Seth blinks. “The rodeo? Tex, we’re in the middle of a biological crisis.”
“That’s exactly why. If I don’t do something productive with my hands, I’m going to punch a hole in the wall. Or a hazmat suit.”
Billy steps out of the house. He looks rough. His eyes are rimmed with red, his jaw dark with stubble. He’s been pacing the perimeter of the property like a caged wolf for hours.
He groans when he hears me. “Really? Now?”
“Yes, now,” I say. “We need a distraction. You need a distraction. Come on, Billy. You used to love roping.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, leaning against the railing. “My shoulder will hate me.”
“Your shoulder is fine,” I counter. “Stop making excuses.”
Seth closes the ledger with a snap. He looks between the two of us.
“Did you talk to Grant today, Seth?” I ask. “I tried calling him earlier, but it went to voicemail.”
Seth sighs. He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I talked to him.”
“What’s the word?” Billy asks. His voice is tight. “What’s this about Tripp talking about the whole thing being canceled?”
Seth’s expression darkens. “Tripp Hollister is running his mouth to anyone who will listen. He’s telling the committee that the ranch is a biohazard. That the outbreak is ‘uncontained’ and ‘lethal.’ He’s pushing for a postponement. Or a relocation.”
“Relocation?” I scoff. “To where? The county fairgrounds? That place is a dump.”
“He wants it moved,” Seth says. “Or canceled entirely. He’s using the ‘safety of the community’ as his platform. It’s political maneuvering. He’s trying to make us look incompetent.”
“Son of a bitch,” Billy breathes.
“It gets worse,” Seth continues. “If this isn’t resolved soon—if we don’t get the all-clear in the next week—the sponsors might pull out. The rodeo brings in a lot of money for the town, but fear is a powerful motivator. If people think they’ll catch a flesh-eating bacteria by buying a ticket, they won’t come.”
I feel a knot of anger tighten in my gut. This ranch is our life. Our legacy. And Tripp is using a freak accident to tear it down.
“So we practice,” I say firmly. “We show them we’re not dead yet. We get ready for that rodeo, and we win the damn thing. We show Tripp and everyone else that the Carsons are still standing.”
Billy looks at me. For a second, I see the fight in him. The need to punch something. To win.
“Fine,” he grunts. “But I’m heading. And if you rope me around the neck, I’m leaving you in the north pasture.”
“Deal.”
We walk toward the practice arena. The air is cooling, the heavy heat of the day lifting just enough to make it bearable.
The CDC team is packing up for the day, retreating to their white tents at the edge of the property. They give us a wide berth, looking at us like we’re walking petri dishes.
I grab the ropes from the tack room. The leather is familiar in my hands, worn and smooth. I coil the lariat, feeling the weight of it. It centers me.
We set up the dummy steer—a plastic head on a hay bale. It’s not the same as a live animal, but it’s safer. Less unpredictable.
I mount Bandit. He’s restless, feeling my tension. I pat his neck, murmuring to him.
“Easy, boy. Let’s work.”
I back him up, getting his hindquarters engaged. I swing the rope over my head. The loop hisses through the air.
I focus on the horns of the dummy, visualizing the catch.
I throw.
