#rodeo au

You were born a city girl. Bustling streets and sirens from various types of emergency vehicles were a background noise you were used to and bike paths along a river were about as outdoorsy as it got. 

So when you’d moved to a city wedged between the foot of the mountains and the wide open ranchlands, you began to learn more about this more adventurous outdoor life you’d only heard about online. 

While the city part was still very much your typical, urban environment with a vibrant downtown surrounded by sprawling suburbia, the people you met seemed to be drawn to a place with all the city comforts within close proximity to the great outdoors. 

It was hard to make friends in a place like this. People seemed to come and go, an almost transient environment where people would spend a year or two, and either go back to where they came from or become assimilated into the weird dueling cultures: working 5 days a week and then galavanting off to the mountains to hike, fish, ski, camp, or partake in any other of the endless adventure activities that was the norm here.

It seemed people would move to and from here in waves, finding roommates among each other to lower the cost of living in a place like there where salaries weren’t quite up to par compared to other cities in your country. 

After all, a place like this was a place people went out of their way to move and companies knew it, undercutting new hires knowing there’d be another wave of transplants to take their place who would work anywhere to live within proximity to such a world renowned outdoor paradise where leagues of travelers made their summer vacations. 

And while the mountains were their own bustling oasis with their natural beauty, the city was also in the heart of cowboy country. Ranches sprawled across thousands to millions acres of ruggedness where cattle and sheep roamed across the land amongst which tiny towns were sprinkled between vast expanses of nothing but prairie grasses blowing in the constant breeze.

It was quite a mashup of lifestyles, everybody seeming to loathe the others for preconceived reasons and reputations that preceded them. Thanks to the internet, lumping large groups of people into categories without any regard for their individuality had never been easier, an almost mob-like mentality driven by rumors of “things you heard” from friends who mingled in the same worlds. 

Truth be told, these subsets of people barely ever crossed paths, never having an opportunity to truly witness and experience the lives of those in these other groups. 

This is exactly where you found yourself however as you are seated in your roommate's truck with your other friends, driving north towards what she referred to as the “Daddy of em’ All”.

Aka, a fucking rodeo three hours north in the next state over in the middle of the summer.

“Not too much farther now!” Shoko exclaims as you cross the state line, noticing a mile marker sign whiz by the window as your group barrels both along the highway. You could tell the closer she got to her hometown, the more talkative and animated she was getting.

The complete opposite of you…the landscape became more and more barren, nothing but mountains to your left and dry, desolate prairie on your right, broken up by barbed wire fencing delineating various plots of land. 

“Are those cows?” you ask, pointing to some black specs out in the distance.

“Mhmm, mainly beef cattle out here,” Shoko responds, adjusting the air conditioning in the car.

“That is such a city person thing to ask,” Nanami laughs at you from the back seat.

Your roommates. They’d had a room open up in their three bedroom apartment in the heart of downtown, exactly the location you had wanted to be when looking for a place to live. They’d seemed like kind, down to earth people and the rent was much cheaper than the bigger city you had moved from, so it had been a no brainer in your eyes.

Shoko was from a ranching family in the town you were driving towards. She’d stayed in the City after going to college there, opting to not move back to the rural area. 

Nanami was in finance at an investment banking firm in the City, having met Shoko in college as well. Their old roommate, Geto, had moved back to his and Shoko’s hometown when his dad started getting older and needed more help tending the ranch. 

Your suspicion about them had been right, thinking you couldn’t have gotten luckier with the friends you’d ended up with. They teased you about your standoffish city girl demeanor, but had welcomed you with open arms, including you in their daily lives and helping you get used to the new City. 

“Are you excited to be going home?” you ask Shoko.

“I guess. It’s so boring, there’s a reason I didn’t want to move back after school. It’s nice to visit I suppose,” she laughs, taking the exit on your right towards town.

“Yeah, there sure isn’t much to see that’s for sure. Does it get more interesting?” Nanami pipes up as the car slows to a stop at a traffic signal.

“I mean, define interesting. There’s a Main Street we have to drive through to get to my parents’ place,” Shoko giggles.

You try to pull up your Maps app, but realize you have exactly zero service, opting to look around instead as the car starts moving again.

Clearly this rodeo was the biggest thing to talk about because there were signs and banners everywhere welcoming visitors. Almost every building you passed seemed run down with dilapidated parking lots that barely had any striping. Even the people you saw every now and then seemed like they were from a foreign country, relaxed jeans and t-shirts with rusted out trucks; a wild difference from the more image conscious city people you were used to. 

Even Shoko, who calls this place home, still has a trendy bobbed hairstyle and high end sunglasses. You’d never even suspect her being from here. 

Nanami just looks like your typical, cliche Patagonia ad, the poster child of a stereotypical outdoorsy man that lives in your City. Normally on any given weekend he’d be in the mountains chasing trout in his fly fishing attire and camping along an unnamed stream. 

The town is obviously crowded and becoming inundated with visitors as the small Main Street starts to become more like your commute with the stop and go traffic. 

“Ugh! Damn traffic is crazy!” Shoko whines, smacking the steering wheel as you sit through another cycle of a traffic light, watching people bustle around on the sidewalks going to one of the little diners and dive bars scattered around. 

“Is this normal for this weekend?” Nanami asks calmly, smirking at Shoko’s outburst.

“Unfortunately. The city folk all converge on town while the various people from the rural areas also make the trek over, and of course there’s only so much parking and places for them to stay,” she explains, finally getting through the stoplight and getting out of the main area of town, the crowd beginning to thin out again. 

“Normally they have everyone park at huge fields and parking lots outside the city and then they bus them over to the festival area. But right now when everyone is arriving, there’s not much you can do about it.” 

You both hum in response, the town quickly morphing back into wide open grasslands and barbed wire fences as you presumably get closer to Shoko’s family’s land.

“This is us!” she exclaims, turning down a dirt road with a fancy wooden archway beckoning you all towards her driveway. You stare wide eyed out the window, dust obscuring your view as the car shakes and rocks on the unpaved surface. 

Pulling up to a modest farmhouse, you realize a rolling suitcase wasn’t the best thing to bring as you take note of the hard packed dirt when you get out of the car. The house is set up on a hill overlooking what seems like infinite prairie extending in all directions, the tall grasses rippling like waves as the wind cuts across the land.

“Wow this is beautiful,” you say to Shoko as she comes to stand next to you. 

It’s beautiful in a mysterious and empty way, feeling like you’re staring at everything and nothing all at once, eyes searching for something that you can’t put your finger on. 

Perhaps it’s the way you feel wildly out of place that is contributing to your current worldview, seeing for miles isn’t something you’re used to, it’s almost too freeing.  You almost appreciate having boundaries and walls to guide you along through life, keeping you from straying into unfamiliar and uncomfortable situations. 

Like right now as Shoko’s parents are greeting you all and being so friendly it’s almost alarming. They guide you all to a guesthouse in the back yard where you all will have your own space for the weekend. 

Farm dogs abound and the smell of manure starts to hit you like a truck as the breeze blows just right.

“Welcome to the country,” Shoko laughs at you, clearly unable to hide the disgust on your face. 

“This can’t be something you miss,” Nanami chimes in.

“Fuck no, when you live here you don’t even notice but now? Very apparent,” Shoko shuts the door behind the three of you. The house is quaint, plenty of space for everyone with a nice living room and kitchen area. 

“So what’s the plan for the weekend?” Nanami asks as he sits down after unpacking. Everyone had put their belongings away and were now reconvening in the living room.

“Tonight we are gonna go to one of the bars in town. It’s kind of the place to go during Rodeo weekend for both locals and the pros. Thankfully I know the owner so we’ll be able to get right in!” Shoko says excitedly, texting while talking. 

“Will Geto be there?” Nanami asks.

“Yeah he’s coming too! That’s who I’m texting now.”

“Yes!” Nanami shares a rare moment of excitement. 

“When you say the pros, do you mean like the rodeo participants?” you ask, a little wary of not fitting in with the rest of the crowd.

“Mhmm, like the pro cowboys and cowgirls as well as the folks vying for the amateur events. Mainly locals.”

You swallow hard, suddenly not feeling very excited. Going to the festival and rodeo events was fine, but being forced to mingle with these country folk was not appealing. They just seem…so…

Uneducated? Closed minded? Old fashioned? 

All of the above? 

They’re the type of people your friends would make fun of when you were younger with their thick accents and uncivilized ways of life. 

“Don’t worry, they’re usually pretty down to earth people, you’re friends with me right and that’s the world I came from,” Shoko interrupts your thoughts. She was different though, you both could flame the other for their lifestyles and not get offended, but you knew everyone wasn’t as easy going as her. 

“You’re you though,” you laugh, making her roll her eyes.

“Yeah and? I’m sure when you first met me you were judging hard, but once you got to know me your opinion changed. Get out of your prissy, stuck up city mindset and try to relax a little,” she chuckles. 

“Bitch,” you giggle.

“You can hang out with me, I’m not exactly a country boy myself,” Nanami butts in, making you feel a little better. 

Two hours later, you’re all back in Shoko’s car and heading back into town. 

Nanami is in a checkered, collared shirt and jeans giving just a hint of cowboy attire while still maintaining his clean cut appearance.

Shoko went full cowgirl with a jean mini skirt and cowgirl boots, embracing her roots. She wears it well though.

You on the other hand refused to do cowgirl cosplay because there was literally not a bone in your body that leaned that way, so you wore a chic going out outfit that was typical for you on a night out. 

Would you stand out? 

Probably. 

But at least you felt confident in one way or another and quite frankly, would look better than everyone else. 

After a short ten minute drive back into town, you’re parked and walking towards a bar and even from down the street you can hear the most god awful country music. 

Great, just what you needed, loud ass twangs as background noise for the in person accent you’re sure are going to give you a damn headache by the end of the night.

The sidewalk is dotted with people already drunk and smoking cigarettes, clearly well on their way to getting fucked up.

The three of you walk in the door and are met by a packed establishment. The lighting is dim, the floor is sticky, and there are animals mounted all over the wall like a damn museum. 

The music is loud but the crowd is louder, groups of girls in cowgirl boots are scattered about, laughing loudly with men in cowboy hats interspersed, trying to shoot their shot. Some kind of dance floor is around the corner where the live band sits off to the side. People seem to be enjoying dancing to some disgusting song that must be popular because drunk screeches can be heard trying to sing along. 

Shoko leads the way towards a table where you recognize their old roommate, Suguru Geto, sitting with an extremely attractive white haired man that looks way too pretty. He’s wearing jeans with a huge belt buckle and a gingham shirt that looks to be some silky material with the buttons undone to show off his toned chest.

Well hello, maybe tonight won’t be too bad after all. 

“You made it!!” Geto calls out to your group, Shoko jumping into his arms before smiling at the white haired man who also hugs her. 

“You remember her right?” Shoko says your name to Geto while gesturing at you. 

“I do, thanks for subletting for me, I was scared I was gonna be stuck with two rents when I went to move,” he says loudly, clearly buzzing a little bit. 

“No problem, it worked out really well!” you answer, noticing he’s dressed similarly to Nanami. 

The old roommates seem to be focused on catching up, leaving you to sit next to the white haired man.

“You’re definitely not from around here huh?” he laughs, looking up at you with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, damn near taking your breath away. 

“Is it that obvious?” you smirk, grabbing a cup and pouring yourself a beer from the pitcher on the table. 

“Uhhh, yeah, very,” he chuckles. 

“Satoru Gojo,” he holds his hand out, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and cuffed, showing off his forearms. 

You introduce yourself, noticing his firm handshake and rough palms. 

“So are you an actual farm guy or what?” you ask him.

“Farm guy?” he bursts out laughing. “No, I didn’t grow up on a fucking farm.”

“Oh, well I didn’t know, I just assume if you’re dressed for the part on a rodeo weekend, the odds are good that you're not from the city,” you retort, sipping your beer. 

He flutters his lashes, looking down at you with an amused smirk.

“You have no idea who I am, do you? Or really anyone here?”

You look back at him, cocking your head in confusion. 

“Umm, no. Should I?” 

“No, you shouldn’t,” a deep, rough voice sounds from behind you, making you almost inhale your beer in surprise.

“Excuse me?” you retort, turning around to find the source of those fighting words was a tall, broad man dressed like everyone else in this stupid place. 

His eyes narrow, brow furrowing as he meets your gaze, a slight smirk on his face.

“You heard me. No, you shouldn’t know anyone because that’s what city bitches like you do. Just show up without a care in the world, not knowin’ a lick about any of this. Getting your pictures for social media, pretending to be a cowgirl for a few days, and then disappear until next year,” the man drawls, speaking annoyingly slow with a hint of a twang. 

“Wow, you’re a real gem,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms in annoyance. 

“Easy Sukuna, you’re supposed to ride the bulls, not be ornery like one,” Gojo laughs, shaking his head. 

Ride the bulls?

“Wait, are you all…”

“Rodeo cowboys? Yes sweetheart, that’s what I was getting at before he lashed out for no reason,” Gojo says smoothly, making the pink haired man…Sukuna…grit his teeth in annoyance. 

“Tch, more like pay to play rodeo cowboy,” Sukuna growls, sitting down next to you and glaring at Gojo. 

“Well, this cowboy has gotten the best of you quite a few times this season on the circuit,” Gojo teases back, making you laugh at how obvious it is that he’s trying to get under Sukuna’s skin. 

“I’m gonna go take a piss, you’ll be safe with Sukuna even though he might continue to verbally assault you,” Gojo stands up, sauntering away. 

No! Please, don’t leave me with this oaf, you think to yourself. You pour yourself another beer, then glance back up at Sukuna. 

