CHAPTER FIVE
CLINT STEPPED ONTO the first row of metal bleachers and held his hand out for her. Grasping his fingers, and letting him maneuver through the crowd of seated spectators, they went to the very top, where a metal brace across the end provided a place for their backs to rest.
She watched the next horse in line prance into the arena, ears pricked forward in anticipation. Three fifty-five-gallon drums had been laid out to form a familiar triangle.
Barrel racing.
The speed event looked deceptively easy, but if a horse knocked over a barrel as it went around it, the rider received a five-second penalty, enough to cost a winning ribbon.
“I used to do this, you know. Run barrels.”
“I know you did.”
Her head swiveled to look at the man sitting next to her, completely missing the horse’s take-off.
“You did?”
He smiled. “I came to the fair on occasion. Watched a few of the 4-H events.”
The thought of Clint sitting on one of these very bleachers, watching her compete, was unnerving. How would she have missed him with the way he’d dressed back then? He hadn’t exactly looked the part of an emerging cowboy.
Exactly. She would have noticed him.
Which meant he’d never actually seen her race. She settled back into place.
“I didn’t realize you were interested in 4-H.”
His gaze went back to the arena. “I wasn’t.”
Something about the way he’d said that …
“Do you still have your trophy?” He was still looking straight ahead, thankfully, but her gasp sounded like a gunshot to her ears, despite the noise going on around her.
The metal brace behind her groaned as more people leaned against it. Jessi eased some of her weight off it.
“How did you know I …?” She’d only won one trophy in all her years of entering the event.
“I happened to be in the vicinity that day.”
How did one happen to be in the vicinity of the fair? It spanned a large area. And the horse arena wasn’t exactly next to the carnival rides or food.
“You saw me run?”
“I saw a lot of people compete.”
Okay, that explained it. “So you came out to all the horse events?”
“Not all of them. I had a few friends who did different things.”
Like run barrels? She didn’t think so. Neither did she remember him hanging out with any of her 4-H friends. And the only year she’d won the event had been as a high school senior.
The next horse—a splashy brown and white paint—came in, and she fixed her attention on it, although her mind was going at a million miles an hour. The rider directed the horse in a tight circle near the starting area and then let him go. The animal’s neck stretched forward as he raced toward the first barrel, tail streaming out behind him.
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