Ryder wove his way through the dusty maze of dually trucks and long-haul rigs, the air thick with the mingled scents of hay, diesel, and last call from the beer tent. His boots crunched over gravel, each step measured, his eyes sweeping the rows for one thing in particular—a white gooseneck trailer with a bold, pink barrel racer decal curled across its side like a signature.
He found it parked under the dim halo of a pole light, aluminum skin catching a dull shine. His jaw tightened. He lifted a gloved hand and knocked, the sound carrying in the still night.
The door swung open, spilling a wedge of warm lamplight into the dark. Becky leaned out, all sun-streaked hair and rodeo charm, her smile wide enough to hold the memory of a dozen late-night flirtations.
“Well, if it isn’t Ryder Hay