“Are those face tattoos?” you blurt out, realizing your brain didn’t send the command to keep it in your thoughts only. 

Sukuna smirks, the black markings moving with his jaw.

“Sure are. They’re kinda my brand,” he responds, tracing one jaw tattoo with his finger. 

“Brand?” 

“Yeah. Gotta stand out somehow to garner fans your way. Sponsorships and shit don’t just go to anybody,” he leans back in the chair, spreading his legs, accidentally nudging your knee.

“Don’t you think you take up enough room as it is?” you snap, jerking your leg away and crossing it over the other. 

“No. You’re in my way, so move if it bothers you so much.” His grin is starting to get annoying, tempted to slap the smug look right off his face. 

“I was here first!” 

“No, I was. You just happened to show up while I was up doing something,” Sukuna says in an irritated tone. 

That’s what is pissing you off even more. His words are harsh and brazen while his body language is hinting at something more playful and teasing. 

You notice your friends all on the dance floor, a place you didn’t dare want to end up in but now given this annoying man was gracing you with his presence, you were trying to decide which was worse. 

“Whatcha wanna drink? It’s on me,” his deep voice jars you as he flags down a waitress.

“No thanks, I’ll get my own,” you respond coolly, ordering a strong cocktail to help loosen you up. 

He pulls the waitress around to him, making her giggle and blush, clearly smitten with him touching her. Poor lady. 

“Put hers on mine, and I’ll also get us each a shot of patron,” you hear him murmur, slipping some bills into her apron. 

Whatever. If he’s this desperate to spend his money on some girl he just blatantly insulted, that’s on him. You’ll just reap the benefits. 

“So what’s your name and why are you here?” Sukuna pulls your attention back to him after the waitress leaves.

You introduce yourself again, noticing he is in fact, very focused on your words, red eyes glinting as the dance floor lights flash. 

“I’m here because my roommate is from here and invited us to come along. Would I ever take the initiative to come on my own? Probably not. But hey, trying new things and all I guess,” you finish speaking, eyes trailing to those sharp jaw lines and cheekbones of his. 

Noooo, why does he have to be hot? Why are these country boys suddenly attractive to you? 

“Hmm, I see,” he says. The waitress comes back with a tray, two cocktails and two shots.

“I’m not taking that with you,” you bark at him as he moves one of the shots right in front of you. 

“And why not? Here’s to worlds colliding, see it as a peace offering,” he drawls.

“A peace offering? More like trying to get a girl drunk,” you retort, picking up the shot and inspecting it.

He gives you an aggravated look.

“Well, unlike your type of guys, I’m not into that, so you better check yourself brat.”

Brat? The fuck did he just call you? 

You roll your eyes, secretly relieved though. Maybe you can let your guard down a little compared to going out in a packed club in the city. 

“Fine. Cheers,” you hold up the shot glass, clanking it with his before downing it, the burning liquid making you cough. 

“Pretty good, now that wasn’t so bad was it?” Sukuna smiles, now picking up his other drink. 

“For now, no,” you crack a small smile, pulling your cocktail over. “So what, you ride cows for a living?” 

Sukuna chokes mid sip, just as a group of girls comes over, boots clacking on the ground. 

“Ryomen Sukuna??” they shriek, making your ears ring. It’s even more irritating that they’ve essentially caged you in as they ogle the tattooed man next to you. 

“Mhmm, that’s me,” he drawls, leaning back, not realizing he was resting his arm on the back of your seat.

The girls’ eyes narrow and give you a look. Fuck, they must think you’re ‘with’ him.

“Oh we aren’t together, I’m just waiting for my friends,” you wave your arms around in front of you, trying to drive home the point.

You try to tune them out as they flirt and banter with the man, noticing Sukuna doesn’t seem all that interested. Some of the vulgar shit coming out of their mouths is pretty audacious and a part of you feels bad for him being so objectified, but he’s rich and famous in this space, he can handle himself. 

Deciding to sneak away, you quietly rise and go the opposite direction, not even sure what your destination is, just that it isn’t in ‘all that’. 

An open barstool calls to you, so you perch atop it, able to have a pretty good view of the entire bar for prime people watching.

You’d talked to not one, but two pro rodeo participants! It’s a shame you couldn’t give less of a fuck, surely a cowgirl would have died to take your place. Sipping your drink, you watch groups of downright wasted guys  shooting their shots and girls chasing down what you can only assume are other pros. 

It’s not much different from a bumping club if you’re being honest, just with less brain cells, more gingham, and an obsession with horses. 

Swirling your drink around in its glass, you watch how a little whirlpool forms, sucking the mixing straws into it. Maybe it’s about time to go find your friends, the drink is starting to make you a little tipsy after ripping that shot with Sukuna, so the dance floor doesn’t sound that unappealing right now. 

Leaving your empty drink on the bar, you stand back up, using the stool to help steady yourself. Shoko and crew are taking part in some line dance, waving at you dramatically and dragging you out with her!

“Just watch me and follow my lead!” she slurs her words, clearly feeling the alcohol. You both giggle and laugh as you clumsily try to imitate her, causing Geto and Nanami to join in.

“Girl you are awful, but I respect the commitment,” Geto bursts out laughing as he catches you making a wrong movement and almost crashing into him. 

“I’m learning! At least I’m out here,” you snicker, trying to fall back into step with Shoko. The music is kind of catchy, some upbeat song about whiskey or some shit like that. You aren’t the only drunk girl trying to dance, so no one even bats an eye. 

The song changes again and you notice people are pairing off to start some fast paced partnered dance. You try to get away, surely not knowing at all how to do this, but Geto pulls you back.

“Nope, you’re not running away that easily,” he grins, “just follow me.”

His hands hold yours and slowly, he starts to move his feet in a pattern. After watching a few times, you start to move with him, catching on quickly. 

“Hey, I think I’m getting it!” you grin up at him, squealing when he twists you around. You have a blast, laughing and giggling with your clumsy movements, Geto not seeming to mind in the slightest.

“City girl has moves after all,” he sticks his tongue out as he laughs, slowing down as the song changes.

“Mind if I cut in?”

A familiar deep voice says, Geto looking up over your shoulder. 

“Sure thing, if the lady’s alright with it.”

You turn around and it’s Sukuna again! Did he just seek you out after you bailed on him?

“You owe me, leaving me to fend for myself like that,” he teases, holding his hand out for you. 

“You again?” you groan, nodding at Geto and taking Sukuna’s hand. It’s rough and calloused, pulling you against him, his other hand snaking around to rest on your lower back, pressing you flush against him.

“Me again,” his husky voice muses, making your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as the metal of his belt buckle digs into the thin material covering your stomach. 

“I’d have figured so many girls worship you for your cow riding skills that you had that covered,” you look up at him.

“I don’t fucking ride cows you brat. Bulls and horses,” he twirls you once, almost aggressively, his strength pulling you back against him. 

“Same thing,” you mutter, grabbing his bicep after his sharp movement. 

Oh god, he’s fucking shredded, you think to yourself as you feel his flexed muscle under your hand, barely even able to grip it. Is it normal for these rodeo boys to be ripped like this?

You start to pay more attention to the way your body is pressed against his, noticing how there’s nothing squishy about him. Sukuna’s chest and abs are hard as a rock, his pecs flexing against his shirt as he moves. Hints of his cologne mixed with whiskey linger in the shared space between you.

“Definitely not the same thing at all, I don’t expect you to be an expert but I’d have assumed you’ve seen a picture of a horse or cow at some point in your life,” his fingers tighten their hold on your back.

“Of course I have. If you’re just going to talk down to me about farm animals then I don’t wanna dance with you,” you try to pull away, but of course you’re no match for him as he doubles down.

“Alright alright I’ll stop,” he chuckles, staring down at you with his crimson gaze, eyes roaming over your chest. 

This man is a piece of work. 

You glance over to see Shoko dancing with Gojo, both of them having a great time. 

Meanwhile you’re here with a man you’d swear was your biggest hater just moments ago. 

“So have you played in this rodeo before?” 

He bursts out laughing, his dimples are kinda cute.

“Play for the rodeo? Darling you need to learn the language,” he gives you one last twirl before the song ends. 

“Come,” he holds out his hand to lead you away, not really giving you much of a choice. 

He’s strangely alluring for being kind of a dick earlier. You can’t tell however if he’s being sincere now or if it’s all just a front to torment you again. 

For now, you’ll assume the former. It’s not like you have anything else to do.

Sukuna brings you back to your table, leaning back in his chair again, that shiny belt buckle displayed prominently on his waist.

“You here all weekend?” he asks as he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Yeah, leave Sunday night to head back home,” you answer, staring at the table below you. 

“Kay. Well, what do you know about rodeos?”

“Honestly? Not much. I know a bunch of men ride horses and bulls but other than that? Nothing,” you sigh, shyly looking up at him, expecting another roast.

“God I wanna just flame you, but I’ll play nice,” he teases, leaning towards the table, shoulder brushing yours. 

You just slap his bicep with the back of your hand, rolling your eyes while you stare expectantly at him.

“Out with it cowboy.”

“Okay, well to keep it simple, most rodeos have people buy in to compete and winners get prize money. Usually there’s a day of qualifying to see if you move onto the next rounds and if you do, you compete the next day. There’s different events, I do bronc and bull riding, sometimes steer wrestling but that’s more for fun. So my life is basically jumping to different events to try and win,” he says, brimming with genuine excitement. He clearly loves this…sport and cares about doing it well.

“So you’ll be competing tomorrow then?”

“Mhmm,” he hums. “Both broncs and bulls you wanna stay on for 8 seconds.”

“Eight seconds? That’s like nothing,” you scoff.

“Alright miss priss, you wouldn’t last a second on a bull, better yet, no way you’d get near one. That shit’s the hardest 8 seconds of your life, and then you have to get away from the thing when you’re done.”

You’d never really looked into this stuff at all, eight seconds seems like such a short time, but then again, on the back of a bull that’s taller than you, it probably feels like an eternity. 

“Tell you what. I’ll give you one of my VIP passes, come over after the events tomorrow afternoon and I’ll show you around,” he smirks, fishing out his phone and wallet. 

“Oh no that’s not necessary-“

“I insist. You will come meet me afterwards, it’s not really a question, sweets,” he says in a low, smooth tone, tossing a VIP ticket on the table at you.

“Is this your thing?” you answer as you fold it up and put it in your purse. “You come trolling for clueless girls the night before and lure them into some secluded bull haven?”

“Hah, you’re funny you know that? And the answer is no, I’m Ryomen Sukuna, more often the women come to me. Sometimes someone peaks my interest though, and for some reason you have.” 

Oh? You’re not sure if he’s being romantic or just speaking generally, so you let it go and just sip your drink to fill the awkward silence. 

“Welp, I’m gonna roll out. Early morning tomorrow and all,” Sukuna throws back his drink, standing up and stretching towards the ceiling. 

“I’m tired too,” you yawn, suddenly the long day of working and traveling has caught up to you. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, better be there when I’m done,” he gives you a sly grin, tipping his hat to you and proceeding to walk back towards the front, disappearing into the crowd.  

What the hell…you mutter to yourself, shoving your purse back over your shoulder. You can’t deny he’s hot, that's a given. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a man who’s nice to look at. 

Later that night, you and Shoko are giggling on your bed in the guesthouse.

“Wait, he gave you this?” she squeals, inspecting the VIP ticket Sukuna gave you.

“Yes! Said he’d ’show me around’ whatever that means. Probably some code for either humiliate me or try to sleep with me,” you say harshly.

Shoko folds the ticket back up and tosses it on the bed next to you.

“Well, he sure did spend an awful lot of time with you. I don’t know him really at all, only through Gojo and Geto, but I’ve never really heard bad things about him. It’s no secret that women throw themselves at him, but he doesn’t really have the reputation of sleeping around and being a fuck boy,” she explains, pulling out her phone.

You pull your phone out too, searching his name to see what comes up.

Lots of articles about rodeos, bulls, horses, and everything in between. You keep scrolling, coming across what looks like some magazine covers with partially unbuttoned shirts and cowboy hats, looking way too fine. 

Your thighs almost clench when you see how his lidded, crimson eyes look into the camera. He’s holding some kind of lasso and has on leather chaps overtop of his jeans. 

God help you.

Another article catches your eye…a tabloid about a breakup. You click on it, noticing the woman who looks like a model in a separate photo from Sukuna. It’s from years ago, but it definitely seems like it was very public, noticing comments on the stories insulting both of them.

Part of you feels bad, like you’re invading his privacy. Then again, if it’s public on the web…

“He has a breakup article online,” you say to Shoko. 

“Oh? Scoping him out?” she laughs, taking your phone so she can see. 

“Oh yeah I remember this. Really ugly back when it happened,” she murmurs, scrolling through. “The well put together city girls never really jive with the rodeo boys. Tale as old as time really. I’ve been following pro rodeo my whole life and have seen so many relationships like this burst into flames.”

“Hmm, interesting,” you sigh, closing out of the app and lying down in your bed.

“Should I use that VIP pass tomorrow?”

Shoko whips her head to look at you.

“Definitely! Those are hard to come by!”

“Well maybe I can just give it to you. This just isn’t really my thing, I feel like there’s someone who would enjoy this a lot more than me,” you mutter, feeling nervous. 

“Girl, he gave it to you. Also, as a rodeo virgin, I think it’ll be really cool for you to see all that. If you don’t like it, you can just leave and call me and I’ll come meet you,” Shoko encourages you gently. 

“I’ll think about it,” you respond, feeling your stomach turning at the thought. It could be cool though…you’d always felt like you played it too safe, afraid to try new things and interact with people different from your world. 

Shoko just gives you a knowing smirk.

“Yeah, you do that.” 

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Pt. 2 >>

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You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”

You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—

—and forget what you were gonna say.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.

