But he needed something for himself more than he needed that. Something where he gets to be Cade Eaton, the individual, and not just Cade Eaton, the single dad and tireless rancher.

I must have a stupid smile on my face as I stare back at him because I feel an elbow nudge against mine. “It’s nice to see someone looking at Cade like that. Defending him like that,” Jasper says. “Like they can see him for who he is rather than the man circumstances forced him to become.”

“Getting kind of deep for a rodeo,” I whisper, not wanting to involve Rhett in this conversation because it will just turn into a big joke.

Jasper shrugs. “Wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for him. Would be nice to see him happy.”

I nod because I agree. It is nice to see him happy. “Where would you be without him?”

Jasper continues staring out into the ring, watching the first team ride in on their horses. He sighs deeply, and without sparing me a glance, he says, “If not for the Eaton boys, I’d probably be dead.”

* * *

When Cade enters the ring, you wouldn’t know he hasn’t taken part in a rodeo in years—possibly decades. He looks like a king sitting on his horse. Thick, round shoulders and veined forearms. Like everyone around him should fall to their knees in his presence.

My core twinges at the thought of falling to my knees for Cade. I wish he were less responsible. That he’d shirk all those pressures and just take me.

I’d get off on watching someone as steady as Cade completely lose it.

The judge calls out the numbers of the cows from their table, and Cade and his team members assess the cattle. When a buzzer sounds, time starts counting down and the three men on horseback jump into action.

There’s something mesmerizing about watching Cade. He knows what he’s doing. So sure. So cool and collected. He’s insanely capable, and I’ve never found that as attractive as I do now.

Capable in the ring.

Capable at the ranch.

Capable around his house.

I can’t help but let my mind wander into the gutter, wondering if he’s just as capable in bed. I decide he must be. No man walks around unaffected by people’s opinions of him unless he knows he packs a serious punch.

It’s that quiet confidence that has me crossing my legs and squeezing my thighs together, gripping the edge of the wooden bench beneath me.

His forearms ripple in the sun when his gloved hands squeeze on the reins. The tendons in his tanned neck flex as Blueberry cuts and dekes, her head drawn low, eyes laser-focused on the cows trying to get past her.

She has a mean expression on what is normally a sweet face.