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"Rachel, are you okay? Back from the rez?"
"Yeah, but you and I gotta go visit a rodeo."
"Huh. Well, I always liked the rodeo. Where you at?"
"Parking lot four. Bring your boots. I have a feeling we're getting into some deep shit."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The dust kicked up in whirls, coating everything in a fine, gritty layer. Rachel's boots, a nondescript brown that wouldn't catch an eye in this sea of cowboy hats and buckles, scuffed the dirt as she wove through the crowd. The sound of hooves thudding against compacted earth was a steady drumbeat to the hum of the excited spectators.
"Smells like home," Ethan murmured, his voice barely carrying over the noise. He adjusted the brim of his hat, eyes scanning the stands, always alert.
Rachel nodded, her gaze sweeping the rodeo arena. In her mind, the image of those boots replayed—an ornate pattern stitched into weathered leather, unique enough to stand out. She committed every detail to memory; those boots from Wyatt's security footage, of the man who'd stolen his ATV, were their only lead.
"Stay sharp," she whispered back, her eyes narrow slits as they darted from one pair of legs to another.
"Too many boots," Ethan muttered, a hand brushing against the small of his back where his concealed weapon rested.
"Focus on the stitch work," she said, her tone clipped, all business. There was a rhythm to her scrutiny—a glance at the ground, then the faces, repeat. Eyes like hawks. It was more than just looking; it was seeing.
"Left, midway to the chutes," Ethan's voice cut through the sounds around them. A cue to something out of place.
She shifted her gaze without moving her head, a technique honed from years on the field. A glint of silver caught her eye—the unmistakable embroidery. Heart rate spiking, she locked onto the target.
"Got 'em." Her voice was steel.
"Easy," Ethan cautioned, his presence a steady force beside her. "We don't spook him."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Rachel replied, but her insides coiled tight, ready to spring. "Let's take a walk," she suggested, her steps casual as they began a slow circuit around the edges of the audience.
"Lead the way," Ethan said, a hint of dry humor in his voice. But his eyes never left the figure with the boots, the source of their anticipation.
In the heart of the rodeo, amidst the chaos of competition and celebration, two hunters walked unseen. Waiting. Watching. Ready.
It just so happened, the man with the boots was inside the fences, on a bronco's back.
The dust kicked up by hooves painted the scene, a swirling haze that danced with the evening light. Rachel's eyes stayed fixed on the man in the boots, the crowd's adulation washing over him like waves against a steadfast rock.
"Look at that," Ethan murmured, his voice barely rising above the cacophony of cheers and hoofbeats. "Mr. Popular."
Rachel could see it—the way the man acknowledged the crowd, an arrogant tilt of his chin, the casual wave. He was used to this, basking in attention, soaking it up as if he were the only one in the arena worth watching. He had features a bit too sharp to be handsome, but a bit too symmetrical to be ignored.
On the other side of the ring, a rodeo clown's antics provided cover, a burst of laughter granting them the chance to shift closer, unseen.
Twenty feet from the chute. Fifteen.
And then a horn.
The chute gate opened, and the dark-haired man with the sharp features burst from his pen, the bronco trying to knock him free. Rachel watched as he held on tight, his black button-up shirt and dark slacks giving him an air of confidence as he held on tight to the bucking bronco.
The crowd cheered and gasped as he held on.
Rachel lost sight of him behind a group of beefy men waving hands and chugging beers.
It wasn't like the rider was going to escape now.
The dust of the rodeo mingled with the scent of fried food and leather. Rachel shifted closer to a group of locals huddled by the concession stand, her ears catching snippets of their chatter.