You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”

His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”

You arch a brow. “Name?”

“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”

You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”

“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.

He smirks. “What should I call you then?”

You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.

“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.

“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”

“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”

You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”

He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

You hate how it makes you want to smile back.

Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.

He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.

You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.

Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.

He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.

You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.

He winks.

Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.

He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.

“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”

“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”

He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”

He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.

“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”

“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”

The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.

Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.

“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”

You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”

He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.

You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”

This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.

“It’s home,” you finish.

He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”

His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.

You don’t.

Not that night.

You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.

It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”

You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”

He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”

“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”

“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”

“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.

“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”

For him. For you.

A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”

“Like what?”

He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.

“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”

Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.

“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”

You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”

He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”

“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”

“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”

“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”

“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.

Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.

There it is.

“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”

His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”

“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”

“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.

You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.

You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.

The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.

“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.

Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.

You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.

You’ll remember the shape of his promise.

“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”

You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.

Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.

He rides the rank bull.

He covers the eight seconds.

The scout notices.

The sponsor calls.

He leaves.

You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.

You throw up in the barn two months later.

You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.

“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”

When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.

Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.

He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.

You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—

Then you stop.

You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.

You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.

Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”

You select his number.

You hover over the call button.

You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.

You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.

You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.

You delete the message.

You turn your phone off.

You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.

Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.

You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.

You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.

You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.

First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.

Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.

“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.

She is too much like both of you.

You try not to think about that.

You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.

“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.

“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”

“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.

You almost don’t see the banner at first.

WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.

The world tilts on its axis.

“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”

You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”

Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.

But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.

Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”

“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”

“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”

You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.

You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.

All the while, your stomach is in knots.

You could leave.

You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.

But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.

You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.

“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.

Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.

“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.

“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”

You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.

As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.

“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”

Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.

You look.

He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.

He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.

You do.

“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”

The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.

“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.

You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.

She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”

The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.

Your heart squeezes.

“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”

You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”

“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.

You step back.

Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.

His hand goes still on the rail.

For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.

Then Willa is flying.

She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.

The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.

You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.

Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.

She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.

When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.

Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.

“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”

You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”

She preens, glowing.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”

You freeze.

Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”

You turn slowly.

He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.

Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”

“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”

Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.

You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”

She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”

He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”

“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”

“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.

He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”

You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.

When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.

“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.

You hesitate.

You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.

You nod.

He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.

You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”

You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.

“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”

Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”

“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”

“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”

“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”

You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”

“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”

He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.

You flinch.

He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.

“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”

Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.

You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.

You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.

You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.

“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.

“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”

His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”

Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.

“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”

He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”

His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.

“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”

A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”

The we hits you like a physical blow.

“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”

He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”

You look up, finally.

There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.

“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”

“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”

You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.

“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”

Home.

The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.

“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”

Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”

“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”

You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.

You carry your own.

“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”

You could say no.

You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.

You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.

You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.

You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.

You sigh.

“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.

He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.

Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.

You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.

“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”

Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.

You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”

“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”

Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.

You nod.

She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.

“Cool,” she says finally.

You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.

“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”

Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”

Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”

You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”

Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.

He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.

He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.

At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.

“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.

You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”

“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”

Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”

You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”

You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”

He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”

You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.

“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”

He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.

You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”

His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”

His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”

“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”

He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”

He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.

His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.

You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.

Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.

Tonight, he stays.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.

"I remember, Pa!" Becca exclaimed, pushing her messy brown hair out of her eyes. She adjusted her seat proudly, her little boots barely brushing the stirrups.

Rebecca was eight now — bright as the sun, stubborn as a mule, and sweeter than wild honey. She had learned to read fluently at six, and had once — memorably — corrected the local judge on a misquoted constitution.

She was everything good in the world.

And Bucky — God, Bucky had taken to fatherhood like a moth to a flame.

The days of bull riding were long behind him now. Five years ago, when Becca was too young to remember anything, he had a fall that nearly cost him more than he was willing to pay, so he had hung up his spurs for good.

These days, he owned the rodeo grounds outright. Sam and Steve ran it— kept it alive, loud, dragging in new talent and bigger crowds every summer— but Bucky stayed here, where his heart lived. 

Tonight, the three of you sat around the long oak table after you’d spent the whole day tending to your horse, Clementine, brushing her down. She was ancient now, gray-faced and hollow-hipped, her once strong legs struggling just walking across the paddock. She still nickered when she saw you. Still nudged your shoulder like she remembered the secrets you'd whispered to her.

But tonight... tonight, her eyes looked dim. Her breath was shallow. She hadn’t touched the grain.

You didn’t know if she’d see morning.

To get some momentary relief, you called for dinner, where you served up hot stew, steam rising with the scent of rosemary and garlic. Bucky poured the water, his hand brushing yours as he passed the pitcher, a touch that after all these years still made your stomach flip.

Rebecca, her face smudged with flour from helping you in the kitchen, was unusually quiet, studying Bucky with a thoughtful look.

You caught that gleam in her eyes immediately— that look that usually meant mischief, or a very dangerous question.

Sure enough, halfway through her second helping of stew, she set her spoon down with great ceremony, folded her hands in her lap, and asked, "Pa, were you really a bull rider?"

You nearly dropped your spoon.

Bucky blinked, caught mid-sip of water. He coughed once, setting the cup down.

"And how," you said with a smile you couldn’t help, "did you hear about that?"

Rebecca's face broke into a triumphant grin. "Uncle Sam and Uncle Steve gave me some old newspapers this morning!” she said excitedly. "And you were there, Pa! There was a picture of you ridin' a bull! And your name was real big on the page!"

You bit your lip to hold in a laugh.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He nervously fidgeted with his wedding ring.

"Traitors," he muttered under his breath. "Both of 'em."

Becca leaned forward eagerly, chin in her hands. "Was it true?" she asked. "Were you the best?"

Bucky smiled then — a little sheepish, a little proud. "Well," he started, "depends on who you ask."

"You won the Deadwood Grand Rodeo three years in a row, Pa!" Becca said indignantly. "The paper said so!"

You laughed then, reaching across the table to squeeze your husband’s hand. "He was the best," you said softly. "No matter who you ask."

Bucky turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers through yours, his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

Rebecca watched this little moment with a wide, solemn gaze. 

"You don't do it anymore," she said, an observation that wasn’t accusing, just curious. 

"No, sweetheart," he said gently. "Some things are more important."

"Like what?"

He smiled, that sweet smile that only the two of you ever got to see. "Like stayin' alive long enough to watch you grow up," he said. "Like takin' care of your Ma and this place."

He squeezed your hand again.

Becca beamed, clearly satisfied.

You stood to clear the plates, but Bucky caught your wrist as you passed, pulling you down into his lap with a playful chuckle. You squealed, laughing as he buried his face against your neck, his scruff rough and familiar against your skin.

"Pa!" Rebecca groaned, dramatically covering her eyes. "That's gross!"

"You'll think it's sweet someday," you teased, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s temple. Bucky looked up at you, those blue eyes bright, boyish, and adoring.

But it hadn’t always been this easy, has it?

—

Ten years ago…

You weren't supposed to be there.

Girls like you — polished, raised in grand halls, a daughter of fortune made in the earliest days of the gold rush — weren't supposed to hang around dusty rodeo grounds, breathing in sweat and whiskey fumes. But you were sick of being kept under lock and key, and you were curious.  

So you tugged on your stiff new boots, tried to look like you belonged, and wandered in.

That's when you saw him.

Bucky Barnes.

The name was muttered around the corral like a prayer. Supposedly, he was a young bull rider with a crooked smile and sin in his gorgeous blue eyes. He sat atop the meanest bull like he was born in the saddle, one hand in the air like he could touch the damn heavens if he wanted.

You swore you stopped breathing.

The bell rang, the gate flew open, and Bucky rode. He was wild and perfect and feral, hips grinding with the bull’s buck like the filthiest kind of dance. You gripped the fence rail so tight your knuckles went white.

His shirt clung to every inch of him, soaked through with sweat. His jawline was as sharp as the knife you helped sharpen this morning, hair just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. His thighs— good god, those thighs gripped the beast like he was daring it to throw him.

You couldn't look away.

He stayed on longer than anyone else that day, finally jumping down and landing hard, grinning as the crowd whooped and cheered. 

Dust clung to him, blood dripped from a split lip, and he looked beautiful.

And then he looked… right at you.

Like he knew you weren’t supposed to be here. Like he could smell the clean linen and silk underneath the newly acquired grime on your dress, like he could see the way you tried to hide your fancy breeding under a plain dress. Like he could feel the way your whole body flushed hot just watching him.

He walked over and stopped too close — way too close — so you could smell leather, sweat, and the sweet bite of tobacco clinging to him.

"You ain't from 'round here, are you, sweetheart?" he asked, tone tough enough to scrape down your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to summon some pride. "Maybe not," you said, forcing yourself to lift your chin. "Maybe I'm looking for something different."

He smiled, eyes trailing down your body like he had all the time in the world to savor you. 

You swore you felt his gaze like a hand, teasing places no decent man should've been looking at in public.

"Well," he said, "you found it."

God, you wanted to ruin yourself for him.

Instead, you let him tip his hat back, revealing those messy dark curls, and he offered his hand. They were big and rough and calloused from a life of hard work.

You put your soft, spoiled hand in his.

"Name's James Barnes," he said, voice smaller now, almost intimate, “But people call me Bucky.”

You told him yours, and he repeated it like a vow.

And Bucky Barnes didn’t look anything like the gentlemen your parents paraded in front of you back home — the senators, the young bankers, the heirs to fortunes carved out of railroads and cotton soaked with blood. Those men were polished, their smiles practiced, their hands too soft.

Bucky was rough around the edges, a devil’s grin stitched across his mouth — but he treated you more like a gentleman than those rich men could ever. 

That night, you followed him around as he sat you up on the splintered bar counter with a laugh and let you sip from his bottle, whiskey burning down your throat and making you shiver. You coughed, and he grinned real soft, like he thought you were the prettiest thing he'd ever seen.

"You'll get used to it," he said, wiping a thumb across the corner of your mouth where the whiskey had caught.

You kept drinking — sipping too fast, too eager, giddy on the first taste of freedom you’ve ever had — until Bucky gently slid the bottle away from your hand.

"Easy, sweetheart," he laughed patiently. "A little’s fun. Too much’s trouble."

You pouted, playful and tipsy, but he just chuckled and took your hand again, weaving your fingers through his.

"C'mon," he said, tugging you off the bar, "lemme show you somethin' better."

He led you out behind the stables, away from the smoke and noise of the betting crowd. 

That night, he told you he had a couple of horses under his care. He introduced you to each of them by name, all of them calm and patient under your clumsy touch.

Your favorite was the golden mare with eyes like melted amber and a coat that shimmered like wheat at the end of summer. “That one there’s Clementine,” Bucky had said, rubbing under her jaw with affection. “She was caged her entire life before she came to me last year.”

You fed her an apple swiped from the kitchen, giggling when her soft lips tickled your palm.

You were so happy you forgot how far you were from the world you’d come from — the grand halls and new-money chandeliers, the endless etiquette lessons and carefully rehearsed smiles. Of knowing when to sit, when to speak, when to smile just enough to be polite but never too much to be scandalous.

And Clementine — well, you could’ve sworn she saw straight through to your heart. Maybe that’s why she let you touch her. Maybe she recognized a girl who, like her, was learning the meaning of freedom the first time.

“Clementine likes you,” Bucky said. 

You smiled, brushing her mane back from her eyes. “I like her too.”

—

Later that night — drunk on whiskey and wonder — you turned to him, heart hammering reckless in your chest, and said the first wild thing that came to mind.

"Bucky," you slurred slightly, stumbling closer, "I want you to fuck me... right here. On the hay."

You gestured dramatically at the loose piles of straw stacked along the stable wall, like it was a throne and you were offering yourself up. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes bright and drowsy.

For a long moment, he just looked at you, then he shook his head slowly and huffed a breath like it physically hurt to say it.

"Sweetheart,” he said, wrecked and tender all at once, "you're in no condition to fuck anybody tonight."

Before you could argue, before you could even wilt with shame, he scooped you up, lifting you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against his chest.

You mumbled something — maybe a protest about how you were completely sober, maybe a plea — into his shoulder, but he only pressed a kiss to your temple. 

He carried you to his quarters tucked behind the stables — a little room with nothing but a cot, an armchair, and a trunk. 

He laid you down on his narrow bed gently, tucking a rough wool blanket up to your chin. His hands were gentle, tugging off your boots, smoothing your hair back from your flushed face.

You grabbed his wrist before he could move away.

"Stay," you whispered.

He smiled, sad and sweet, and brushed his knuckles down your cheek.

"I’m not far, sugar," he said.

True to his word, he didn’t leave. But he didn’t climb into the bed either.

Instead, Bucky grabbed an old blanket and made himself a place on his armchair just a few feet away. You watched him settle in, curling one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach.

"Sleep, darlin’," he said, his voice the last thing you heard before the world blurred and spun into dreams. “Ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you."

– 

You kept coming back. How could you not?

Bucky was more than a respectable man, even if your parents wouldn’t agree. Half the 50-year old men your ma wanted you to marry would take advantage of a drunk 20-something year old they just met, especially if she was begging for something she didn’t not truly understand.

Bucky didn’t. He took care of you. 

So yes. You went back. 

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity. Just a taste of freedom you could put away once you'd had your fill.

But that was a lie. 

You knew it the moment you slipped into those stiff boots again, dust clinging to your hem as you slipped through the fence, searching the rodeo grounds for one face and one face only.

Bucky Barnes.

God, you loved watching him.

