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CHAPTER FIVE
With the morning sun casting long shadows over the dusty rodeo ground, I wait for him. Anticipation tickles my spine. I feel flutters in my stomach, as a sense of nervousness riding on a wave of adrenaline courses through my veins. Sage’s casual text last night after we parted ways - ‘Pick you up at eight?’ - held an entire galaxy of unsaid words.
It wasn’t just a one night thing that I was so used to with the rodeo boys. This man was different. He proved that with those few short words.
And there he is, leaning against his old Ford truck with the kind of casual ease only cowboys possess. His eyes meet mine and the corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile, his excitement barely masked. As I approach, the drumming of my heart becomes my only soundtrack.
He opens the passenger door, the metallic creaking breaking the silent expectancy of the morning. The truck is warm, welcoming, the aroma of fresh coffee mingling with Sage's scent - leather, sweat, and something uniquely him. I breathe it in, let it seep into my pores.
He runs around the truck to get in on the driver’s side and taps the hood twice on the way, as if to say– “Let’s go.”
On the way to the road, the rhythm of the tires on gravel, the sway of the old Ford truck, and the stolen glances from Sage meld into a symphony of nerves and excitement. My emotions are going haywire.
His hand rests on the gearshift, fingers tapping out a silent melody. I place my hand over his, my pulse thundering in my ears. His fingers curl around mine, grip firm and reassuring. The smile he shoots me speaks volumes, his eyes a brighter shade of navy blue in the light of day.
We arrive at a spot that's all Wyoming - windswept plains stretching to the horizon, the Teton mountains standing tall in the distance, and the wild Snake River slicing through the landscape. The beauty of it all takes my breath away.
Sage reaches behind the seat, pulling out a wicker picnic basket. "Didn't reckon you’d fancy a diner breakfast," he confesses, a playful gleam in his eyes.
The morning passes in a blur of shared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, laughter, and heartfelt stories. Sage tells me about his first rodeo, his childhood on a ranch, the joy and terror of the ride. His words, raw and real, reveal a man who's been shaped by the harsh realities of life, but refuses to be broken by them.
As the sun climbs higher, Sage leans over, his gaze intense. His hand gently brushes my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip. My heart does a wild somersault.
"Can I?" he whispers, his voice husky.
I nod, my breath hitching in my throat.
His lips meet mine, soft and warm, sparking a blaze within me. My fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer. This, right here, is more intimate than anything I've ever experienced. This is real, this is raw, this is us.
After a moment that lasts an eternity, he pulls back, his gaze locking onto mine.
"Iris," he breathes.
I swear my name never sounded so sweet.
CHAPTER SIX
The steady hum of anticipation fills the rodeo grounds, a powerful undercurrent that thrums in time with my heartbeat. Sage, poised to ride a beast of a bronc named Thunderstruck, exudes a quiet confidence that makes my heart swell. His worn, dusty chaps, his battered cowboy hat, his focused eyes - everything about him screams rodeo. I've never admired him more than I do in this moment.
From the sidelines, I watch as Sage stretches, each muscle taut and ready. His movements are a wordless poetry, a testament to the countless rides he's made before. I bite my lip, a strange mix of excitement and anxiety swirling in my stomach.
The announcer's booming voice cuts through my thoughts, telling the crowd that it is Sage's turn. The arena erupts into cheers and applause, the sound a near-deafening cacophony that I hardly notice. I watch, my breath held, as Sage swings onto Thunderstruck.
He wraps his hand onto the rope, pulling himself so that he sits closely to the grip. One hand on the chute door. His hat replaced with a helmet that has a cage over his face, and a mouth guard between his teeth that makes his lips even more full and pronounced.
He is bucked in the chute, the horse pressing him into the inner wall and the other riders are there to push the beast so that his leg isn’t crushed before he even starts his ride. He gets settled one more time, and nods.
The gate bursts open and they're off. Thunderstruck launches himself into the arena, bucking with all the force of a storm. But Sage clings on, every jerk of the bronc matched by his fluid counter-movements.
His left arm flying high above his body, balancing himself and keeping in the rules. No touching until the ride is over. His heels dig in with the spurs on the back of his boots, getting a little bit of extra hold on the bronc that is launching them both literal feet in the air.
Eight seconds, just eight seconds. Time stretches out, each passing moment an eternity as I watch them. Twisting jumps
The world narrows down to this spectacle of man and beast, a dance as old as time. And then it happens.
Thunderstruck jerks in a particularly violent twist, hurling himself and Sage to the ground with frightening force. The air is sucked out of my lungs as I watch him hit the dirt with the horse on top of him.
It's a scene I've witnessed many times over in this dangerous sport, but never with such personal terror. With his grip loose, the bull rope loosens too, and releases him from the back of the horse.
