky immediately looked down at his food.

The coward.

I cleared my throat.

"Nope."

Chloe tilted her head.

"Are you certain? Because you've been staring at me for approximately three minutes."

Ricky coughed.

I narrowed my eyes.

"You been timin' us?"

"No. I was simply wondering how long it would take you to realize that staring is considered impolite."

Sally burst out laughing.

Earl nearly spilled his sweet tea.

Ricky muttered, "Oh, she's good."

I shot him a look.

"Shut up."

Chloe smiled sweetly.

"Would you gentlemen care to join us, or do you prefer to continue your surveillance from a distance?"

Surveillance?

Good Lord.

I walked toward the table, Ricky trailing behind me.

"Just wonderin' somethin', princess."

"And what might that be, cowboy?"

I gestured toward her plate.

"Why in God's name are you eatin' ribs with a knife and fork?"

She glanced down at her plate.

Then back at me.

"Because I intend to eat them, Sawyer. Not wrestle them."

Earl let out a booming laugh.

Ricky turned away, his shoulders shaking.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Darlin', they're ribs. You're supposed to eat 'em with your hands."

"Is that a law?"

"What?"

"A law. Is there a specific West Virginia statute requiring citizens to consume barbecue ribs with their fingers?"

Sally slapped her knee.

"Oh, honey, I like you!"

I sighed.

"No, there ain't a law."

"Wonderful. Then I believe I'm safe from prosecution."

Ricky lost it.

The bastard was laughing so hard he had to set his plate down.

I pointed at him.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Nope," he wheezed. "I'm enjoyin' the show."

I looked back at Chloe.

"You're missin' half the experience."

"Am I?"

"Yep."

She studied me for a moment.

Then she placed her fork beside her plate.

"Very well."

I blinked.

"Very well, what?"

"Educate me."

Oh, hell.

There was something about the way she said those two little words that made my brain forget what we were discussing.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at me.

"Show me the proper technique for consuming barbecue ribs, Sawyer."

Ricky made a strangled noise.

I ignored him.

"All right."

I pulled out the empty chair beside her and sat down.

"First thing you gotta understand is that barbecue ain't supposed to be pretty."

"Clearly," she murmured, eyeing the sauce smeared across my fingers.

I grinned.

"See? That's the problem with you fancy folks. You're too worried about gettin' messy."

"Some of us appreciate the invention of napkins."

"Napkins are for afterward."

"How barbaric."

"How practical."

She laughed softly.

And damn if that sound didn't do something strange to my chest.

I picked up one of the ribs from my plate.

"Now, watch."

She leaned slightly closer.

I took a generous bite, pulled the meat clean off the bone, and set it down.

"There. Easy."

Chloe looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"Congratulations."

I frowned.

"For what?"

"Your remarkable ability to eat like a caveman."

Ricky howled.

Chalie covered her mouth.

Even Earl was laughing.

I shook my head.

"You're somethin' else, woman."

"So I've been told."

"Your turn."

She glanced at her plate.

Then at me.

"Must I?"

"Yep."

"Will you stop staring at me if I do?"

"Can't promise that."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Chloe went still.

Just for a second.

And I realized what I'd said.

Well, shit.

Her green eyes met mine.

There was a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"How unfortunate," she said softly.

My pulse did something downright stupid.

Ricky cleared his throat.

Loudly.

"Well, ain't this cozy?"

I turned toward him.

"Richard."

"What?"

"Go find your wife."

He grinned.

"Gladly. Maybe she'll let me watch another episode of Bridgerton tonight."

Chloe's eyes widened with delight.

"Oh! You watch Bridgerton?"

I burst out laughing.

Ricky froze.

The fool had finally realized what he'd said.

Unfortunately for him, it was too damn late.

Oh, this was gonna be good.

"Don't," he warned me.

I leaned back in my chair, grinning like the devil himself.

"Go on, Ricky. Tell the princess about your favorite English romance."

Chloe looked genuinely interested.