Every week, when he wasn’t away for some national competition, he was there — sinfully beautiful atop those beasts that tried and failed to throw him. His smile was always wicked every time he landed on his feet, bathing at the adoring roar of the crowd.

And after, he'd find you.

Sometimes he'd sneak you sips of his whiskey behind the stables; other times he just leaned on the fence post, arms crossed with that smirk tugging at his mouth as you teased him.

He'd listen when you ranted about the suffocating life waiting back home — the endless parade of polished men, the life you'd never asked for. And you listened when he grumbled about busted saddles and aching bones and dreams of stability he wouldn’t say too loudly for fear they'd vanish. You listened when he told you about leaving home too young, about nights he'd slept under the stars with nothing but a beat-up hat for a pillow.

You listened when he said you made all the rough years feel worth it somehow.

Because lord, what a man.

Strong and rough and real in a way none of those cotton-suited boys hoping to court you could ever hope to be.

That night, you and Bucky were sitting at one of the tables at the bar after the venue cleared out.

That was when you started complaining about the men who wanted to court you, and father’s endless parade of “eligible gentlemen.” They were all bankers, lawyers, soft-handed men who’d never lifted anything heavier than a ledger in their lives.

Not a single one with dust on their boots. Not a single one knew the sting of a hard day's labour. Not a single one who could make your heart beat like Bucky Barnes did.

“Ma introduced me to two more bankers during lunch today,” you grumbled, fumbling with your glass of whiskey. "Thinks if she marries me off quick enough, I won't notice I'm being sold like a bag of goods."

Bucky chuckled low in his throat, but there was an edge to it. He stood, boots scuffing the dirt. "Ain't a man alive worth trading you for a stack of coins," he said roughly.

"I don’t want any of them," you said, your voice almost breaking.

Bucky looked at you the way no one else ever did. Like he saw past the corset and the frills and the obedient smile you wore for your family’s sake. And maybe you were a little foolish — or maybe you just couldn't bear it another second — but you stood up onto your toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. You were too eager, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, your mouth clumsy against his. But Bucky caught you, arms wrapping around you like a shield, and kissed you back.

But then he pulled away — just enough to press his forehead to yours. "Darlin’..." he rasped, "You don’t even know what you do to me."

You whimpered, and tried to pull him back down, tried to kiss that stubborn, sweet mouth again, desperate to feel something that was just yours, not bought or bartered like everything else in your life. But Bucky only chuckled — a little sad, a little fond — and caught your wrists easily with one hand.

"I know what I’m doing," you insisted— or tried to, but it came out more like a plea.

"Don't you lie to me, sweetheart," he tssked "You're a good girl. Raised to be somebody’s lady. You think you're ready to lay down in the dirt with a man like me?"

"I don’t care about that," you whispered.

"But I do," he growled. He shook his head slowly, like he hated every word he was about to say. “You ever even been touched like that before?"

You shook your head, tears pricking hot at your lashes.

"Yeah," he said softly. "That's what I thought."

Bucky leaned in then, pressing his forehead to yours again.

"When I take you, darlin’," he said, voice dropping to a rasp that made you shiver, "ain't gonna be 'cause you’re drunk. Ain't gonna be 'cause you’re angry at your daddy, or scared of going back to a life you don’t want."

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, then softly on your lips.

"When you come to my bed," he whispered, "it's gonna be ‘cause you’re sure you want it."

You whimpered, but nodded.

And Bucky — a man your ma would spit to see you love — held you tighter, like he could shield you from the whole cruel world, and whispered, “Soon, darlin’,” he said, voice breaking on the words like it hurt him to say it. "But for now, you happy just kissin’ me?”

You blinked up at him, throat tight, and nodded. 

That was the start of it. 

That was the beginning of when you became his. 

—

One night, even, when he got a clearer look at the way some of the men in the crowd were eyeing and touching you in the crowd when you said no, he stood up for you. 

You’d been leaning against the fence, when one man wrapped an arm around your waist under the guise of steadying himself, and another was tossing down silver coins and winking at you.

Bucky’s fists clenched. Without a word, he walked over to the men, boots kicking up dust. He leaned in close—and tossed their coins back onto the table. “Keep your hands—and your money—to yourselves,” he said, growling. The men stammered apologies and backed away. Bucky swept a protective arm around you and whispered, “You alright?” 

Though shaken, you nodded. 

Then he led you through the gates to where his friends were. Sam, the bartender with kind eyes, waved you over to a rickety stool by the saloon door. Steve, the smiling bouncer, handed you a glass of lemonade—no whiskey tonight. Bucky clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder and grinned at you.

“Folks, this is my girl,” he announced, loud enough that half the corral turned to look. Your face was warm when he referred to you as his girl. 

“Sam, Steve—show her around. Take care of her, yeah? But touch her—and you’re dead.”

Sam tipped his hat. “You got it, Buck.”

Steve gave you a friendly wink. “Don’t worry, Miss—you’re in good hands.”

You slipped into the circle of Bucky’s friends, safe in the knowledge that wherever he was—whether perched atop a bucking bull or standing guard by your side—nothing was going to lay a hand on you unless you gave the word.

—

Still, you always preferred being with Bucky alone. 

He was kind, sweet, and he made you laugh until your sides hurt. He made you feel seen. He made you feel alive.

And it got harder and harder to pretend you didn’t ache for him every time he looked at you like you hung the stars.

So one night, after a long day, you broke.

That night, the whole damn town had turned out for the bull ride — the last of the season, and Bucky had drawn the meanest beast in the pen.

You watched, heart in your throat, as he fought and won — a wicked grin splitting his face as he threw his arm in the air, daring the crowd to scream louder.

You were waiting by the fence when he found you afterward.

You didn’t even think. You launched yourself at him — arms flung around his neck, mouth crashing into his.

Bucky caught you, laughing and kissing you back hard enough to make you dizzy before he pulled away.

"What’s goin’ on with you?” he teased, that wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. 

You pouted, thumping your fists lightly against his chest. "Bucky," you whined, dragging out his name. "I waited long enough. I want you."

His smile faltered — just for a second.

"I’m sure," you whispered before he could ask, hands fisting in his damp shirt. "I promise."

You’re sure. The confession echoed in his ears. You weren’t drunk, you weren't complaining about a man you ma wanted you to marry.

He cursed under his breath, and before you could blink, he hauled you toward his quarters, shouldering the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before he had you pinned against the door, big hands spanning your waist, mouth grazing your ear.

"Naughty girl," he murmured, wrecked against your skin. "Wantin' trouble."

You could feel him, pressed hard against you. He nuzzled your temple, breathing you in deep, like he was still fighting himself, still trying to hang on to some last shred of decency.

"What would your daddy think," he rasped, voice cracking on the words, "his pretty little girl, beggin' to get ruined by a man like me?"

You tilted your head back, found his eyes — wild and desperate and so goddamn careful — and you smiled.

"You could never ruin me," you whispered.

Bucky groaned like you’d shot him. In one motion, he scooped you up, carried you a few steps to the cot, and laid you down softly— but the look in his eyes promised no gentleness once you said the word.

He hovered over you, breathing hard, his hand brushing over your cheek, your throat, your chest.

"This is your chance, darlin'," he said, “Tell me no and I'll walk right outta here."

You answered by threading your fingers into his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that left no room for doubt.

Bucky broke. A choked noise ripped from him as he pressed into you, muttering against your mouth.

"Gonna take my time with you," he promised, hands sliding under your skirts, rough palms mapping every inch of skin he could find. "Make you feel real good, baby."

And he did.

It was all sweet at first — kisses pressed to your throat, your chest, your stomach — whispering things you’d never been called before: pretty girl, good girl, mine, mine, mine.

Until the whole world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the weight of his body, the sound of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.

And when he finally took you— he cursed again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "God, darlin'," he rasped, voice breaking apart. "You're so good... so good for me..."

You clung to him, and knew you’d never belong anywhere else again but right here, in the arms of the man they said would ruin you.

Because you didn't care about dirt on your dress, or propriety, or your father’s fortune. You only cared about him.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

And later — much later — when you lay tangled up with him, your fancy world forgotten, Bucky nuzzled your hair and whispered, "You're mine now, darlin'."

—

When you woke up, you didn’t know where you were.

You just felt a strong, steady heartbeat under your cheek and smelled leather and sweat and oak.

Oh, right.

Bucky.

You stirred, stretching like a cat, and his arms tightening around you instinctively, pulling you closer, pressing a sleepy kiss into your hair.

"Mornin'," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

You tipped your head back to look at him. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, so blue it made your heart beat faster.

"You're still here," you whispered, almost in disbelief. You knew he was an early riser. Perhaps you expected him to already be feeding the horses by now. 

He huffed a lazy laugh, brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. "Ain’t no way I was lettin' you wake up alone after last night, sweetheart."

Your cheeks burned, ducking your head, suddenly shy.

Bucky’s knuckles dragged gently along your jaw, tilting your chin up so he could see you.

"You ain't regrettin' it, are ya?" he asked, a flicker of worry across his face.

You shook your head immediately, pressing your hand to his chest, right over his heart.

"No," you said fiercely. "Never."

His devastating smile bloomed across his face, and he pulled you in for a kiss, his mouth moving over yours like he had nowhere better to be.

You melted into him, sighing happily, tangling your fingers in his hair.

He kissed you again and again, slow little pecks, laughing into your mouth when you wriggled closer and whined for more.

"Greedy thing," he teased, nipping at your bottom lip. "Didn't get enough last night?"

You shrugged, shameless.

Bucky groaned softly, rolling you onto your back so he could hover over you, bracing himself on his forearms. His nose bumped against yours, and you giggled, threading your hands up under his worn old shirt to feel the planes of his back.

"You’re somethin’ else, you know that?" he said, voice full of wonder. "Could’ve had any rich boy you wanted, and here you are...with me."

You smiled up at him. "I don't want them," you said simply. "I want you."

Bucky ducked his head like he was trying to hide the way his ears turned pink, but you caught it anyway and kissed his temple, smiling into his hair.

He held you there for a long time, just breathing you in as his hands gently skimmed up and down your sides.

Outside, the rodeo grounds were coming alive — you could hear the murmur of voices, the clatter of hooves, the far-off ring of a bell — but inside this little room, time stretched out just for you. 

"Stay," Bucky whispered against your throat, voice so raw you thought you might cry. "Stay a little longer. Stay as long as you want."

But reality was already creeping back in around the edges.

"I can't," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. You reached up, brushing your fingers through his hair. "My ma’s gonna start wonderin’ why I haven’t come outta my room yet," you said, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "And... I need to get back before she finds out I wasn’t even in it last night."

He snorted, then groaned and dropped his face into the crook of your neck, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “that’s what’cha get when you go lookin’ for trouble.”

You sighed again. “I really gotta go.”

“I know,” he said, nudging his nose against yours.

Sliding off the bed, you walked across the worn wooden floor to where your dress was crumpled on the back of his armchair — the very same one Bucky had tossed it onto with a smug grin last night. You held it up—  The pale yellow fabric was hopelessly wrinkled.

“This was freshly ironed,” you grumbled.

Bucky was lying on his stomach now, chin propped on his arms, admiring the view. “It looked better on my floor.”

You stepped into your undergarments, doing a little hop to get them over your hips. “This is not graceful,”

Bucky smirked. “You’re tellin’ me. I’ve seen smoother rodeo dismounts.”

“Oh, hush.” You threw your corset at him, which he caught mid-air with one hand like a damn show-off.

“Keepin’ this,” he declared, tucking it under his pillow.

You gaped at him. “You are not—Bucky!”

He just winked.

You rolled your eyes but let him, now stepping into the dress. “You gonna help me with this zipper or just watch me wiggle around like a fish on a hook?”

He was already up and behind you before you finished the sentence, hands gathering your hair and brushing it over one shoulder. His fingers skimmed down your spine as he slowly tugged the zipper up, goosebumps blooming in his wake.

“There,” he said against your ear. “Proper lady again.”

“Barely,” You turned and poked his chest. “I look like I’ve just been dragged through a haystack.”

“You look like you had a real good night,” Bucky corrected, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Which, you did.”

You leaned into him for a moment, sighing. “Yeah, but now I gotta face my ma looking like a mess and pretend I spent the night doin’... I dunno, Bible study.”

Bucky buried his face in your neck, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You? Quotin’ scripture? I’d pay good money to see that.”

You turned in his arms, booping him on the nose. “I’m very pious, thank you.”

“Sure you are, sweetheart.” He kissed you once before his voice became a little more reluctant. “C’mon. I’ll walk you out.”

You grabbed your boots, hopping on one foot, then the other to get them on. Bucky handed you your cardigan, helping you with the sleeves.

As you reached the gates, he leaned against the frame, squinting into the sunlight. “See you tonight?”

You looked back at him and gave him a sweet smile that made his heart kick in his chest. “Count on it.”

—

The next couple of months blurred into sweet and secret escapades.

You and Bucky couldn't seem to stay away from each other — and Lord, you didn't even try. You met behind barns, slipped into quiet corners at rodeos, and kissed under the wide open stars like a couple of kids with too much heart and not enough sense.

And sometimes, when you couldn’t sneak away, you snuck him into the big house your family built high on a hill nearly thirty years ago, into your gilded little bedroom where no man like Bucky Barnes was ever supposed to step foot.

He'd crawl in through your window after midnight, smelling like leather and hay.

You'd yank him inside and crash into each other, laughing breathlessly, shushing each other even as your kisses grew messy and heated.

One night, after you'd tumbled onto your plush bed in a tangle of limbs and giggles, he finally took the time to slow down.

Bucky laid back against your ridiculous mountain of pillows, looking around your room with a low whistle — taking in all the silk curtains and fancy oil paintings and furniture polished so clean it practically gleamed.

