Page 77 of Come With Me

Noah

“Goddamn, I love me some cowboys in tight Wranglers. ’Tis the rodeo season for fine asses,” my childhood best friend, Magnolia, blurts way too loudly. A woman ahead of us glances over her shoulder with a scowl.

I burst out laughing, nudging my elbow into Magnolia’s side as we walk into the arena. Not that her big mouth should even surprise me.

“Me too,” my little cousin singsongs next to me.

“Mallory, shush your mouth. You’re too young to be lookin’,” I tell her.

“I’m twelve!”

“Exactly. Close your eyes.” I attempt to cover them for her, but she shoves me away.

Magnolia snickers as we make our way up the ramp and into the arena. It smells like leather, dirt, and sweat. People in cowboy hats and boots walk around looking for a place to sit. The Franklin Rodeo is the heart of Southern rodeo in Tennessee. Every June, my family and I make the four-hour drive to watch the shows, eat lots of food, and listen to the live bands.

As a professional horse trainer on my family’s ranch, I work with many clients for events like these. Barrel racing is one of my favorites to watch because I love that adrenaline high while anticipating them making it around the barrels without knocking them over. The excitement of each horse crossing the finish line gets me fired up every time.

One of my clients, Ellie, competes today. I’ve had butterflies in my stomach for the past week waiting for this. I live for the satisfaction of witnessing how the time I put in pays off. I also love showing my support when I can. I’ve worked with Ellie and her quarter horse for the past year, though she’s been doing it a lot longer than that.

As we walk through to find a place to sit, I notice a few trainers glare at me and whisper to each other. I’m not surprised, considering it happens each time I’m at a competition, but it doesn’t hurt any less. Most of them are in their forties and think I’m too young to have the success I do. I hear the rumors about how I only got here because of my last name and parents' money. On top of my being too young, the male trainers don’t think I’m strong enough to train difficult breeds and like to degrade my skills to “good enough for a girl.” But the truth is, I wouldn’t keep my clients or get new ones if I couldn’t back up my promises with talent.

“Don’t look at them.” Magnolia nudges me. “They’re envious pricks with small dicks.”

I snort, avert my gaze, and stay focused on maneuvering around people.

“And that’s why they didn’t get an invite to the Hollis fundraiser event of the decade,” I gloat with a snarky smirk.

“Damn right. They could only wish to be good enough to be personally invited bytheNoah Hollis.”

I’ve been a trainer for years, but I’ve had to work at it every day since I was a teenager. My parents’ money and ranch for me to practice on helped advance my skill, but my drive to learn and improve brought me to this level. Still, that makes me unlikable in this professional industry.

Six months ago, I proposed an idea to host a fundraising competition that’d benefit injured or rescued horses. I invited local trainers to bring their best clients to change the public's misperceptions of me and give them a chance to know the real me. Not only is it beneficial to the charity and community but it’s a way for us to network as professionals.

My family’s been all hands on deck in securing everything we need for it, and the first annual event will take place on our ranch in only a few weeks.

When we find seats, Mallory spots some friends she met at camp and asks to sit by them a few rows over.

“Don’t leave the buildin’ without me,” I remind her before she wanders off. She’s still close, so I can keep an eye on her. She moved in with my family a couple of years ago after my aunt and uncle passed away and has become a little sister to me. Although she drives me nuts sometimes, I’m super protective of her.

My parents and four older brothers are here somewhere. We venture off to different things, and since we brought three campers to sleep in, we come and go as we please. As an honorary family member, Magnolia tags along to most of our outings.

After ten minutes of waiting, the emcee announces Ellie’s division.

“I’m gonna get closer.”

“Well, shit. Don’t leave me here.” Magnolia follows me down the steps. You’re not supposed to stand in the front and block others’ views, but I’ll only be a few minutes.

A few riders run, and one barrel tips over, making us wait for them to reset it.

“A hot guy in the row above ours is checkin’ you out,” Magnolia whispers.

Turning slightly, I see the man she’s talking about. Shoulder-length brown hair. Sharp jawline covered in dark scruff and a matching mustache the perfect length for inner thigh scratching. His biceps look like they’ll rip through his rolled-up shirtsleeves if he moves another inch.

My eyes widen as I return my gaze to Magnolia’s smug expression.

“Told ya. He’s bangin’.”

That’s an understatement.

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