"Do you really watch Bridgerton?"

Ricky stared at her.

Then at me.

Then back at her.

"Well..."

I slowly turned my head.

No fucking way.

Richard McAllister opened his mouth.

And I swear to God, I was about to hear that grown-ass man give a detailed opinion about a television romance.

But before he could embarrass himself any further, somebody called out from behind us.

"Well, Chloe Anderson, is that you?"

I turned toward the familiar voice.

And there stood Margaret Whitmore.

Maggie.

Pleasant Valley's beloved librarian, unofficial town historian, and quite possibly the nosiest woman in the entire state of West Virginia.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up!" I called.

Maggie gave me a look.

"Don't you start with me, Sawyer Montgomery. Some of us have jobs that don't involve chasing cows around all day."

Ricky snorted.

I pressed a hand against my chest.

"Well, damn, Maggie. And here I thought you loved me."

"Oh, hush. You know I do."

And I did know.

Maggie Whitmore had been part of our lives for as long as I could remember. She'd known my parents before I was born, watched us kids grow up, and attended so many Montgomery barbecues that Dad had stopped asking whether she was coming.

Friday evenings at the ranch just weren't the same without her.

Hell, Maggie was practically family.

Which meant she had absolutely no problem bossing me around.

"Chloe, sweetheart!" she exclaimed.

Chloe's face immediately brightened.

"Maggie!"

She rose from her chair and greeted the older woman with a warm hug. "How lovely to see you again!"

"Well, look at you! Don't you look pretty as a picture!"

Chloe laughed.

"Thank you. I'm so glad you could make it."

"Oh, honey, I wouldn't miss one of these barbecues unless somebody dragged me away kicking and screaming."

I grinned.

Maggie waved me off.

"Oh, hush, Sawyer. I had to close up the library, and then I remembered I'd promised your daddy my peach cobbler."

She lifted the covered dish in her hands.

"And if there's one thing I've learned in all these years, it's that Thomas Montgomery gets mighty unpleasant when somebody promises him dessert and doesn't deliver."

Ricky laughed.

"Ain't that the truth!"

"Careful," I warned. "You're talkin' about my old man."

Maggie raised an eyebrow.

"And I've known that old man longer than you've been alive, young man."

Well, shit.

Couldn't argue with that.

Chloe chuckled.

Maggie set her cobbler on the table and glanced between us.

"Well, now, what have I interrupted?"

"Nothin'," Ricky answered a little too quickly.

I grinned.

"Oh, just Ricky tellin' us all about his favorite television show."

Ricky shot me a murderous look.

"Monty."

Maggie's eyes lit up.

"Oh! What show?"

"Bridgerton," Charlotte answered cheerfully.

Maggie gasped.

"Well, I love that show!"

I stared at her.

Jesus Christ.

Not another one.

She turned toward Ricky.

"Richard McAllister, I had no idea you watched Bridgerton!"

"I don't!" Ricky protested.

I burst out laughing.

Chloe raised an eyebrow, looking between Ricky and me.

"I'm afraid I'm missing something. What exactly is so amusing?"

I tried to answer.

I really did.

But the moment I looked at Ricky's face, another laugh escaped me.

"Jesus Christ."

Chloe tilted her head.

"Is this some sort of inside joke?"

"Bridgerton," I managed.

She blinked.

"The television series?"

"That's the one, princess."

"Oh. I've heard of it, but I've never watched it."

I pointed at Ricky.

"Well, apparently, this big bastard right here is an expert."

"Fuck off, Montgomery."

"Season two, wasn't it, Ricky? Anthony Bridgerton? Your favorite?"

Ricky's face turned an impressive shade of red.

Chloe pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile.

"Well, that's rather unexpected."

"Unexpected?" I laughed. "Princess, this man knows more about British romance than he does about his own damn truck."

"All right, that's enough!" Ricky snapped.

I wiped at the corner of my eye.

"Oh, come on, Your Lordship. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

Chloe burst out laughing.