"You really ain't like me," he said, but it wasn’t bitter — he was just amazed, like he couldn’t believe you wanted him anyway. You curled up next to him, chin resting on his chest, tracing the edge of his chin with your fingertip.

"Doesn't matter," you said quietly. "I love you."

Oh.

You felt the way he stiffened, the way his heart hammered under your cheek.

Then, after a heartbeat, he tipped your chin up, blue eyes burning into yours.

"I love you too, darlin'," he said, voice rough like gravel and sweet like honey all at once. "Been tryin' not to say it 'cause it scares the hell outta me. But I do. I love you so damn much."

You kissed him then, like you had all the time in the world to say it a thousand different ways.

When you finally broke apart, Bucky sat up a little, looking around again, and that was when he mentioned something he’d been wondering about for a while. 

"You got a stable out there," he said, nodding toward your window. "How come you ain't ridin'?"

"My pa..." you said, voice tight. "He said riding’s for men. That a lady’s place is in the house, hosting teas and cookin’ food, not getting dirt on her skirts."

You felt Bucky tense up in your arms.

He cupped your face in his hands, thumbing away the little frown you hadn't even realized you were making.

"That's bullshit," he said simply.

You smiled, and shrugged.

"Always wanted to ride," you said, looking out the window into the dark. "Just never been allowed."

Bucky’s mouth curved into that wicked smile you loved so much.

He sat up a bit more. "Well," he drawled, "you could always ride a buckin' bull tonight." He patted his lap, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

It took you a second to catch up — and when you did, you giggled. Your face went hot, but you loved it — you loved him — this wonderful man who made you feel brave and wild and wanted.

"You’re awful," you scolded, pretending to swat at him. But he just grabbed your wrist and pulled you onto his lap.

"Nah, sugar," he murmured against your ear, rocking his hips up into yours, making you gasp. "I'm the best damn ride you'll ever have."

And oh, how right he was.

You rode him that night, surrounded by all the pretty things that were supposed to keep you proper and untouched.

You rode him with your skirt pushed up around your hips, Bucky's big hands guiding you, his mouth on your throat, praising you in that filthy voice that made your knees go weak.

You rode him until you were both gasping and clinging to each other, until you collapsed together in a heap of sweat and kisses and whispered promises.

And afterward, when you were curled up in his arms, Bucky kissed your forehead and said,

"Next time, we're gettin' you on a real horse, darlin'."

—

It happened a few nights later, when the moon was high and full and the town had finally gone quiet.

You slipped out of your window — boots in one hand, heart hammering — and Bucky was waiting for you, perched on the fence of the rodeo grounds. 

He had two horses saddled and ready: Clementine for you, and his own rough old gelding for himself.

"Ready for your first real ride, darlin’?" he asked. 

You nodded, breathless, excitement fizzing in your veins.

Bucky led you into the ring, a steady hand on Clementine’s reins, murmuring to her like he was speaking to an old friend. The golden mare huffed, flicking her ears back toward him, then toward you, like she was sizing you up.

“She’s in a good mood today,” Bucky said.

“Me too,” you beamed, reaching out slowly, palm open. Clementine sniffed your hand, then nudged her velvet-soft nose into your fingers like she’d been waiting for you all along.

Getting on her back, though, was another story.

Your skirts tangled, and nerves had your hands shaking but Bucky just laughed quietly and stepped in without a word, hands firm at your waist. He lifted you like it was nothing, settling you into the saddle with ease.

"There you go," he said, pride in his voice. "You're a natural already."

You beamed as Bucky mounted up beside you. 

"Alright," he said, voice of all business now, though his eyes were still fond. "First thing’s first. You trust her, she’ll trust you. Keep your back straight, heels down. Real gentle with the reins — don't yank 'em like you're angry. She's smarter than most people I know."

You listened carefully, doing your best to mirror him, biting your lip in concentration.

Every time he smiled at you, or rode a little closer to adjust your hands or posture, you thought you might just fall off from swooning.

You circled the arena together, carefully at first, and every time you did something right, Bucky would beam at you like you’d hung the damn moon.

"That's my girl," he'd say, and your heart would just melt.

Little by little, you got braver — loosening your grip, trusting Clementine to move with you.

The cool night air drifted through your hair, carrying your laughter and Bucky's whoops of encouragement.

After a while, you pulled up, exhilarated beyond words. You looked over at Bucky, and he looked back at you proudly.

"You're a helluva lot better than you think, darlin'," he said, tipping his hat back to get a better look at you. 

You giggled breathlessly. "You make it look easy," you said, nudging Clementine closer so your knees brushed his.

And before you could squeal, he reached out and hauled you off your saddle and right onto his lap, astride his horse with him.

You laughed, clinging to his shoulders, and he just held you there, his chest shaking with laughter.

"You can't just steal me like that!" you scolded playfully, smacking his arm.

Bucky leaned in, nose brushing yours. "Sure I can," he teased. "You're mine, ain't ya?"

You swallowed hard, heart flipping in your chest.

"Yeah," you whispered, letting him nuzzle your neck. "I'm yours."

—

But you had not been careful enough.

It began with the way your mother watched you, always from the corner of her eye, as if she suspected some movement she could not quite catch. One evening, after the dishes had been cleared, she spoke up.

"You've been going up to your room awfully early," she said, her voice deceptively chirpy. "And going out later. It's not proper, you know."

You folded your hands neatly in your lap and gave her your most practiced smile. "I've only been visiting the library, ma. Surely even you would not fault me for wanting an education."

She made a sound — not quite a laugh — and turned her attention back to her embroidery hoop, though the thread trembled slightly in her hands. "Whatever you call it.”

She didn't know the half of it, and she wouldn’t — not with the maid you had seen to, a few crumpled bills exchanged for discretion, dirty skirts hidden at the bottom of the laundry basket like so many other small betrayals. Gold bought loyalty easily enough in this town, where everyone was either scrambling to climb higher or desperate not to fall lower.

It might have ended there, but your mother never could leave well enough alone. As you were rising to leave, she laid her embroidery aside with a sigh.

"We need to speak seriously," she said. "You're not getting any younger, and we can’t keep puttin’ this off."

You said nothing. You had heard this before, and you would hear it again, you were sure.

"I heard word from Senator Abernathy," she continued. "He's serious. He intends to offer for you. His fortune is established — his land claims could support a family for generations." She gave a satisfied nod, as though the matter were already decided, as though your life were a ledger she was balancing.

You stared at her for a moment, then glanced down at the book you still held. "Senator Abernathy is nearly thirty years my senior, Ma," you said.

"And what of it?" she snapped, sharper now. "A younger man may be handsome, but an older man is settled. Reliable. That is what matters."

You closed your book. "Respectable?" you echoed, smiling thinly. "He has one foot in the grave. Do you want a wedding or a funeral, ma?"

Your mother’s mouth tightened until it nearly disappeared altogether.

"You can’t afford to be so choosy," she said, her voice dropping to a hiss. "You have had other proposals and turned them all away. Do you want to die a spinster in this house, living off what your father left you, until the gold runs dry?"

You rose then, smoothing your skirt — clean tonight, but only because you had learned to plan ahead. "I intend," you said calmly, "to marry a man who sees me as more than an asset to be traded."

You walked out and left her sitting by the fire, to prepare to welcome your lover tonight.

—

The hour had just slipped past midnight.

You sat on the windowsill, your bare feet tucked beneath your nightgown, the curtains drawn aside just enough to let the moonlight spill in. The garden beyond the glass was a silvered, secret world. 

Then, finally, you heard a soft scrape against the bricks below.

You leaned out, and there he was: Bucky Barnes, hat in one hand, the other reaching up toward your window, boots soundless on the gravel.

He looked up and caught your eyes. 

You slipped the window open farther. "You’re late," you whispered, voice barely a breath.

"Had to make sure nobody saw me," he said. 

Bucky set his hat between his teeth, gripped the edge of the windowsill, and hoisted himself up with a strength that made your insides knot. You scrambled back, giggling under your breath, as he swung his legs over the sill and dropped into your room.

His dark hair was tousled, shirt open at the throat, strong arms dusted with old scars and new bruises. His eyes raked over you, lingering at the way your nightgown clung to your form, the way the pale linen outlined every forbidden curve.

He was on you in second, hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. His head dipped, his nose brushing your temple, his breath hot against your skin.

"I missed you," he confessed. He’d been on the road to Deadwood in the last two weeks— and even though he’d won, two weeks without you was still a price too much to bear.

"I know," you breathed. "Me too."

His mouth found yours then — not a chaste kiss, but hungry. His hands roamed your sides, your back. You clutched at his shirt, dragging him closer, drinking him in like a woman starved.

Bucky walked you toward your bed without breaking the kiss, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sank down with a gasp.

He knelt before you like a man before an altar, his hands trailing reverently up your bare calves, lifting the hem of your nightgown inch by agonizing inch. His mouth pressed to your knee, your thigh, each kiss branding you.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your skin. He always made sure every time. Every. Time. "I will. Say the word, darlin'."

You shook your head, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from wanting. "Don't you dare."

He smiled and tilted up to kiss you again, deeper this time, more desperate.

And that's when the door creaked open. Neither of you realized until it was too late.

Not until you heard your mother's shrill and furious voice.

"What in god’s name is this?!" she shrieked.

You froze, horror rooting you in place. Bucky whipped around, putting himself between you and your mother, as if to shield you.

Your mother walked in, her candle dripping wax onto the carpet.

"You whore," she spat at you, her voice shaking. "You filthy little whore! Bringing...bringing that into this house?"

She pointed at Bucky, hand trembling.

You could hardly bear to look at him, standing there shirt half-open, hair messy, cheeks flushed from more than just exertion.

Your mother's voice rose, shouting louder, "You think you can drag some gutter-born into this family? Into this name?"

Bucky flinched visibly at that, fists clenching at his sides.

That's when you heard the pounding of boots up the hall— you father's roar echoing up the stairs.

Your father stormed into the room, all fury and righteous indignation, and when he saw Bucky and put two and two together, he seized him by the collar and dragged him toward the door.

You reached out instinctively, "Pa, please—!" but your mother grabbed you by the wrist, yanking you back.

"You stay," she hissed, shaking you hard enough to rattle your teeth. 

You heard the sounds of the struggle echoing down the grand staircase — the thud of Bucky's boots against wood, the rasp of your father's labored breathing, the slam of the heavy front door thrown open to the night.

You pressed a fist to your mouth to stifle your sobs and crept to the top of the stairs.

Outside, your father shoved Bucky hard into the courtyard gravel. Bucky could defend himself, but he chose not to, for fear of hurting him.

"You'll leave this town before sunrise, boy," your father spat. "Or you'll leave it in a coffin, do you hear me?"

Bucky pushed himself up slowly, blood running from his arm. 

As your father continued to rant, a sudden, pained sound echoes the night. It was a desperate, broken whinny from the stables.

"Sir," Bucky cut your father off, ignoring the blood running down his arm, "your mare — she's in trouble."

Your father blinked at him, disoriented.

They heard another frantic whinny.

Without waiting for permission, Bucky walked across the courtyard toward the stables, your father followed, cursing under his breath.

You hesitated only a moment before slipping down the stairs and out the door, staying hidden in the shadows.

You found a crack in the stable door and pressed your eye to it.

Inside, by the flickering light of a single lantern, you saw Bucky moving, soothing your father's prized mare, who danced and stumbled, favoring her left foreleg.

"Easy, girl," Bucky said, stroking her neck.

He knelt by her side, one hand on her trembling flank, the other inspecting the hoof.

"There’s a shard stuck deep," he said grimly.

Your father hovered, useless, wringing his hands.

Bucky unsheathed a knife he always had in his boot and, with care, began to work the metal free. The mare shivered but stood, trusting him.

You were there for a good half an hour before he made any progress.

And then — with a final, gritted curse — Bucky freed the twisted piece of iron and tossed it aside. The mare snorted, limping but no longer panicked.

Bucky leaned his forehead against her for a moment, breathing hard.

Your father stared at him as though seeing him for the first time.

Finally, your father asked, "What's your name, boy?"

Bucky straightened slowly, eyes glittering in the lamplight. "Bucky," he said, his voice loud and clear.

Your father’s jaw dropped. "Bucky Barnes," he repeated. "The bull rider?"

"Yessir."

A strange silence stretched between them.

Your father — the same man who had heard of his employees wagering half a month's earnings on Bucky at the Fourth of July rodeo out of state, who had read about him in the papers — now looked at him not as a trespasser, but as… a talent.

This — this changed everything.

When Bucky had finished in the stables, your father had pat him gruffly on the shoulder, and said, in a tone half-grudging, half-impressed, "You’ll stay the night. Guest room off the east hall."

Inside, your mother had sputtered, had gone red in the face like a steam kettle about to blow, but for once, your father had not wavered.

"You'd rather the boy bleed out in the road after savin' that horse?" he'd barked at her.

She'd pressed her lips into a thin line and stalked off without a word.

—

The house had gone quiet again, save for the occasional creak of settling timbers and the distant hush of wind through the trees. You waited until the hall clock struck two before slipping out from under your quilts, still in your nightgown.

You tiptoed through the dark, heart racing as you made your way toward the east wing, where the guest rooms you rarely saw were. You knew which door it would be — the last on the right. Bucky was just behind it, bruised and bandaged, probably lying awake in a stranger’s bed, waiting for morning. 

Or maybe… waiting for you.

But you’d barely made it halfway when a figure stepped out from a dark alcove.

Your father stood there, arms crossed over his chest, unmistakably stern.

"I figured you’d try," he said quietly. Not unkindly, just... tired. "You might get your looks from your mother, but this? This is all me."

You looked down, throat tight. "I just wanted to check on him."

