Page 63 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
The announcer calls the next rider, the crowd roars again, and I know my turn is coming fast. The noise, smells, and colors all blur, but Quinn’s voice sticks. Steady. Certain.
For the first time, I think I might just be able to ride for the right reasons.
The air shifts when they call my name. All the chatter, laughter, Ava’s last note fade into a hum that presses against my ribs. It’s just me, the bronc, and the chute gate.
I pull my gloves tight, fingers trembling with nerves I’ll never admit to. My heart hammers like it’s trying to break through bone. I used to chase this rush, used to let it eat me alive until the only way to come down was through something stronger—pills, powder, poison. Not today. Today, I’m sober. Today, I’m here for the right reasons.
The bronc shifts under me, muscles twitching, pure power coiled and waiting. I grip down hard, jaw clenched, and mutter, “Alright, boy. Let’s give ’em a show.”
From the rail, I catch Quinn’s face—eyes locked on me, steady and fierce, like she’s willing me to hold on. Dad’s arms arecrossed, proud but tense. Zane is grinning like a fool, Ava beside him clapping in rhythm with the crowd.
“Ready when you are!” the chute man hollers.
I nod. One sharp breath. Then the gate flies open.
The bronc explodes out—sun flashing, dirt spraying, the roar of the crowd like thunder rolling over me. My body jolts, every muscle straining to stay centered. The rhythm is wild, unpredictable—back, twist, slam. My hat nearly flies, but I grip tighter, teeth bared in something between a grin and a growl.
Eight seconds have never felt so long, or so short.
By the time the buzzer blares, I’m still upright, still breathing, still riding. I let go, half-flying as I hit the dirt, rolling with the fall. Pain sparks through my side, but when I spring to my feet and throw my hand in the air, the noise of the arena nearly splits me in half.
They’re on their feet. Cheering for me. Not because I’m Hank Morgan’s son. Not because I’m Zane’s brother. For me.
And when my eyes find Quinn again—her smile wide, hands clapping, tears glinting in the sun—I know I didn’t just ride for the crowd. I rode for her.
My family reacts fast. Zane barrels toward me with a grin wide enough to split his face, slapping my back so hard my teeth rattle.
“Hell yeah, brother! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he shouts, laughing loud enough for half the arena to hear.
Ella squeezes through next. She throws her arms around me without a care that I’m coated in dust and sweat. “You were incredible, big brother! They love you out there!”
I laugh, breathless, still buzzing from the ride. “I think I remember how to stay on now.”
Father comes slower, measured, but when he reaches me, his hand clamps down on my shoulder, firm and steady. His eyes say more than his words ever could. Still, he gives me both. “Proud of you, son. Real proud.”
It nearly undoes me, hearing it from him. My throat tightens, heat stinging behind my eyes. For years, all I wanted was this moment—his approval, his faith in me.
But then Quinn is in front of me, weaving through the others, her smile making my chest ache. She doesn’t stop to think—she just launches into my arms. I catch her, hold her tight against me, and the noise of the arena dims to nothing.
“I thought my heart was going to stop right there,” she murmurs against my neck, voice shaking. “But you… God, Beck, you were amazing.”
I pull back just enough to look at her, dirt-streaked and breathless, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the rest of the world has finally let me go. No judgment. No shadows. Just her.
“I didn’t do it for them,” I say quietly, only for her. “I did it for you.”
Her eyes soften, glisten, and she doesn’t answer with words—just leans up and presses her lips to mine, quick but sure, right there in front of everyone. And when the crowd erupts again, I can’t tell if it’s for the kiss or the ride. Doesn’t matter.
For the first time in a long damn time, I’m not ashamed of who I am.
The cheer of the crowd still rolls over me like a wave, loud enough to shake the bleachers. But it’s not just noise—it’s something heavier, warmer. Acceptance. Forgiveness.
For so long I braced myself against their whispers, the pointed looks, the ones who turned their backs when my name came up. I earned that scorn. I gave them every reason to believe I was nothing but wasted potential.
But right now, none of that matters. They’re clapping, whistling, stomping their boots against the stands—for me.
It feels like shackles snapping loose one by one.
Quinn’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight, and I can’t stop staring at her. She’s been my anchor through all of this, the reason I didn’t drown in the shame. I see pride in her eyes, not pity. That alone steadies me.