And Ricky narrowed his eyes.

Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

"Hold on a goddamn minute."

Uh-oh.

I knew that look.

"How the hell do you know Anthony Bridgerton is in season two?"

My smile disappeared.

"Everybody knows that."

"Do they?"

"Yeah."

Ricky leaned forward.

"And how exactly do you know what season he's in?"

I shrugged.

"Internet."

"Internet, my ass!"

Chloe looked at me with renewed interest.

"That is a rather specific detail to know about a series you apparently don't watch."

I shot her a look.

"Whose side are you on, princess?"

"I'm simply curious."

"Uh-huh."

Ricky slapped the table.

"Holy shit! You've watched it!"

"Have not!"

"Yes, you fucking have!"

"Ricky—"

"How many episodes, Monty?"

"Shut up."

"Both seasons?"

"McAllister, I swear to God—"

"Did you cry?"

I stared at him.

"Keep talkin', and you're gonna need a dentist."

Chloe laughed so hard she covered her mouth.

And just when I thought the poor bastard couldn't possibly get any more embarrassing, his wife appeared.

"Richard?"

Oh, this just keeps gettin' better.

Claire McAllister stood behind her husband, one hand resting against her pregnant belly and the other holding a small plate of fruit.

She looked between us.

"What did you do?"

"Nothin'!" Ricky answered.

Claire narrowed her eyes.

"Richard."

I grinned.

"Claire, darlin', we were just discussin' your husband's unhealthy obsession with Bridgerton."

Her eyes widened.

Then she started laughing.

"Oh, my goodness! Did he?"

"CLAIRE!"

I nearly fell out of my chair.

Claire shook her head, still laughing.

"Do you know this man actually woke me up one night because he wanted to discuss whether Anthony should've married Edwina?"

Chloe gasped.

I slapped my knee.

"NO FUCKING WAY!"

"Claire, baby, please," Ricky groaned.

"Oh, don't you baby me, Richard. You woke up your pregnant wife at midnight to discuss a fictional love triangle!"

"Because you fell asleep before the episode ended!"

"BECAUSE I WAS TIRED!"

Chloe was laughing openly now.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed watching my best friend suffer this much.

Ricky buried his face in his hands.

"I'm never watching television with you again."

Claire leaned down and kissed his cheek.

"Oh, sweetheart. Yes, you are."

Then she looked at me.

"And Sawyer?"

I straightened.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Don't think I didn't hear Richard asking how you knew so much about season two."

Oh, fuck.

Ricky lifted his head.

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

"Yeah, Monty. We never did finish that conversation."

Chloe turned toward me, her green eyes sparkling.

"Yes, cowboy. I'm rather interested in hearing your explanation."

I looked at all three of them.

Then I reached for my sweet tea.

"Y'all need to find yourselves a damn hobby."

Their laughter followed me all the way to the bottom of my glass.

And judging by Ricky's smug expression, the bastard was going to hold this over my head for the rest of my natural life.

Should've kept my fucking mouth shut.

I grinned.

"Your husband's been tellin' everybody how much he loves Bridgerton."

Claire blinked.

Then she smiled.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

"Oh, has he now?"

Ricky groaned.

"Baby, don't."

"Oh, sweetheart, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I think it's adorable that you have such strong opinions about watching Bridgerton with your wife."

The bastard smiled.

Not an ounce of shame on his face.

"Although I still haven't forgiven you for waking me up at midnight to discuss Anthony's love life."

Chloe burst out laughing, and Maggie covered her mouth with her hand.

I slapped Ricky on the shoulder.

"Hang in there, Your Lordship."

"Fuck you, Montgomery."

Claire laughed and leaned down to kiss her husband's cheek.

He slipped an arm around her waist anyway, pulling her close enough to press a kiss against her belly before looking up at her.

And the look he gave her?

Well, hell.

Even I couldn't make fun of that.

I glanced toward Chloe, who was still laughing with everyone else sitting at that table. She'd only been in Pleasant Valley a few damn days.

