Page 7 of Knox

At the very end of the grounds, a massive Ferris wheel rose, its glittering lights casting a glow over the entire fairgrounds and the city of San Antonio beyond.

Knox nodded toward a vendor stand and, before she could stop him, pulled out his wallet and purchased a basket of cheese curds. The smell alone could make her weep.

The last time she’d eaten, she might have downed a bag of chips as she and the girls had been rehearsing under the stage lights, trying to nail their new finale.

Tomorrow night everything could change for them in the space of the opening act.

Now, she popped a curd into her mouth, let the salty, cheesy goodness and the slight tang of the beer batter soothe the ragged edges of tonight’s craziness. She held the basket out to Knox, and he took one.

He moaned a little as he savored the treat.

“I know, right? I’m from a little town on the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin that specializes in cheese curds. They win the cheese contest.”

Down the row, country music wheedled out from a stage, and they wandered over to a band tucked into a side street, some locals trying to make a name for themselves. They’d gathered a small crowd.

She well remembered those days, playing for tips and the small but faithful audience. Still lived it, on a higher level, perhaps. She slid onto a bench, listening.

Knox sat next to her. Not too close, but enough to feel his presence.

“They’re good,” she said after the first song. “The lead singer knows how to work his audience.” Tall, dark blond hair, wearing a pair of black Converse high tops, ripped jeans, and a baseball hat on backward, the crooner made eye contact with a few ladies and had them swooning.

To her recollection, Kelsey had never swooned over a man. Run from them, pushed them away, even feared them, but swooning?

She didn’t have room for swooning. For charm or anything, really, beyond a basket of cheese curds under a starry sky.

Knox leaned back on the bench. “I guess so,” he said in response to her comment. “I don’t go to concerts.”

“Do you listen to country music?” She didn’t know why his answer caught her breath.

He lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes. I listen to whatever my mother has playing in the house.”

His…mother?

He must have sensed her question because he looked over at her. “I run the family ranch, in western Montana, just outside the small town of Geraldine, south of Glacier National Park. Seems silly to build an entire house for just me.”

Oh. Right. She offered him the last cheese curd, but he waved her off. She finished it and wiped her hands on a napkin. “So, I take it you knew that bull in the barn.”

“Yeah. He’s one of our stars. We breed bucking bulls—have a PBR champion named Gordo who’s sired a number of other winners. Hot Pete is his best issue. He’s four years old, and was a PBR Finals bull the last two years, a world champion. I’m working out his contract for the NBR-X.”

She nodded, and maybe her face gave her away, because he raised an eyebrow. “What—?”

“I just… Isn’t it cruel? To make them buck like that?”

“Make them…oh, you’re thinking of the strap we put on around their hindquarters to make them buck.”

She nodded. “I’ve…been to a few rodeos. Seen the protesters.”

He shook his head. “I love my animals. They’re valuable athletes just like the cowboys, and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. The bulls wear a strap that adds pressure, but it doesn’t hurt them. And I promise, it doesn’t cut into their, um, sire abilities.” He met her eyes again, and a streak of solid heat poured through her.

“People get killed riding bulls,” she said.

“People can get killed taking a walk in the park.”

Oh, she knew that. Too well.

“It’s a sport that’s been around since the 1930s. And every year it gets a little safer. But yeah, it’s dangerous.” He leaned forward, his muscled forearms on his legs. Thick, sinewed, and—

“Did you ever ride bulls?” She wasn’t sure why she asked, but it just felt like maybe—

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