"I know." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin. "He treat you right?"

Your head snapped up. "What?"

"I'm asking," he said. "That boy — he treat you like you deserve?"

You blinked, barely able to process the question. “Yes,” you nodded, “Always."

“He’s a good man,” Your father grunted, nodding slowly. "He didn’t swing back, even when I near broke his nose." He let out a deep breath. "And I… saw the way you looked at him.”

You swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in your throat.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

"You got a good heart, girl,” he finally said, almost begrudgingly, “And a stubborn streak a mile wide."

You smiled faintly, tears threatening to spill at the edges of your eyes.

"But listen close," he added, straightening. "You don’t go see him tonight."

You flinched. "Pa—"

He held up a hand. "No. You don’t. That boy's exhausted. And you—" he looked you up and down, eyes resting on the bare feet, the wild hair — "you need to cool off and think straight. You're not sneakin' into no boy’s room at two in the mornin', not under this roof. I gave him a bed, not a ticket to your sheets."

You flushed hot.

"You’ll see him in the morning," he said, a bit more gently. "In the daylight. Like decent folk."

Before you could argue, he gestured down the hall. "Go on. Back to your room."

You hesitated, then turned and started walking. Just before you reached the corner, his voice drifted after you. "I’ll be keeping the shotgun close tonight. Just in case either of you forget. You hear me, girl?"

You paused and smiled, sensing the empty threat. "Yes, sir."

—

When morning came, you smelled coffee, fried bacon, and buttermilk biscuits across the house.

You walked in the dining room. Bucky was already there, hair damp from a wash, a faint scrape along his skin. He looked up when he saw you and smiled.

Without thinking, you went straight to the seat beside him.

Your mother, perched at the head of the table like a crow on a throne, narrowed her eyes. “Absolutely not,” she said coldly. Then she stood, reached across the table, and seized your arm, yanking you upright so fast the chair legs scraped the floor with a screech.

“You will not sit next to him,” she snapped. “You’ve already disgraced yourself once this week—”

“Enough.” Your father stood at the other end of the table, his coffee cup held midway to his lips. He hadn’t raised his voice — he didn’t have to. “She’ll sit where she damn well pleases.”

Your mother turned to him, scandalized. “You cannot be serious.”

“She’s a grown woman,” your father said evenly. “And I reckon she’s got the right to choose who she eats her breakfast beside.”

You sat back down as your mother sat again, her lips a thin, bitter line. Her eyes didn’t so much as glance at you — they were fixed solely on Bucky.

“Why is he still here ,anyway?” she repeated, louder now. “After what he did.”

You opened your mouth, heart pounding, but your father got there before you. “He saved the mare,” he said simply.

Your mother whirled on him. “That’s not the point!”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t even lift his head. He simply took a sip of his coffee. “He’s not just some drifter,” he said.

“Oh, please,” your mother snapped. “He’s a roughneck. A man who earns his bread getting thrown from animals. For heaven’s sake, he climbed through our daughter’s window like a common thief!”

Beside you, Bucky sat still as stone, his hands folded on his lap, unsure what to do. Your father set his cup down.

“You won Deadwood, son?” The question came so suddenly it startled the entire room.

Bucky blinked. “Yessir.”

“Heard tell of you.” Your father leaned back slowly, sizing him up with a squint like he was weighing cattle. “Reckless, sure. Wild as a pissed off hornet, they said. But the best rider the circuit’s seen in years.”

Bucky hesitated, then gave a small, tight nod. “Yessir.”

Your mother gave a choked gasp, one hand flying to her chest like the mere confirmation had physically wounded her.

But you saw it — the way Bucky shifted, as if the praise was heavier than it sounded. He didn’t know what to do with it.  His eyes flicked toward you.

Your father saw it too.

He tilted his head, thoughtful now. “Is there somethin’ you’re wantin’ to say, boy?”

Bucky took a deep breath — not nervous, not unsure. As if this was the moment he’d come here for. As if all the bruises, the blood on his shirt, the shame, the fight, the godawful quiet of the stables… all of it had led him here.

He rose to his feet, and stood before your father with his shoulders squared.

“Sir,” he said honestly, “I want permission to court your daughter. Properly.”

Your mother’s spoon slipped from her hand and struck the floor with a flat, lifeless clatter.

What? Your breath caught somewhere in your ribs.

Bucky looked like a man ready to be hung for saying it. He looked at your father,  ready to be told he didn’t deserve it, but he was asking anyway. 

Your father stared at him. Slowly, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Properly,” he repeated.

“Yessir.”

“That meanin’ no more sneakin’ through windows like no damn outlaw?”

Bucky flushed, but he didn’t look away. “Yes, sir. No more sneakin’.”

“Meanin’ calls made in the parlor. Under my roof, with my eye on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Meanin’ this ain’t just flirtin’. You sure intend to offer her your hand — and everything that goes with it — if she’ll have you?”

Bucky’s voice was raw, stripped down to the nerve. “Yes, sir. I’ll marry her. I want to build a life with her,” he glanced at you, “If she wants me.”

The words hit you like a gust of wind. 

You reached for the edge of the table, needing something to hold. Across the table, your mother made a broken, strangled noise. “Y–you cannot allow this.”

Your father turned to her.

“He’s askin’ like a man ought to ask,” he said. “I won’t turn him away just because he don’t come wrapped in the paper you’d pick out.”

Your mother stared at him like she didn’t recognize the man beside her, but he didn’t look at her again.

Instead, your father looked at you.

So did Bucky.

And in that moment — as if the entire world had stepped back, given you space to breathe — all you could see was him.

“I would be honored,” you said certainly, “to be courted by Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky let out a deep breath like he didn’t realize he’d been holding it until now.

Your mother looked like she might faint.

But your father just smiled and gave a satisfied smile. “Well then,” he said. “That’s settled.”

—

Courting, as it turned out, suited Bucky Barnes.

He was careful and determined — not the kind of man to leap unless he knew where he'd land. 

The first time he came to call, it was a Sunday.

He arrived at the front door — the front door, not the trellis outside your window — wearing his cleanest shirt (borrowed from Steve, no doubt) and a nervous smile, with a wildflower bouquet in hand. 

Your father let him in without fuss, led him to the parlor, then took up station on the porch with a paper and a cup of chicory, within earshot — just in case.

Inside, you sat on the settee, your best dress smoothed over your knees, while Bucky perched on the edge of a stiff-backed chair like a schoolboy on trial.

"So," you said, tucking a curl behind your ear, "this is what courting looks like?"

He chuckled low, so your father didn't hear. "Darlin', I've faced bulls that looked less dangerous than your mama."

You bit your lip to hide a laugh and smacked him on the arm.

From there, it built slowly — Bucky would come by twice a week, always calling ahead. Sometimes with flowers, sometimes with a little carving he’d whittled — once, a golden tiny mare no bigger than your thumb— meant to resemble Clementine, no doubt. 

See, Bucky meant it when he said there’d be no more sneaking, no more windows, no more midnight nonsense under this roof. He’d come proper and stay proper under his roof. 

And Bucky Barnes did not break his promises.

Still, a few weeks later, you found yourself creeping barefoot down the stairs again.

You stole out the back door with your skirts hitched high and made your way to the rodeo grounds.

Bucky was there, riding in the twilight — practicing against a mean bastard of a bull named Tombstone, the kind of beast that could end a man’s season with one bad landing. You watched from the shadows as Bucky held fast, muscles taut, one hand high in the air, riding like the damn devil was watching.

He lasted eight seconds. Ten, even. Long enough to earn whistles and claps from the stable hands. 

You stood half-hidden behind the fencing near the back of the rodeo grounds, boots in the dust, arms crossed tight against the breeze. You weren’t supposed to be there — not in your mother’s eyes, not in the eyes of any proper lady who’d just had her engagement announced in the county paper. But here, you felt more like yourself than you ever did at your parent’s fine dining room table.

When the buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild and Bucky jumped clear with a grace that shouldn’t belong to a man who wrestled beasts for a living. 

“Hey now, girl,” You recognised Sam’s voice calling you from the bar tent. He leaned on the counter, polishing a glass, “Ain’t that boy supposed to be courtin’ you like proper rich folk now?”

You slid up to the bar, smiling at the man you’re proud to call a friend. “He is courting me proper,” you said.

Sam raised a brow.

“But here,” you added, “I’m not proper rich folk.”

Sam laughed. “No, you sure ain’t.”

And thank god for it.

Because a few minutes later, when Bucky had finished cooling down the bull, you found your way behind the stables — the same old spot he’d taken you to months ago.

You kissed him the second you were close enough — hands grabbing at his still-damp skin, his mouth already rough on yours like he’d been waiting days. He pressed you back against the stable wall, one hand sliding up under your dress to find skin he already knew by heart.

“I promised not to sneak into your bed,” he breathed against your neck.

“I made no such promises,” you gasped, tugging him closer, “especially not under my pa’s roof.”

You made love there in the straw and dust. It was the kind of love that doesn’t care about lace or titles or a last name carved into a deed.

When it was over, your knees bruised and your lips bitten red, he held you against his bare chest and whispered, “The wedding can’t come soon enough, darlin’.”

—

By midsummer, your father had stopped pretending to read his paper while Bucky called. Sometimes he sat nearby and chimed in, asking Bucky’s opinion on feed prices or fencing knots. Once, you saw them fixing a hinge together in a companionable silence. 

Then came the harvest dance.

You weren’t sure Bucky would go. He wasn’t the type for town gatherings, But he showed up at your gate in a dark vest, freshly shaved, a bun cleaning up his now-longer hair. He offered his arm.

“May I escort you, Miss?” he said with a wink, and you swore your knees nearly buckled.

He didn’t step on your toes once that night. He danced like he was born for it — letting you lead when the reel turned fast and swinging you slow when the music allowed.

And when he walked you home, fingers just barely brushing yours, he stopped at the porch instead of your window. 

"Next week," he said, "if it's alright with your folks… I'd like to bring some plans for a business. Something real I can show ‘em."

Your breath caught. “Bucky…” You touched his cheek, thumb brushing a scar there. “Of course it’s more than alright.”

—

So next week, he didn't show up at your door with blueprints for a farm like your mother had hoped.

He arrived with papers — a contract.

“I ain’t buildin’ a house just yet,” he told your father in that same parlor where he'd courted you. “I’m buying the rodeo grounds.”

Your father raised an eyebrow. “You?”

Bucky nodded. “Barnes Rodeo Company. I’ve been talking to the owner. He's getting old, no sons, and I’ve got the winnings and the grit. I’m not just riding bulls now — I’m runnin’ the damn show.”

Your father looked at the paperwork. “This ain’t some pipe dream.”

“No, sir,” Bucky said. “It’s how I support her. Build a future. Not just win prize money and pray it lasts. I’ll run the books, hire crews, train the riders, expand the stables. I’ll make it a real business.”

Your mother, listening from the corner, folded her arms. “All of this for our daughter?”

“Not just for her, ma’am,” Bucky said, “For us. For the life we want.”

Finally, your mother sniffed and muttered, “Well. At least he’s not stupid.”

You swore you saw her smile in approval, just a little.

“Maybe you don’t need to build a house,” Your father gave Bucky a long look, then said slowly, “‘Cause you can wrangle bulls and taxes, boy… you might just be fit to run this place, too.”

Bucky blinked. “Sir?”

“You heard me.” Your father leaned forward. “I built this estate, and was planning to give it to my nephew. But you — if you’re sticking, — you and her will run it together. The land, the house, the name. I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

What? 

You couldn’t breathe.

Bucky’s throat worked like he couldn’t speak, and when he finally did, his voice was hoarse. “I’ll earn it. Every bit of it.”

Your father nodded. “See that you do.”

—

That night, Bucky took you out to the pasture, where Clementine grazed beneath the stars. Without a word, he handed you the reins.

“She’s yours,” he said softly. “Part of my gift to you. For marrying me.”

You ran your hand along her flank, stunned. “Bucky—”

“She’s yours,” he repeated. “I already told her. She said she approves.”

You laughed, and Clementine snorted and nuzzled your shoulder like she agreed.

—

The wedding came in late spring.

The garden bloomed like it had waited just for you, the trees overhead filled white blossoms that drifted down like snow whenever the wind stirred. 

You stood under the big oak at the edge of the pasture, where Clementine grazed nearby with a garland of fresh daisies looped around her neck, the mare blinking lazily like she understood the importance of the day. After all, you have talked to her a lot in the days leading up to this.

Sam and Steve stood at Bucky’s side in their best coats. Sam had slipped you a flask during the rehearsal dinner and whispered, “If he runs, I’ll chase him down myself,” and Steve had just grinned and said, “He won’t.” Neither had left Bucky’s side since sunrise.

Your cousins trailed behind you in soft sage dresses, the youngest clutching your train with both hands. You’d made the veil yourself — stitched tiny forget-me-nots into the lace. 

And Bucky—

God. Bucky.

He looked like sin and salvation in a black suit, hair swept back, staring at you like you’d stepped out of a dream he didn’t think he deserved. When he took your hands, his palms were warm, calloused, shaking just a little.

Your father gave you away. “Don’t break her heart,” he warned Bucky.

He just shook his head.

Your mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and claimed it was just the pollen.

But later — after the vows, after Bucky kissed you like no one was watching and the whole damn town clapped — you caught her pulling him into a hug across the room.

“Take care of her,” your mother said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmured.

She looked up at him “And don’t call me 'ma’am' like I’m a schoolteacher. You’re my son now.” She cleared her throat. “So act like it.”

Bucky blinked. “...Yes, ma—...Yes.”

He grinned and found your eyes. After she left, he mouthed to you excitedly, She called me ‘son.’

You nearly dropped your drink.