Yet somehow, she'd already managed to charm my father, my sister, Sally, Earl, and now Maggie Whitmore.

Not to mention my best friend and his wife.

At this rate, she'd be elected mayor before Ricky finished fixing her Mustang.

And knowing Ricky, the bastard would probably volunteer to run her campaign.

Claire turned toward Chloe.

"So, tell me something. Have you ever been to the Pleasant Valley Fall Rodeo?"

"I've never actually attended a rodeo," Chloe admitted. "I'm familiar with the concept, of course, but I haven't the slightest idea what happens at one."

Ricky grinned. "Oh, sweetheart, you're in for a treat."

"I certainly appreciate an event full of recreational pursuits. Although I imagine I'll need someone to explain what's happening."

I snorted into my sweet tea.

"Princess, you make it sound like you're attendin' a scientific convention."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Forgive me, cowboy, but I prefer to understand what I'm watching rather than applaud simply because everyone else is doing so."

Ricky laughed. "She's got you there, Monty."

"Smart-ass," I muttered.

"Our Fall Rodeo is the biggest celebration of the year," Maggie explained. "Families have been attending for generations."

"That sounds wonderful," Chloe said. 

"People come from all over West Virginia," Claire added. "It starts on a Saturday and runs through the following Saturday. Eight days of competitions, food, and music."

"Eight days? That must require extraordinary planning."

"You have no idea," Claire said. "By the time it opens, half the town has volunteered for something, and the other half is arguing over how it ought to be done."

"Sounds about right," I muttered.

"And everybody acts like it's a national holiday," Ricky added.

"Isn't it?" Maggie asked, perfectly serious.

Chloe laughed.

"I can see this is much more than a sporting event to all of you."

"Months of it," Charlotte said. "Opening day has a parade down Main Street. Horses, decorated wagons, antique tractors, marching bands, and the rodeo queen."

"Oh, I do love a good parade."

"The queen's judged on horsemanship, interviews, and community involvement," Maggie added.

"How lovely. I appreciate that the title recognizes more than physical appearance."

"And then," Ricky announced, "the real competitions begin. Bull riding, bronc riding, barrel racing, team roping, breakaway roping, and steer wrestling."

Chloe blinked.

"I'm sorry. Did you say steer wrestling?"

"Sure did. Cowboy jumps off a moving horse, grabs a steer by the horns, and wrestles it to the ground."

She set down her glass with great care. "Let me make certain I understand. A grown man voluntarily leaps from a moving horse onto a substantial animal and attempts to overpower it?"

"That's about the size of it."

She turned to me. "And people consider this entertainment?"

"You should see bull ridin'," Ricky said.

"Eight seconds on a bull that wants you off his back."

Chloe stared at him. "Eight seconds?"

"Longest eight seconds of your life," I said.

"I imagine it would be, particularly if the animal disagrees with the arrangement."

"They usually do," I admitted.

I nearly choked on my drink.

"Princess, you're killin' me."

"I'm merely trying to understand the appeal."

"Adrenaline. Skill. Competition. A whole lotta guts."

"And, I presume, a remarkably comprehensive health insurance policy."

Ricky howled, and the rest of the table joined him.

*Jesus Christ.*

This woman was somethin' else.

Charlotte pulled up a chair beside Chloe.

"Don't let them scare you. There's barrel racing, where riders race around three barrels for the fastest time. And outside the arena we've got livestock shows, pie competitions, a chili cook-off, tractor pulls, and live music."

"Now that sounds absolutely delightful."

"There's a mechanical bull, too," Charlotte said. "For folks who want to try their luck without getting near the real thing."

Chloe looked at me. "And does that one also attempt to throw its rider into the next county?"

"Only if Ricky's runnin' the controls."

"One time!" Ricky protested.

"You threw Luke into a hay bale."

"He said he wanted a challenge!"

Chloe shook her head, laughing.

"I'm beginning to understand why everyone looks forward to this event so much."

