I watch him, calculating. I can beat that. I have to.
The minutes tick by. Riders climb on, get bucked off, or post scores in the low eighties. I check my gear, pulling my glove tight.
I’m the last rider of the day. The cherry on top.
“Alright, folks,” the announcer screams. “Let’s give it up for the Copper Creek Ranch! Put your hands together for Tex Carson!”
I climb into the chute. The horse assigned to me is a big black bastard named Tsunami. He’s shifting in the stall, jerking his head, already itching to explode.
I lower myself onto his back, settling into the saddle. The leather smells familiar. The animal’s heat radiates up through my thighs.
I nod to the gateman.
The gate flies open.
Tsunami explodes out of the chute like a bomb went off underneath him.
The first jump is massive. It jerks my arm nearly out of the socket. I grunt, jamming my heels down, forcing my hips to stay in rhythm.
The horse bucks high, twisting in the air, trying to shake me loose. I feel the world tilt. The ground rushes up, then falls away.
It’s chaos. Pure, violent chaos.
I focus on my mark. My hand is locked into the rigging. My feet are kicking, matching the horse’s stride.Front, back, front, back.
The rhythm consumes me. The roar of the crowd fades into a dull hum. It’s just me and the beast. A battle of wills.
My shoulder screams. My back muscles burn. But I hold on. I think of Sedona. Lying in that bed. Waiting for me. She told me to win. She told me to bring her the buckle.
I hold on for the eight seconds.
The buzzer sounds.
The pickup men ride up, flanking Tsunami. I grab the pickup man’s arm and swing off, landing on the dirt with a soft thud.
My chest heaves. I take off my hat and wave it at the crowd.
The score flashes.
85.5.
I blink. I check the board again.
Second place.
Tripp wins.
I stare at the numbers. A year ago, I would have thrown my hat in the dirt. I would have punched a fence post. I would have been furious. Second place is just the first loser, right?
But I look at the score. 86.5 to 85.5. One point difference.
And I rode with a week’s worth of exhaustion in my bones. I rode with a body that should be resting.
I smile.
It’s a good ride. It’s a damn good ride for a man who spent the last six days mating his soulmate.
I walk out of the arena, loosening my chaps. I pass Tripp on the way to the trailer. He’s holding the buckle, his chest puffed out.
