stupid and reckless and macho in the very worst way, but God help me, it’s still making my insides flutter and I hate myself for it.
“I’m not known for causing needless deaths,” I say. “Would you mind if we kept it that way?”
I take the camera and our hands touch, but he doesn’t let it go.
“You got a good grip on it?” he asks, teasing, those hazel eyes looking down at me like we’re alone in this arena of a thousand.
“I can handle it,” I say.
He slides his fingers over mine as he lets go, and they’re rough and calloused, hands used to farm work and heavy labor.
I slip the strap back over my neck and look down at the camera, praying it’s not too broken from the fall, but Jackson doesn’t leave, he just stands there in front of me.
“How busted is it?” he asks.
I hit the power button and hold my breath. The screen comes on, though the picture is blurry.
I exhale.
“Not as busted as it could be,” I say.
Something’s broken for sure, but the camera’s in one piece, not a thousand.
Still, I can’t believe what an idiot I am.
“Can you fix it?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of himself and looking down at it like he’s examining a truck engine.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not, but I’ve got a backup camera. This one’s better, but I’m not totally screwed.”
“Good,” he says. “I was afraid my pretty mug might not make Sports Weekly.”
“So that’s why you risked your own hide to get this thing back?” I say.
“My hide?” he says, and laughs. “You’ve been around cowboys too much already, darlin’.”
Crap .
I’ve mostly shed the West Texas twang I grew up with. Back in New York, when I tell people where I’m from, they’re usually surprised.
But here, where everyone talks like this? I can practically feel my accent elbowing its way back into my speech.
“Please don’t call me darlin ’,” I say, still looking down at the camera.
“It’s just a nickname,” he says.
“I’ve got a real name,” I say, and finally look up at him, into his laughing eyes. “It’s Mae.”
“You sure Mae’s not a nickname?” he asks. “It’s awful short is all.”
My stomach twists and I narrow my eyes.
Does he remember?
“Nope,” I say. “Mae’s what’s on my birth certificate.”
Technically, it’s true.
“All right, Mae ,” he says, and then someone calls his name.
We both look at another guy waving Jackson’s hat in the air. One side of it’s a little crushed, but it could be in worse shape.
Jackson nods, then looks back at me.
“We’re gettin’ drinks at Betty’s Lounge when this is over,” he says. “You should come by. There ought to be some good photo opportunities. And if we ask real nice, they’ll turn on the karaoke machine.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Have some fun for once, darlin’,” he says, and winks at me.
Then he walks away before I can even open my mouth to protest, and I watch him go.
Heads turn after him — male, female, it doesn’t matter. He nods at two girls, both dressed up in their rodeo finest, and says something. They both burst into giggles once he passes, and I feel a pang of solidarity with them. No matter how prickly I am to Jackson on the outside, deep down, I turn to jello when he looks at me.
I wish my camera weren’t broken, because this could be a good shot: a cowboy walks away, heads turn after him.
Then he turns a corner and I feel invisible again, like I fade into the background, and I take a deep breath of relief.
This is how I prefer things. I’m behind the camera, after all.
* * *
W hen the rodeo’s over for the night, Bruce and I hold a quick conference on the way back to the motel. I don’t want to talk about dropping my camera, but he saw the whole thing, of course. Thankfully he’s nice enough not to lecture me.
“You brought a backup, right?” Bruce asks.
“Of course,” I say.
He nods, and we move on.
We go over the plan for the next day —
“I’m not known for causing needless deaths,” I say. “Would you mind if we kept it that way?”
I take the camera and our hands touch, but he doesn’t let it go.
“You got a good grip on it?” he asks, teasing, those hazel eyes looking down at me like we’re alone in this arena of a thousand.
“I can handle it,” I say.
He slides his fingers over mine as he lets go, and they’re rough and calloused, hands used to farm work and heavy labor.
I slip the strap back over my neck and look down at the camera, praying it’s not too broken from the fall, but Jackson doesn’t leave, he just stands there in front of me.
“How busted is it?” he asks.
I hit the power button and hold my breath. The screen comes on, though the picture is blurry.
I exhale.
“Not as busted as it could be,” I say.
Something’s broken for sure, but the camera’s in one piece, not a thousand.
Still, I can’t believe what an idiot I am.
“Can you fix it?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of himself and looking down at it like he’s examining a truck engine.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not, but I’ve got a backup camera. This one’s better, but I’m not totally screwed.”
“Good,” he says. “I was afraid my pretty mug might not make Sports Weekly.”
“So that’s why you risked your own hide to get this thing back?” I say.
“My hide?” he says, and laughs. “You’ve been around cowboys too much already, darlin’.”
Crap .
I’ve mostly shed the West Texas twang I grew up with. Back in New York, when I tell people where I’m from, they’re usually surprised.
But here, where everyone talks like this? I can practically feel my accent elbowing its way back into my speech.
“Please don’t call me darlin ’,” I say, still looking down at the camera.
“It’s just a nickname,” he says.
“I’ve got a real name,” I say, and finally look up at him, into his laughing eyes. “It’s Mae.”
“You sure Mae’s not a nickname?” he asks. “It’s awful short is all.”
My stomach twists and I narrow my eyes.
Does he remember?
“Nope,” I say. “Mae’s what’s on my birth certificate.”
Technically, it’s true.
“All right, Mae ,” he says, and then someone calls his name.
We both look at another guy waving Jackson’s hat in the air. One side of it’s a little crushed, but it could be in worse shape.
Jackson nods, then looks back at me.
“We’re gettin’ drinks at Betty’s Lounge when this is over,” he says. “You should come by. There ought to be some good photo opportunities. And if we ask real nice, they’ll turn on the karaoke machine.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Have some fun for once, darlin’,” he says, and winks at me.
Then he walks away before I can even open my mouth to protest, and I watch him go.
Heads turn after him — male, female, it doesn’t matter. He nods at two girls, both dressed up in their rodeo finest, and says something. They both burst into giggles once he passes, and I feel a pang of solidarity with them. No matter how prickly I am to Jackson on the outside, deep down, I turn to jello when he looks at me.
I wish my camera weren’t broken, because this could be a good shot: a cowboy walks away, heads turn after him.
Then he turns a corner and I feel invisible again, like I fade into the background, and I take a deep breath of relief.
This is how I prefer things. I’m behind the camera, after all.
* * *
W hen the rodeo’s over for the night, Bruce and I hold a quick conference on the way back to the motel. I don’t want to talk about dropping my camera, but he saw the whole thing, of course. Thankfully he’s nice enough not to lecture me.
“You brought a backup, right?” Bruce asks.
“Of course,” I say.
He nods, and we move on.
We go over the plan for the next day —
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