"You tell anyone?"
"I'm telling you."
That lands the way he means it to. Lane doesn't waste words, and he doesn't point fingers without reason. If he's telling me instead of the rodeo director, there's a reason for that too.
"You have a name?" I ask.
He looks back at the pen. "Not yet. But I've got a direction."
I let that sit. With Lane, pushing gets you less than waiting.
"Watch Colt," he says, and my jaw tightens, breath catching for half a second before I lock it down finally, quiet enough that it almost gets lost in the noise from the arena. "He's been around the equipment more than he needs to be. Man's a champion. He doesn't need to check gear that isn't his."
I don't react to that. Not outwardly.
But something in my chest locks in tight.
I thank him and move on before the conversation draws attention, cutting back through the far side of the grounds until I spot Dusty Rhodes leaning against a fence post near the far end of the lot. A coffee cup in one hand and the look of a man who hasn't slept right in about a decade.
Dusty's been around the circuit longer than most people remember, shoulders slouched like gravity finally got the better of him, eyes sharp under the brim of his hat. Missing nothing even when he looks half asleep. He sees things. Knows things. And unlike Lane, he'll say them without being asked.
"You look like you got something on your mind, kid," he says as I approach.
"You hear anything tonight? Anything off?"
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "Depends on what you mean by off." His eyes cut sideways. "Or who you're asking about."
"Colt Ramirez."
Dusty doesn't flinch. Doesn't hesitate.
But something shifts behind his eyes, something old and careful, like a door he hasn't opened in a long time just got knocked on.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
"I know some things about Colt Ramirez."
I don't rush him.
With Dusty, rushing gets you nothing but a closed door and a man who suddenly can't remember what he was about to say. So I lean against the fence beside him, let him take another slow pull of his coffee, and wait for him to decide how much he's willing to give.
It doesn't take as long as I expect.
"You remember the Caldwell circuit?" he asks.
I go still for a beat, a tight pull low in my gut before I push it down. "About four, maybe five years back?"
I do. Barely. I was twenty-two, still new enough to the rodeo world that everything felt like opportunity and nothing felt like consequence. "I remember pieces of it."
"There was money moving through that circuit that had nothing to do with prize purses." Dusty's voice stays low, even, like he's recounting something he rehearsed a long time ago and never got to say. "Betting. Not the legal kind. The kind where the outcome gets decided before the gate opens."
My stomach tightens.
"Fixed rides," I say, and the words land heavier than I expect. A cold weight settling in my gut as everything Dusty’s been saying locks into something real.
"Fixed rides. Fixed draws. Bulls paired with riders in ways that weren't random." He turns the coffee cup in his hands slowly. "Somebody was running it quiet, keeping it clean enough that it didn't look like anything from the outside. Just looked like some riders were having good nights and some were having bad ones."
"How long did it run?"
