Loudly.
I stand in the middle of a feed explosion in front of the entire town of Silver Ridge.
I take one breath. Then another.
Then I look at the volunteer and say, "I'm sorry about that."
The volunteer, to his credit, says, "Happens more than you'd think,"
Which I'm fairly certain is not true, but I appreciate the kindness.
Remy is audible from the stands.
I can't make out the specific words but the tone communicates fully.
I restack what I can, move to the next bag, finish the event with feed in places I won't fully discover until laundry day. My time is not good. Weston's time was excellent. The gap between us has grown in a direction I don't love.
The horse grooming relay is better. Genuinely better. I know horses now in a way I didn't a few weeks ago, and it shows. My technique is clean, my hands are sure, the horse I'm working with responds well because I'm calm with him rather than tense.
Laney has told me approximately fourteen times that's the most important thing.
I come out of the grooming relay in second place overall.
This is received in the stands with a volume of enthusiasm that is slightly disproportionate to second place in a charity rodeo grooming event, but I accept it fully.
Maisie is on her feet.
Remy has acquired a foam finger from somewhere that definitely wasn't there before.
Silas nods once from his seat.
Pearl says something to Jolene that makes Jolene laugh and cover her mouth.
I look at Laney at the arena rail.
She's watching me with her arms crossed and her hat pulled down.
That expression she gets when something has exceeded her expectations and she's deciding how much to let on about it.
She gives me a single nod.
From Laney Jenkins at a charity rodeo in front of all of Silver Ridge, that single nod feels like a standing ovation.
One event left.
Cattle sorting.
I look at the cattle sorting pen and think about what I know, what I've practiced, what six weeks of showing up every morning has built in my hands, my instincts and my understanding of how animals move and respond.
Then I look at Weston Blackthorn adjusting his gloves with the easy confidence of a man who has never once doubted himself in a cattle pen.
I pull my hat down.
Let's go.
The cattle sorting pen smells exactly like Silver Mesa on a bad day.
That is either a comforting fact or an ominous one and I haven't decided which yet. I stand at the gate with my number pinned to my shirt, feed still in my boots, watching the previous competitor move through his run with the practiced ease of someone who grew up doing this before school on weekday mornings.
