That means something is happening worth watching.
I move the fourth tagged cow through with two clean moves that feel like instinct rather than calculation. The fifth one follows almost immediately, reading the settled energy of the pen, going where the space leads her without argument.
The gate closes.
The clock stops.
The crowd does something I don't immediately process because I'm standing in the middle of a cattle pen with feed in my boots looking at five correctly sorted cattle and feeling something move through me that is equal parts exhaustion, disbelief, satisfaction.
I look up.
The scoreboard shows my time.
Second place overall.
Weston Blackthorn is in first by eleven seconds, which is a gap I can live with because eleven seconds is not forty seconds, and the feed bag situation was not entirely my fault.
I look at the stands.
Maisie has both fists in the air.
Remy is doing something with the foam finger that the people around him seem to find alarming.
Silas has both hands in his pockets and is nodding at the ground with the small private smile he reserves for things that genuinely please him.
Pearl Bishop is saying something to Jolene again.
I look at Laney.
She's not clapping. Not cheering. Not doing any of the things the rest of the stands are doing.
She's just standing at the arena rail with her arms uncrossed now, her hat pushed back slightly.
Looking at me across the arena with an expression I've never seen on her face before.
Open. Unguarded. Warm in a way that has nothing to do with the Texas sun.
She holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then she smiles.
Not the almost smile. Not the careful managed version she deploys when something has caught her off guard. The real one. Wide, undefended, aimed directly at me across a dusty arena in front of the entire town of Silver Ridge.
It hits me harder than the feed bag explosion.
Considerably harder.
Second place turns out to be a big deal in Silver Ridge.
I discover this when I come out of the arena gate and am immediately absorbed into a situation I didn't see coming.
Pearl Bishop reaches me first, which is impressive given that she is seventy-eight years old and was sitting in the middle of the stands, and she takes my arm with her small firm hand and announces to nobody in particular that she knew it all along.
Jolene is right behind her with a plate of something from the concession stand that she presses into my free hand with the satisfied expression of a woman whose prediction has been validated.
Harvey Miller nods at me from six feet away with the particular nod he reserves for things that have earned his quiet respect.
Earl Bishop says, "Not bad, Money Bags. Feed bag was rough."