"Except the pie competition," Maggie muttered.

I groaned.

"Oh, Lord. Not this again."

"Mrs. Henderson won last year with a store-bought crust," Maggie said darkly.

"The audacity!" Sally exclaimed.

Chloe covered a smile. "I take it the competition is rather serious."

"Deadly," I assured her.

Maggie swatted my arm. "Oh, behave."

"And on the final Saturday," Charlotte continued, "there's the championship ceremony and Harvest Dance. The whole town turns out."

"That sounds beautiful," Chloe said. "Although I suspect I'll be hopelessly lost during the actual competitions."

"You won't have to worry about that," Charlotte replied, a little too sweetly. I didn't like that tone. Not one damn bit.

"Why is that?" Chloe asked.

My dear sister pointed at me. "He practically grew up at the rodeo. He'll make sure you have a wonderful time."

Chloe’s green eyes found mine.

"Besides," Charlotte added, "he's always complaining that he has nothing to do except work."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Claire exchanged a suspiciously pleased look with Charlotte.

*Wonderful. Now there were two of them.*

"Charlie," I warned.

"What? My brother needs somebody to remind him how to have fun."

*Little shit.*

Ricky leaned back and wiggled his eyebrows.

*Oh, for fuck's sake.*

I knew that look.

The bastard was matchmaking, and his next victim was me.

I shot him a warning glare.

*Don't you fucking dare.*

He grinned wider.

Chloe turned toward me. "Well, cowboy, would you be willing to show an inexperienced spectator around? I wouldn't want to impose."

Those green eyes met mine, and suddenly saying no seemed like a hell of a lot of work.

"Reckon I could keep you from gettin' lost, princess. Just don't complain when you get dirt on those fancy boots."

She glanced down at the brown boots she'd bought from Sally.

"I believe I can survive a little dirt, Sawyer."

"Good. 'Cause around here, we ain't got fancy accommodations or special treatment. Everybody gets the same dirt on their boots."

Chloe's gaze met mine.

"How refreshingly democratic."

I raised an eyebrow.

"That a complaint?"

"Quite the opposite, cowboy. I find the idea rather appealing."

Ricky chuckled.

"Well, I'll be damned. Monty, I think she just called you charming."

"Pretty sure she didn't, dumbass."

Chloe merely smiled.

"See? It's settled!" Charlotte declared.

"Nobody settled a damn thing," I grumbled. But Chloe was smiling, and against my better judgment, so was I.

*God help me.*

Maggie leaned closer. "You'll enjoy the livestock exhibitions, too. Ranchers bring their finest cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, and horses to compete for ribbons."

"Now that I'd love to see," Chloe said. "I've learned quite a bit about cattle since arriving here."

I raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"For one thing, they're far more intelligent than people give them credit for. And I've heard your father is exceptionally proud of his herd."

"That's an understatement," Ricky said.

"Dad enters his cattle every year," I told her. "Best breeding bull, champion heifer, grand champion steer. The old man's got enough ribbons to decorate half the barn."

"I'll have to ask him to show me his trophies."

I shook my head. "Princess, don't say that unless you've got three hours to spare."

"Three hours?" she repeated.

"Minimum. Dad'll tell you the name, bloodline, and life story of every animal he's ever entered. Might even pull out pictures."

"I rather enjoy hearing people speak about the things they love," Chloe said.

That shut me up for a second.

Most folks politely endured Dad's cattle stories. Chloe sounded like she genuinely wanted to hear them.

She laughed, bright and genuine.

I liked that sound.

Probably more than I should.

As if we'd summoned the devil himself, Dad appeared beside our table.

"What's all this talk about my trophies?"

*Oh, for fuck's sake.*

"Just tellin' Chloe about the great Montgomery cattle empire," Ricky said.

Dad puffed out his chest. "Well, somebody's gotta educate the young lady."

"I'd love to see your awards sometime, Mr. Montgomery," Chloe said.

"Thomas, sweetheart. And I'd be delighted."

