“I think the cowboy is pretty,” Becky whispers conspiratorially.
Jet chokes on her soda. “Oh, she’s observant. I’ve trained her well.”
I bury my face in my scarf. “Lord take me.”
Pretty isn’t the problem.
The problem is that last week I let myself believe, for a handful of stolen minutes, that I could have him… and then I spent days after pretending it didn’t matter.
The announcer’s voice cracks over the speaker like a whip:
“Alrighty, Buckhorn, hope your insurance is paid up! First event of the day: bronc riding!”
The crowd erupts. Kids scream. Someone behind us spills nacho cheese on their boot and curses creatively.
Across the arena, riders line up, adjusting gloves, tugging down hats, stretching out arms like they’re about to go to war instead of willingly getting launched into the stratosphere by irritated livestock.
“Look alive, Buckhorn!” the announcer yells. “Because first up, Clay McCoy!”
Jet pumps a fist. “Woo! Go, cowboy!”
Down in the chute, Clay looks laser-focused. The bronc, an angry swirl of muscle and bad decisions, snorts and slams against the gate.
Everything goes still for one suspended moment.
Then…
BANG!
The gate bursts open, and Clay explodes into the arena on top of a horse that looks offended by gravity.
The bronc buckles sideways. Clay whips back violently, practically horizontal in the air. Becky shrieks with delight and steals my arm to clutch.
Dust sprays everywhere. The crowd roars. Clay holds tight, form perfect, even when the bronc launches itself upward like it’s trying to touch space.
“He’s gonna die,” Charlotte says calmly.
“No, he’s not,” I reply.
“He’s gonna die, Faith.”
“He’s literally trained for this!”
The buzzer sounds. Clay jumps off mid buck, lands like a gymnast, and throws a victorious fist in the air while the pickup rider grabs the bronc.
Becky wiggles. “Again! Again! Again!”
Clay tips his hat toward our side, grinning.
Then I look left and see Dallas leaning on the fence, laughing at something one of the judges says. And the air just… leaves my lungs.
He hasn’t even gotten on a horse yet, and I’m one minor eye contact away from needing an inhaler.
Next up is barrel racing. Horses and riders fly around the barrels so fast the sand practically dissolves under them. Martha Lou’s granddaughter, tiny, fearless, and wearing a sequined vest that could double as a disco ball, wins the round.
Meanwhile, Jet is sobbing dramatically into her sleeve.
“Jet,” I say, “are you crying because of the speed or the sparkles?”
