Page 106 of Second Rodeo


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A tear splashes onto the page as I read Molly’s handwriting under it, all looping cursive:

Happily, ever after. ??

Did she know then? Did she feel it too?

I keep flipping, and suddenly the mood shifts. We’re no longer at the courthouse—we’re in color and light and beauty. Photos from the rehearsal dinner at the bar in town, the one with the mismatched chairs and the exposed brick I always loved and remembered helping build last fall. The place is decorated in soft blues and greens with flowers and dim lighting.

I’m in a white dress I recognize from the closet upstairs, standing at the front of the room with a mic in hand addressing the crowd that gathered. Hayes is leaning against the wall wearing that same, brown cowboy hat, watching me like I’m hiswhole world. Those eyes. The way they hold me from across the space. He adored me even then.

Next comes the wedding morning—me surrounded by Rae, Lydia, Georgia, Molly, and a woman I don’t recognize but must be Scarlett, Hayes sister who helped coordinate the whole thing. Champagne flutes raised, our laughter caught mid-sound in one of the cottages, and I’m wearing the most beautiful white dress I’ve ever seen.

Mydress.

The tears come again.

God, I wish I remembered this. But even if I don’t—I feel it.

And then the next pages wreck me completely.

Hayes’s first look. We’re down by the pond I grew up swimming in every summer. He turns. He sees me. His whole face softens. There’s a shot of him kissing me there, and I swear I can feel it still on my lips. Like it’s waiting to be remembered. I trace his face in the photo, the way his hands cradle my jaw, the smile on my lips, the absolute joy in my eyes. It’s overwhelming. And it’s beautiful.

The final photos are of the wedding itself. Dusk light spilling over everything on the farmstead like honey, flowers everywhere, tables set with food from the brewery, friends and family dancing and smiling like they knew this wasn’t some joke or accident. Like they knew what we were building mattered.

And then the last photo.

Me and Hayes, surrounded by my brothers, their partners, my nephews Max and Beckham, even Troy, Georgia and my baby niece. Everyone beaming. Everyone happy. Even Hayes.

EspeciallyHayes.

I press my fingers gently to the page like I can absorb the happiness found in it, like I can press it into memory. I don’t know what our beginning looked like through my eyes back then, but I know how it feels now.

Like the start of something real.

“I hope it wasn’t too much to see those,” Hayes deep voice says from the doorway to the kitchen.

His words curl around me like smoke, dragging me from the photos and the emotions still blooming heavy in my chest.

I have no idea how long he’s been watching me but he’s leaning there casually, arms folded, back braced against the frame like he’s trying not to come any closer until he knows I’m okay. He looks like every soft and dangerous dream I’ve ever had. Tight, light-washed Wranglers hug his strong thighs and lean hips, a plain white t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and biceps. There’s a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way he’s watching me with so much love I can feel it on my skin.

No man has ever looked at me like that before.

I swipe at my cheeks, my throat thick, and the moment our eyes meet, he’s already closing the distance. He drops to his knees in front of me, one hand reaching for mine, the other steadying himself on the couch beside my thigh.

“It was perfect,” I whisper, choking a little on the knot of emotion lodged behind my ribs. “I’m not crying because I’m sad that I don’t remember it. I’m crying because it’s beautiful. Because I’m so… grateful. For you. For this.”

His hand curls around mine, warm and strong and grounding. He nods, but I can see there’s something else hidden in his expression.

“What are you thinking?” I ask softly, my fingers tightening around his.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me with that devastating focus of his like he’s weighing whether it will be too heavy to share with me.

“I can handle it. You don’t have to treat me like I’m glass.”

He nods. “I’m thinking,” he says finally, “that I want a third wedding with you.”

I blink, startled, a soft gasp slipping out before I even realize it. “What?”

“This time, just our families. Small. Simple. Something we’ll be able to tell our kids about someday. I want to marry you again, Regan. For real this time. Not because of some deal or some clause in a will. Not because we had to. But because I can’t imagine walking through a single day without you by my side and I want you to remember the moment I tell you I do.”