That night, the last of the guests wandered off, Bucky—your husband—kissed your forehead.

You told him, at this estate that was now yours and his, “Welcome home, James.”

—

Present day…

After dinner, when the dishes were washed and Becca had been told twice to stop playing with her dessert, you slipped your boots back on and headed out into the dark, lantern in hand.

The stables were quiet, save for the rustle of hay and Clementine’s slow breaths. She was still lying down, too tired now to stand, her legs folded neatly beneath her, head resting on the straw. You sat beside her and ran your fingers through the coarse white of her mane.

Not five minutes later, you heard the telltale creak of the barn door and small feet trying their best not to make a sound.

“Becca,” you said knowingly, without turning.

“I just wanted to see her,” said the tiny voice behind you.

And then, a little louder you heard your husband say— “Rebecca Barnes!”

Bucky’s boots crunched to a stop just inside the stable. “It’s past your bedtime, sweetheart.”

Becca pouted, clutching the old quilt she’d dragged from her bed. “But Clementine…”

Bucky sighed, leaning against the doorway. “Say goodnight, Becca. Let her rest.”

Becca’s lip wobbled, tiny tears pricking down the sides. “I don’t want her to be alone.”

“She won’t be,” Bucky said, his voice gentle but firm. “Mama’s here. She’s got her, ‘kay?”

Becca was quiet for a long time. Then she stepped closer, knelt beside you, and laid the quilt across Clementine’s back like she was tucking her in.

“Sweet dreams, Clementine,” she whispered, brushing her fingers down the mare’s nose.

Clementine blinked like she’d heard and understood, and Bucky cleared his throat behind you— choked up, even if he wouldn’t say it.

Later, Bucky tugged Becca in with fresh quilts and kissed her forehead. He left the door cracked just enough to let the lamplight spill in.

When he made his way back to the stables, you were still there— crouched beside Clementine, stroking her neck in careful passes like you didn’t want her to startle, though she hadn’t moved much all evening.

He sank down beside you, and leaned your shoulder into his. 

“I used to tell her all my secrets,” you confessed your voice barely above the hush of wind outside.

Bucky glanced sideways at you. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Told her I hated that my ma didn’t like you at first. Told her I was nervous for the wedding.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You were nervous?”

“I was terrified,” you said with a grin. “She was the only one I could admit it to.”

Bucky looked at Clementine’s faded eyes. “Go on, darlin’,” he kissed your temple, “Tell her another one.”

You turned your head, brushing your lips against her ear, and whispered, just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “Clementine… I’m pregnant again.”

Bucky froze. He looked at you with a stunned, overjoyed look, eyes wide and glassy. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, and before he could say anything else, Clementine — bless her — let out the loudest, most contented whinny she’d made in days. It echoed gently in the quiet stable, startling a few sparrows into flight in the rafters.

You both stared at her in disbelief.

“She knew,” Bucky whispered.

And not ten minutes later, as the lantern burned low and you both kept watch, Clementine gave one last breath… and slipped away with you and Bucky on either side of her, tears running into the dust. She went easy, like a sigh.

She went out knowing everything was alright — that you and Bucky had settled into a good life, that her family was still growing, and that she was still loved.

That you, like her, would live the rest of your life knowing what freedom felt like, just because you happened to cross paths with a certain charming bull rider.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

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@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

Arthur blushed, lowering his head as a smile spread across his lips. “Only cause you were still a rookie.” He said, glancing back up at him once the heat had cooled in his cheeks. 

“C’mon,” Charles said, pushing off the wall and stepping in front of Arthur. 

“Where we goin’?” He asked, following after him. 

“Want to find out?” Charles smirked, glancing at him from over his shoulder. Arthur sighed, matching his pace as the two men walked along the dusty path back to where the rest of the riders were waiting. He had met Charles Smith almost four years ago, although it seemed like a lifetime ago. They had become quick friends after spending a lot of time together waiting for their turn in the arena. Both were bareback bronc riders, although if you asked Arthur, Charles was the superior of the two. 

Sure, Arthur had a few championships under his belt, and if it wasn’t for the love of the sport, he’d have quit a long time ago. It wasn’t about the titles, or the money, not to him. It was about those eight seconds. The moment when it was just him and the horse under him. When time stood still.

They walked down the rows, men stood with their horses, women too. All waiting for the big event. Waiting for a chance to show off in the arena.

“So what are we doing exactly?” He asked Charles. 

“Enjoying the scenery.” Charles responded, his eyes trailing down the rows of horses. Paints, Palominos, Mustangs, ready to run.

“You brought me back here to look at horses?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“I brought you to look at the best horses. Each one was bred for this, to be the best.” He said, a look of wonder flashed in his eyes. 

“You are easily entertained.” He hummed, shaking his head.

“Let’s make a bet.” Charles said turning to face him, “Would that entertain you?”

Arthur thought for a moment, “Depends on what’s on the table.” He said pursing his lips, “You ain’t gonna bet me outta my money.” His lips quirked up into a smirk

“No, no nothing like that.” Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “I was thinking something along the lines of, say I get the better score out of the two of us.” Charles said, taking a step closer. Wouldn't be too hard to do, Arthur thought. 

“Alright, let’s say you do.” He hummed.

“Then when we go out drinking tonight, which we will.” He said with a raised brow, “You’re buying.” Arthur rolled his eyes, letting out a low whistle. 

“You drive a hard bargain Mr. Smith.” He chuckled, shaking his head, “Suppose if I get the better time then you’d be buying?”

“That’d be right.” He nodded, grinning at him, “We have a bet?” He asked, holding out his hand. Before Arthur could clasp his hand, a higher pitched voice spoke up.

“We making bets, gentleman?” Both him and Charles turned to the sound of the voice. A woman, grinning up at them like the damn Cheshire Cat. 

Rodeo day. The best days in the whole year. Racing was your passion, barrel racing. Well technically horses were your passion, but barrel racing was fun, exhilarating. Pushing the horse under you to their limits, safely of course. Hell, they loved it as much as you did. You wouldn’t force a horse to do it if they didn’t enjoy it as much as you did. 

For the most part you bred them, but every now and again you’d get to throw your hat in the ring. You’d come to Arizona this time for the 100th anniversary Rodeo. 

One of your prized horses, Glory, had come with you this time. She was a damn fine horse, a beautiful pale yellow quarter. 

The only part you didn’t like about competition day was the damn waiting. You wanted them to get on it and start the show. 

But there was something to be said about the scenery. Cowboys, as far as the eye could see. You weren’t interested in the ones in the stands, and while the calf roping was impressive, you weren’t looking at them either. You wanted a rider. You weren’t picky, whether they be bareback bronc, saddle bronc or bull rider.

All you knew what some lucky cowboy out there was coming home with you tonight. And as it seemed, you might be taking two.

You couldn’t help yourself. Your ears perked up as soon as you heard the word, ‘bet’. Now you weren’t necessarily a gambler, but you did like a challenge. 

And the two men in front of you looked to be the perfect one. You placed your hands on your hips as you grinned at them, both larger than average, hopefully in every way.

“Ma’am.” The man with honey-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes said, tipping his hat. 

“Well?” You asked walking closer, “What are we betting on?” You asked, crossing your arms. 

”Arthur and I are betting on who’s score will be higher.” the darker man said, his thick braid hanging over his shoulder.

“Oh? What’s your event?” You asked.

“Bareback.” Arthur said, with a small nod. 

“Where are my manners?” You chuckled softly, shaking your head, “I’m y/n, y/n y/l/n.” You said, putting out your hand.

“Arthur Morgan.”

“Charles Smith.” You shook both the man’s hands, imagining how they might feel running down your body.

“Well gentleman, can I get in on your bet?” You asked, “I’m looking for a new PR. I’m hoping to get under 16.96 seconds.” You said with a smile.

“For barrel racing?” Arthur asked.

“Well what else could I be competing in?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. He blushed, his cheeks growing rosy, cute. 

“And if you beat your time?” Charles asked, smiling at you, his arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“Then you’ll be covering my tab tonight.” You grinned, looking at the two men. “But if I beat my time and win…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “Then I’ll take you both home, how does that sound?”

The men’s eyes widened, both of their eyes went to you before looking at each other. A silent conversation passed between them.

“Ma’am,” Arthur started, “I think you got a deal.” 

Arthur didn’t think his nerves could get any damn worse, and in walked the woman of his dreams, right next to the man of his dreams. He spit onto the ground, his hands wrapped around the bars of the chute as he watched the riders go in front of him. Most of them had done fairly well, only one had been disqualified. 

He was antsy, more than usual. Constantly rubbing the back of his neck like something or someone was burning a hole into him. 

But he wouldn’t look, wouldn’t dare. 

“Ready?” He looked up, the rider in front of him nodding as the door swung open. He watched the kid- he couldn’t have been more than twenty two- as he held on. The buzzer blared, and the two pickup riders flanked him. The kid climbed on, waving his hat to the crowd, a grin splitting his face. 

It was his turn now. He adjusted his grip on the riggings, his boots in the spurs. He took a deep breath, before nodding. The chute flew open, he forced his heels above the horse's shoulders, everything was muscle memory at this point. Knees up and down. The roar of the crowd muffled as time seemed to slow. His hand waved in the air, the rawhide creaked beneath his grip. He could feel the horse’s muscles shift under his thighs, his body thrown forward and back as it bucked. Through gritted teeth, he tightened his grip, his muscles straining and stretched. God, he was getting old.

BUZZ

The damn horse was still bucking. A pickup rider came up on his right, he grabbed his waist, pulling himself off his horse and behind him.

He jumped off near the chutes, his knees aching as he hit the dirt. He looked up at the screen, wiping the sweat from his face.

87.6

“Gonna be hard to beat.” Charles’ voice cut through the announcer's speech. 

His head snapped up to look at him. An easy smile tugged at Charles’ lips, his dark eyes shone like amber in the sunlight. 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” He mumbled, shielding his face as he tipped the brim of his hat down. He climbed out of the arena, pausing to watch Charles ride. 

He took a deep breath, almost more nervous for his ride than his own. His jet black braid hung down his back, swinging back and forth as he turned his head. He held his breath, watching as Charles' head dipped down. 

The chute swung open, the bronc bucking wildly as he moved around the arena. Charles was flawless, like the horse was an extension of himself. That’s what set him apart from other riders, riders like himself. Maybe he’d felt like that in his younger years, but now he just prayed he would remember how to stay on.

In a flash it was over, and he was sad to see it end. It was beautiful, the raw power in both Charles and the horse under him. 

His eyes snapped towards the screen.

88.2

He laughed, grinning as he looked to Charles. He wouldn’t mind paying for his drinks, not at all. If Charles was lucky, he’d be walking out here with the grand title. 

“Didn’t look too hard to beat!” Arthur chuckled, clapping Charles on his shoulder as he walked out of the arena. 

“Like hell it didn’t.” Charles chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure I could hear my mother screaming from the stands.”

“I have no doubt about that.” He hummed, shaking his head.

“Nice riding boys.” That sweet, melodic voice filled his ears. He stopped dead in his tracks, almost tripping over his boots.

“Thanks.” Charles said, smooth as butter as he smirked down at you. Arthur swallowed thickly, heat creeping up his neck as his blood rushed south. 

“Make sure you two watch the barrel racing.” You smirked, winking at them as you walked past. Your wranglers hugged your ass, making him want to sink his teeth into it. If you won today, he might actually get the chance to.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You watched the other girls go in front of you. One would cut it too close and turned a barrel. It was a bummer, all that hard work to go to nothing. Although that just meant less competition for you.

You patted Glory’s neck, she was as antsy as you were. 

“Almost time, girl.” You hummed. 

You looked up at the girl's time in front of you. 

17.2

Not bad. 

They opened the gates, and you slowly led Glory out into the arena. Her hooves moved quickly under her as you held the reins back. 

You had your eyes set on the first barrel, just waiting for the buzzer to come.

The sound filled the air, and you were off. Flying across the dirt as you guided the reins. She turned quickly around the first one, cutting it almost too close. You regained your balance, melding your front against her back as you leaned over her. She curved around the second barrel, heading down the dirt towards the last one. Your heart pounded against your chest as you skirted the last one, slapping the reins against her flank as you raced across the arena. You pulled her to a stop, panting as you looked back at the screen. 

No fucking way.

16.89.

You grinned, waving your hat to the audience before guiding her back to the other horses. As you rode her out of the pen, your eyes landed on two cowboys, each with a shit eating grin on their face.

You would be saving two horses tonight.

“You know, it ain’t fair that the poorest man out of the three of us is paying.” Arthur huffed, a teasing smile on his lips as his hand lazily wrapped around his glass.

You were positively buzzed, high on your win along with Charles’. You snickered, raising your own glass as you took a drink. 

Charles laughed, deep from his belly as he threw his head back. His hand clapping Arthur on the shoulder, nearly shoving him forward from the force of it.

“The poorest man? If I remember correctly I don’t own my own ranch.” He chuckled, his cheeks ruddy as he grinned at him. 

“That don’t make me any richer!” Arthur laughed, shaking his head. You hummed to yourself, your gaze flicking from one to the other.

“So how’d the two of you get into circuits?” You asked, resting your elbows on the table, subtly pushing your breasts forward, wondering if they’d take the bait. Arthur’s eyes flicked from yours to your chest. Clearing his throat as he looked away. Charles smirked, holding your gaze.

“My dad was a part of it when he was younger, not to this level but…” Arthur shrugged, taking a swig from his glass. “Growing up there wasn’t much to do but work and ride.”

“And you?” You asked, finding Charles' piercing gaze.

“We always had horses. Thought I could make a living doing something I loved.” He said as he shrugged his broad shoulders.

