"The seam was compromised," I say.
"Seams are always compromised," Earl says. "That's ranch life."
I accept this.
Wyatt Boone claps me on the shoulder hard enough to confirm he was a former rodeo cowboy and tells me the cattle sorting was the cleanest second run he's seen in three years of this event. I file that away with the particular satisfaction of a man collecting evidence against his own self-doubt.
Maisie hits me somewhere around the midsection at full speed. That seems to be her preferred method of expressing strong emotion, she wraps both arms around me and says into my shirt,"I knew it. I knew it. I knew it." Her five dollar bet is apparently secure and she is thrilled about both things equally.
Remy appears with the foam finger still in hand and tells me the feed bag explosion was the funniest thing he's seen at this rodeo in four years and that he means that as a genuine compliment. Silas stands beside him and says nothing, which from Silas in this context means everything.
Weston finds me in the middle of it.
He moves through the gathering with his easy confidence, first place ribbon on his shirt, hand extended. I shake it. His grip is firm, his smile is genuine enough, his eyes are doing something slightly more complicated than his smile.
"Good run," he says. "That cattle sort was solid."
"Thanks," I say. "Good competition."
He holds the handshake a beat longer than necessary. "You've settled in faster than I expected," he says. Low enough that it's directed at me specifically. "I'll give you that."
"Silver Mesa will do that to you," I say.
He looks past me briefly toward where Laney is standing with June, then back at me. Something moves across his face that he puts away quickly. "Yeah," he says. "I imagine it will."
He moves on.
I watch him go and feel nothing competitive anymore. Just settled. The way you feel when something has been decided without anyone making a formal announcement about it.
Laney appears at my elbow.
The crowd has shifted toward the concession area and the stage where the live music is starting up, the particular afternoon energy of a community event finding its next gear. It's just us for a moment in the small quiet space the crowd has left behind.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
She has feed dust on her sleeve from where she grabbed my arm at the rail.
She hasn't noticed or hasn't cared. Both options are equally her.
"Second place," she says.
"Weston beat me by eleven seconds."
"Weston has been doing this his whole life."
"I know."
She's quiet for a moment. Looks at the arena where the cattle are being moved back out. Looks at her boots. Looks at me.
"I was proud of you out there," she says. You looked pretty sexy too. Plain, direct, no qualification around it. Not the accidental version from the round pen weeks ago. A deliberate, conscious, chosen statement delivered to my face in the afternoon sun.
Something moves through me, slow, warm, certain.
"Yeah?" I say quietly.
"Don't make it weird," she says.