"How many competitions is the great Thomas Montgomery entering this year?" Ricky asked.

"Four, maybe five. Two heifers, a breeding bull, and one of our young steers. Depends on whether that stubborn bull cooperates."

"Which one? The bull or you?" I asked.

Dad gave me a look. "Watch your mouth, boy."

"Just askin'."

Chloe smiled. "You must be looking forward to it."

"Darlin', if you're gonna do somethin', you might as well do it right," Dad said, giving my shoulder a slap.

Ricky's grin returned. "Speakin' of Montgomerys and competitions... Chloe, did Monty tell you he used to compete in the rodeo himself?"

I closed my eyes.

*Son of a bitch.*

"No, actually," Chloe said, turning toward me. "He hasn't mentioned that."

"Well, that's because Sawyer likes to pretend he's just an ordinary ranch hand," Ricky said.

"I am an ordinary ranch hand."

"Who happens to own the ranch," Dad pointed out.

"Y'all done discussin' my résumé?"

"One of the best riders around here," Dad said proudly.

"Dad."

"What? You were!"

"You oughta see the trophies in his study," Ricky added. "Buckles, plaques, ribbons. The whole damn collection."

"Ricky, shut up."

Chloe's eyebrows lifted. "Really? What did you compete in?"

"Bull ridin'. Team ropin'. A little saddle bronc."

"A little?" Ricky laughed. "Monty, you've got enough awards to open a museum."

"Keep talkin', McAllister, and I'll show you what else I can do."

Dad chuckled. "Boy's always been modest."

"Or maybe I don't need to brag every five minutes."

Chloe smiled. "I'd love to see your trophies sometime, too."

I glanced away.

"Reckon they're still collectin' dust."

"Three years' worth, to be exact," Ricky said.

The table went quiet.

My smile vanished before I could stop it, and Ricky's did too.

"Monty, I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it." I reached for my sweet tea.

*Three years.*

Almost three goddamn years since Adeline died.

I hadn't climbed onto a bull or entered a competition since. Somewhere along the way, the things I'd loved had stopped mattering.

Chloe watched me, curious. She didn't know why the mood had changed, and I sure as hell wasn't about to explain it over barbecue.

"Do you think you'll ever compete again?" she asked gently.

*Hell if I know, princess.*

"Hadn't given it much thought."

She nodded, accepting the answer.

"Well, judging by everyone's reaction, you must have been very good."

"Good enough to get thrown on my ass plenty," I said.

"Especially by that black bull at the county championship," Ricky added.

"Damn thing launched me halfway to Kentucky."

Chloe laughed. "That sounds rather painful. Perhaps retirement was a sensible decision."

"Princess, you have no idea."

She smiled, but didn't press me for more.

That surprised me. Most people heard a three-year gap and immediately wanted the story behind it.

Chloe seemed content to leave a question unanswered, even when I could tell she was curious. Maybe she was just being polite.

Either way, I was grateful.

Instead, she turned to Dad. "Thomas, I'd love to see your cattle before the competition. Perhaps you could explain what the judges look for?"

He brightened. "Now that's a fine idea! I'll show you what makes a champion heifer."

"Careful," Ricky warned her. "You'll be out there for hours."

"I don't mind," she said. "I find it fascinating."

Dad beamed. "See that, Sawyer? Finally, somebody appreciates good livestock."

"Jesus, Dad. I run the damn ranch."

"And you do a fine job of it, son."

He squeezed my shoulder and launched into a lecture about breeding and bloodlines.

Chloe listened, asking questions like the old man was delivering a fancy speech.

I caught Ricky's apologetic look and gave him a small nod.

*We're good.*

When I glanced back at Chloe, she was watching me again. Just for a moment, before turning her attention to Dad.

She didn't know why I'd stopped competing, and she hadn't asked. I appreciated that more than she could've known.

*Well, I'll be damned, princess.*

Maybe there was a whole lot more to Chloe Anderson than I'd given her credit for.