Heat flooded your body as you sipped your drink, although you didn’t know if it was from the alcohol or their heated looks. 

“What about you?” Arthur asked, clearing his throat.

“Well I was in 4H for a while, my grandparents had a horse and I just became obsessed.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “I was that weird horse girl in school.”

“But it paid off didn’t it?” He asked, raising his glass.

“I guess it did.” You smiled, clinking your glass against his and Charles'. “I love racing, but I love horses more. I own a little place and breed them for the most part. It’s a small operation but it keeps the bills paid and I don’t have to sit behind a desk.” 

“Hear, hear.” Charles chuckled, taking a long swig. 

Arthur waved over the waitress, handing her his card as he leaned back in his chair.

“Eager?” You teased, biting your lip.

“Wha- no! No ma’am just-“ He went beet red, letting out a sigh. “Just making sure I don’t forget to pay our tab.” He mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Charles chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh you wanna chime in Charles?” 

“No, no I’m perfectly content.” He mused.

“Well I’ll admit it then.” You said, tipping your glass back as you finished what was left, “Which one of you has the room with the bigger bed?”

The men looked at each other.

“I got a queen in mine.” Arthur said, clearing his throat.

“California king.” Charles smirked, following suit as he downed his whiskey.

“Course you do.” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

“Ain’t a competition boys,” You chuckled, “just wanna make sure they’ll be room enough for all of us.” You smirked, looking between the two of them.

“Oh, they’ll be room sweetheart.” 

The three of you quickly left the bar, you were glad that Arthur was thinking ahead with paying his tab. Charles’ hand wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed over your skin. Arthur’s fingers linked through yours, his cheeks ruddy as you all walked back to Arthur’s pickup. 

Arthur got into the driver seat as Charles opened the door for you. You were squished between the men, each of their tree trunk thighs pressed up against yours. 

Heat was starting to pool in your core, butterflies fluttering in your belly. Arthur’s hand found your denim clad thigh, squeezing it gently. 

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as he pulled up to the Days Inn. You crawled out of the car after Arthur, the doors slammed shut as you walked into the hotel. Ignoring the not so subtle looks from the receptionist, Charles lead you down the hall towards his room. Pulling out his card, he swiped it through the slot. The light turned green as the door clicked open. 

Once inside, Charles pulled off his jacket, laying it on the chair next to the desk. It wasn’t necessarily a fancy room, but the bed was definitely big enough for the three of you. The sheets were neatly folded and tucked, and you couldn’t wait to mess them up. 

Arthur unbuttoned his sleeves, pulling them up to his elbows as he pulled off his boots. You watched as Charles did the same, kicking his boots off to the side of the room. You bit your lip, turning your attention to Arthur as he crossed his arms.

“I wanna thank you for paying.” You said softly, running your hands down his chest.

“It was my pleasure, ma’am.” He mumbled, the tips of his ears turning pink. 

“Oh it will be.” You smirked, your fingers touching his belt buckle. “This okay?” You asked, meeting his azure eyes. He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You bit your lip, unsnapping the buckle. His breath hitched as you unbuttoned his jeans.

“Breathe Arthur.” Charles said, much closer than you realized. A wall of heat connected with your back, as he tucked his chin over your shoulder. 

You pulled him out of his jeans, your mouth watering at the sight of him. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking him.

“Jesus.” He breathed, swallowing thickly as he shut his eyes. You could feel Charles chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest.

“Feels good, don’t it?” He mused, his breath sending shivers down your spine. 

“Feels- fuck feel amazing sweetheart.” You couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or Charles, you didn’t care either way. You pulled your hand away for a second, trying and failing to hold back your smirk as he whined at the loss of contact. You spit in your hand, running your saliva over his mushroom head. “Oh Christ.” His eyes rolled in the back of his head. How damn touched starved was this man? You’d hardly touched him and from the way he was panting and cursing, it sounded like he’d blow his load any minute. And you didn’t want that to be anywhere but inside you. 

You fell to your knees, ignoring the dull ache as you dropped. 

“Honey you don’t-“

“She wants to, don’t she?” You nodded, wrapping your hands around his thick cock. You pressed a kiss to his head, smirking as you felt him suck in a breath. Charles’ hands gathered up your hair, pulling it back from your face. 

You cupped his heavy balls, fondling them as you licked a stripe up his shaft. You took him into your mouth, humming at the slightly salty taste. Hollowing your cheeks, you pushed forward. Gripping his thighs as he hit the back of your throat.

“Holy shit-“ He breathed above you, your scalp stung as Charles tugged you back. 

“This alright honey?” You nodded, sucking Arthur’s head as you looked up at Charles. He started to guide you, pushing you forward on Arthur’s cock. You focused on your breathing, tears stinging your eyes as Charles pulled you back and forth.

The moans that fell from Arthur’s lips were near pornographic. One of your hands moved from his thigh to between your legs, pressing your hand against your core. You rocked on your hand, finding some sweet friction through your jeans. 

“Oh fuck- she likes it, don’t you sweetheart?” Charles asked, his breath falling heavily from his lips. You nodded, bobbing on Arthur as you hummed. Arthur nearly crumbled, his hand flew out to grab onto Charles shoulder, steadying himself. 

“I’m not gonna- damnit- I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.” Arthur said through gritted teeth. 

You doubled down on your efforts, swallowing around him. Your eyes found his, before they rolled back into his head. His dick jumped in your mouth, spurting cum down your throat. You gagged, pulling back as you worked to swallow it all down. 

“Fuck me.” Arthur chuckled breathlessly, his thumb brushing over your lips. He pulled you to your feet, crashing his lips against yours. Charles moved your hair over your shoulder, kissing up your neck. 

“Bed.” You panted, threading your fingers through Arthur’s honey brown hair, while your other hand cradled Charles face. 

The men lead you to the bed, Charles deft fingers unbuttoning your shirt, tugging it down your body. Arthur sat back on the bed, tugging your forward by your hips. You stepped in between his parted legs, goosebumps erupting on your skin as Charles unhooked your bra. Arthur’s hand flew to your breasts, his mouth following suit as he circled your nipple with his tongue. You moaned, pulling him closer by his hair. Charles' finger hooked under your jaw, turning you to face him. He kissed you, his tongue swiping against your lips as he silently asked for entrance. 

You parted your lips, your tongue dancing against his in your mouth. You reached for Charles' belt, unbuckling it. He moaned into you as you wrapped your hand around his dick. Your eyes snapped open as you felt just how big he was. Arthur nipped at your breast, turning your attention back to him. 

“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” You nodded, tongue tied as you climbed onto the bed. Charles kicked off his pants and briefs, as Arthur’s hand wrapped around your calf, tugging you down the bed. You let out a small squeak, your heart pounding as he pulled off your jeans. “Could they be any tighter?” He chuckled.

You bit your lip, a small chuckle escaping. His fingers dipped under the waistband of your underwear, tugging them off as well. 

Now you were all bare, naked as the day you were born. Charles was stroking himself, his eyes dark and heavy as he watched you and Arthur. 

“I wanna taste.” Charles hummed, stepping closer. Arthur moved from between your legs, the bed dipping slightly as he joined you on the bed. You swallowed thickly, staring down at Charles as his broad shoulders pushed your thighs further apart. Arthur brushed a few strands back from your face, licking his lips as he looked down. 

Charles descended, licking a stripe up your slit. He sucked your clit into his mouth, a pathetic mewl falling from your lips. Your body was on fire, each nerve ablaze as he feasted on you. 

“Charles- oh god-“ He moaned into your mound, circling your clit with his tongue. Your head fell back against Arthur’s shoulder, you hadn’t even realized he’d moved behind you. You fisted his hair, your hips rising on this own accord. He slung his arm over your waist, holding you down. His tongue thrusted into your hole, licking up into you.

“Charles!” You cried, your legs trembling on either side of his head. 

“Atta girl, come on his face.” Arthur drawled behind you, throwing you over the edge. You cried out, probably pulling out his hair as hard as you cling to him. You shamelessly grind against his face as he slurped up your cum. 

He pulled back, a grin spread across his face as he panted.

“Bet she tastes perfect.” Arthur mused, trailing his hand up and down your arm.

“Wanna find out?” Charles grinned as he leaned over you. His hand wrapped around the back of Arthur’s neck as he pulled him into a kiss. Arthur’s eyes widened, a muffled noise of surprise leaving him before he melted. Charles' hard cock rubbed against your thigh as you watched the two. You were weightless beneath them, no doubt dripping at their display. They pulled apart, a line of saliva connecting them. 

“Yeah… she tastes real good.” Arthur murmured, his eyes hazy as he stared at Charles’ lips. Charles slowly swiped his thumb against Arthur’s lips before turning back to you.

“Think you’re ready for me?” You nodded, shamelessly wiggling your hips. He grinned, almost blinding you with how his face lit up. He shuffled slightly, guiding himself to your weeping core. You breathed as he pushed in, it was a pinch, but the good kind. Your moan filled the air before being swallowed by Charles. 

“So tight.” Charles moaned against your lips, his eyes half lidded as he thrusted deep. Your breath punched out of your lungs with each thrust. Arthur’s hands cupped your breasts, thumbing your nipples as your body was propelled into his lap. Charles hands gripped your hips, you’d definitely have bruises in the morning. The thought pushed you higher, knowing every time you looked at your body you’d remember this moment.

“Fuck- oh Charles-“ You whined, scrambling for purchase against Arthur.

“Ain’t that pretty.” Arthur moaned, hardening against your bare back. 

“Y/n.” Charles groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. “Where- where do you want it?”

“Inside, I’m on the pill.” You moaned, your nails digging into Arthur’s bicep. 

He thrust once, twice, three times before stilling inside you. His hips jolted with each pulse, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You were all panting harshly, your hair stuck to your forehead with sweat. He slowly pulled out, smoothing his hand down your belly as he spread your legs.

“Pretty girl.” Charles hummed, his touch reverent. 

“Can I, sweetheart?” Arthur’s breath sent shivers down your spine as he whispered in your ear. Your head lolled back and forth as you met his eyes. Charles got up, heading to the bathroom as Arthur moved to between your thighs. 

“Shit- you were right, she’s real pretty.” Arthur chuckled, a smirk on his lips as he pumped his cock. “This all for us?” Arthur mused, his hand rubbing your thigh.

“All for you.” He scooted closer, swiping the head of his cock through your slicked folds. An overstimulated mewl left your lips.

”Arthur-“ He pushed in with a groan of his own. Your eyes rolled back, pleasure spiking up your spine. “Arthur!” You cried, your nails digging into his biceps. Arthur hissed, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he looked down at you. His mind was a mess, clearly thinking with his other head. Charles had kissed him, he’d tasted you on his lips. Now he was balls deep as you marked up his arms. Maybe he’d gotten knocked off the bronc earlier in the day, maybe this was all some coma induced dream. Tears pricked your eyes, clouding your vision as you looked up at him. Your body seized up, your thighs clenching around his hips as your second orgasm rocked through you. 

“God damnit.” He groaned, hanging his head as he came. Heat flooded your core, as his weight settled on top of you. He ran his nose up and down the column of your throat, your heart beat pounding in your ears. You ran your hands up and down his freckled back, looking up as Charles walked back into the room.

“You’re crushing her.” Charles chuckled, replacing your hand as he rubbed Arthur’s back. He pulled out of you with a sigh, flopping down on the bed beside you. 

You flinched as a warm rag ran down your slit. “Easy.” Charles said, like he was calming a frightened animal. You relaxed, letting him clean you up.

“Sorry.” You chuckled weakly, your hand resting between your breasts. Arthur turned to face you, brushing your hair back from your face. You smiled, leaning into his touch. The bed dipped as Charles laid down on your other side. His hand splayed across your belly as he shuffled closer. You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of clean sheets and sex.

Arthur was sure he was still dreaming. The morning sun cut through the cheap curtains, shining directly into his eyes. He groaned, burying his face back into his pillow. Although, he didn’t remember pillows giggling.

“Not a morning person?” You teased, lightly scratching his scalp. 

“Thought you owned your own ranch, Arthur?” Charles’ baritone voice vibrated through his bones.

He pulled back, looking down at you before looking over at Charles. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain an ounce of dignity.

“Well normally I ain’t up all night.” He mumbled, heat flooding his cheeks. You chuckled, the sound warming his chest better than a cup of coffee.

“We didn’t wear you out too much did we?” 

“You forget sweetheart, Arthur’s on the older side.” Charles teased, smirking at him.

“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes, not bothering to fight the smile that tugged at his lips.

“Just messing with you, fool.” Charles said, nudging his shoulder. What he would have assumed as a friendly gesture before, felt anything but. His body lit up where his elbow connected.

“Shit.” You groaned, looking over at the red blinking numbers on the alarm clock. You climbed out of bed, limping slightly.

“You alright, darlin?” Arthur asked, his hand going to your elbow to steady you.

“I’m alright, big guy.” You chuckled, patting his chest, your eyes sparkled as they met him. “Just a little sore.” He smiled sheepishly, his stomach flip-flopping. You grabbed your phone off the nightstand, his spirit falling as you pulled away. “Number?” You asked, smiling so damn sweetly up at him. He told you, and next was Charles. Both their phones buzzed as you sent a text.

“I don’t mean to run, but I was supposed to be on the road around five this morning.” You chuckled, grabbing your clothes from off the floor.

Shit, Arthur grabbed his phone, checking the time. He still had three hours before his flight, thank god.

“You’ll let us know when you get home safe, right?” Arthur asked, looking up as you zipped up your pants.

“Yes sir.” You teased, Charles chuckled as he pulled on his own pants.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” He chided, although his tone lacked any heat

“Who says I can’t finish it?” You said with mock-offense, “You wanna bet?”