The world shrinks to the space between my hand and the bull's back. Nothing else exists. Not Merrick, not Rainey, not Tyler dead in the Fort Worth dirt. Just the rope and the spin and the eight-second clock that's the only thing standing between me and the ground.
Seven seconds.
Deacon throws a final kick that rattles my fillings and tries to pitch me over his head. I lean back, stay centered, ride it out.
Eight seconds. The buzzer sounds.
I free my hand from the wrap, kick my legs clear, and bail off the left side. Hit the dirt on my feet, stumble, find my balance. Deacon charges toward the exit gate, looking for the open pen, and the bullfighters wave him through.
The crowd roars. The scoreboard flashes a number I don't bother checking. I vault the fence, pull off my glove, and walk straight toward the VIP section without stopping at the medical station or the scoring desk.
A security guard puts a hand on my chest at the rope line. "Riders aren't allowed in the?—"
"Tell Hayes Merrick that Grant Corbin wants to buy him a drink."
The guard hesitates. Behind him, Merrick looks up from his conversation, and our eyes meet for the first time.
He's older than I expected. Mid-fifties, silver at the temples, tanned skin that says ranch money even if his hands are too smooth for ranch work. His eyes are pale blue and flat, the color of ice on a cattle trough. When he smiles, it doesn't move past his mouth.
"Let him through," Merrick says.
The guard steps aside. I duck under the rope and walk up to the man who murdered my friend.
"Grant Corbin." He extends a hand. "Hell of a ride. Your father would be proud."
He knows my father. Of course he does. Men like Merrick make it their business to know everything about everyone, cataloging connections and leverage points the way Rainey catalogs photographs.
I don't shake his hand. "We need to talk."
"We're talking right now." That smile again. Practiced, polished, empty.
"Somewhere private."
A flicker behind the blue eyes. Calculation, not concern. He excuses himself from his group and leads me to a trailer behind the VIP area, one of the portable offices the circuit uses for administration. Air conditioned, carpeted, a desk covered in paperwork that looks legitimate on the surface.
He closes the door. The smile drops.
"You've been making noise," he says. "Asking questions. Talking to people who'd rather not be talked to."
"You keep tabs on what riders ask about?"
"I keep tabs on everything that affects this circuit. That's my job." He leans against the desk, crosses his arms. "What do you want, Corbin?"
"Tyler Brennan."
"Tragic accident. The whole circuit mourns."
"The whole circuit moved on inside a week. I didn't."
"Grief does things to people. Makes them see patterns that aren't there, conspiracies where there are only coincidences."
"Thornton Livestock. Shell companies. Prize purse money that doesn't add up. Bulls behaving in ways that aren't natural." I watch his face while I lay it out. "Tyler was asking questions about all of it in the days before he died."
Merrick's expression stays neutral. Not the blank of someone who doesn't understand. The blank of someone who's choosing very carefully what to show. A poker player's face. The kind you develop from years of sitting across tables from dangerous people.
"Tyler Brennan was a talented rider who drew a bad bull on a bad night," Merrick says. "That's not a conspiracy. That's rodeo."
"Then you won't mind if the FBI takes a look at Thornton Livestock's financials."
