Another is moving feed bags with a speed that suggests he considers this light exercise.
The third one is Weston Blackthorn.
Of course it is.
He spots me from across the arena and raises his hat with that easy smile and the particular confidence of a man who has never once doubted his own competence at anything.
I raise my hat back with the particular composure of a man who is absolutely not going to let Weston Blackthorn beat him in front of Laney Jenkins.
Or the entire town of Silver Ridge.
"I need to stretch," I say.
Laney stands. "I'll walk you down."
We make our way to the arena floor.
She falls into step beside me, her hat pulled down, her hands in her pockets. She waits until we're clear of the stands before she looks at me sideways.
"You're going to be fine," she says. Quieter now. The teasing pulled back slightly.
"You don't know that."
"I know you don't quit." She says it simply. "That counts for more than you think in a timed event."
I look at her.
She looks at the arena.
"Also," she says, the teasing returning at the edges, "Weston's been doing this for years so maybe don't measure yourself against him specifically."
"Too late," I say.
She almost smiles. "I figured."
The fence post event goes fine.
It goes just fine. Not fast, not elegant, not with the practiced efficiency of the man beside me who sets his post in approximately the time it takes me to position the driver correctly. But fine. Solid. The post goes in straight, the depth is right, the technique is correct.
The crowd is generous about it.
Weston finishes forty seconds ahead of me.
I note this and file it and move on because there are three more events and forty seconds is not insurmountable if everything else goes well.
Everything else does not all go well.
The feed bag stacking starts promisingly. I know this event. I've done this at the ranch in the rain, in the mud, in conditions considerably less forgiving than a sunny Saturday morning at a charity rodeo.
I move through the first four bags with the efficient rhythm Laney taught me, good form, correct stacking pattern, the crowd doing that thing where they get slightly more interested when someone is performing competently.
Then bag number five decides it has opinions.
The seam on the bottom left corner gives way at the exact moment I'm lifting it to the top of the stack. Feed goes in every direction with the enthusiastic completeness of something that has been waiting for this opportunity.
It covers my boots, my jeans, a significant portion of the arena floor, one very surprised arena volunteer who was standing too close.
The crowd reacts.
