The gate swings open with a bang and the world around me explodes, detonating into a flurry of chaos and pain, excitement and power.
The sorrel-coated horse launches like a rocket out of the chute, his front end sky-high on his first huge jump. His shoulders hit peak, and I’m already spurring, my heels driving forward, up and over his shoulders as his front feet lift off the ground.
Twister is fast and his jump is more intense than I’ve experienced, but I lift hard on the rigging, using every ounce of strength I can muster from my core. Shoulders back, my chin tucked, I keep my upper body square and centered over Twister’s withers, more focused than I’ve ever been.
The force of his thrash makes my head whip back, but my neck roll keeps me protected, and I fight, absorbing the harsh jolt through my locked arm. Strain surges through my arm, down my back, right as we hit the ground. Twister doesn't relent, and no sooner have his front feet hit the ground than his hind legs are kicking, sending my spine for a ride. Twister kicks, going left, so I go with him, pulling my knees back as he bucks, my spurs raking smoothly along his shoulders toward the rigging in one stroke, up on the jump, down on the drop. I keep my free hand high, waving like a flag, my body balanced on the animal as he thrashes me back and forth in explosive whips.
It’s been one second, and my body has already flexed andtested every goddamn muscle I have. My grip burns already, my forearm and bicep screaming from the unrelenting pull, but I squeeze harder. Twister is athletic and every bit the terror everyone claims he is, but I’m here to win. To save my life and my daughter’s life as she knows it. I will defeat Twister, no problem.
I squeeze harder on the grip as Twister kicks, that classic bareback kick that makes my spine snap, sending off a short burst of pain down my back. I match his timing, not forcing him to accept me but instead, flowing with him. Every time his front end comes down, I straighten my legs and plant my spurs back over his shoulders, preparing for the next kick. My legs piston as my knees and toes flare outward, spurs clean and visible for the row of judges watching me.
It’s been three seconds now, and my lungs are on fire with strain, my back pinched tight, neck fucking aching. A millisecond of a glance tells me we’re smack center in the arena. Twister hits a series of high, rolling bucks, trying to pull off the front. I lean back just enough, keeping my core tight as a damn drum, lifting on the handle like I’m trying to yank the rig clear through his back. The arena lights blur into streaks as sweat hampers my vision and dust lands in my face. The roar of the crowd feels like thunder on a faraway plain, and I force the crowd and excitement out of my mind as I focus on the feel of the animal beneath me, reading every twitch of his muscles, every shift of his powerful hips.
Five seconds on the clock now. Twister spins hard to the right, twisting in a sunfish move, trying to peel me sideways. My left arm juts out, muscle memory, countering the move, staying loose but fully in control. My right shoulder feels like it’s a moment away from being torn from the socket, but I use the pain as fuel.
I am going to defeat Twister. I am going to fucking win.
I’m spurring harder now, matching Twister’s rhythm—up, roll, down, plant. My body remembers this the same way my heart remembers being loved, and everything is fluid, natural, easy, even through the agony and pain. I’m one with Twister now, my form and his completely fluid, my back arched on the peak, hips surging forward on the descent.
The crowd roars, and I know the judges are watching, and I know this is a goddamn beautiful ride.
Seven seconds. Twister is still giving everything he has, with big, explosive jumps, his hind feet coming up above his ears.
Doesn’t matter.
I’m locked in. Focused. Ready to win.
My vision tunnels. Sweat stings my eyes under the brim of my hat. Every muscle from my fingertips to my toes is actively engaged, burning, fighting for this, but moving in perfect synchronicity. I’m not riding Twister anymore, we’re one violent, twisted, angry, beautiful blur.
The whistle blows, sharp and momentous.
Eight seconds.
I made it. I did it. I completed the ride. It was a perfect fucking ride.
Instantly I relax my grip a bit, and with my free hand, reach down and give Twister’s neck a slap, showing him the respect he deserves. Pickup men swing in beside me, one of them grabbing the rigging strap while the other helps to ease me off. I slide onto the ground on my feet, my entire body numb and ringing, legs wobbly but secure.
Sable Sky, filling the bleachers, roars around me, a wall of sound that finally breaks through. I glance up at the scoreboard as I tread toward the fence, chest heaving, my right arm nearly dragging like dead weight. Despite the fatigue and pain, my entire body buzzes with adrenaline.
I blink, and breathe, and stay focused.
Ninety-seven points.
Twister was solid, and I had a great ride, with a clean mark-out, strong spurring. That’s the kind of ride and the kind of resulting score that wins a rodeo. I know it, because I’ve been here before. Five times, in fact.
I blink at those two red numbers, calibrating what I did. I set out to win, and I did it. I’m going to win that money, and it’s going to make all the stress, the long nights, the soreness, exposing my life to a film, everything worth it now that I’ve done it.
I tip my hat to the fans, then to Twister as he bucks his way out of the arena, still full of fire.
It was eight seconds of pure chaos, but also eight seconds of control. Eight seconds that changed my life.
I glance around the arena again as I exit the space, out the gate, then come around the back where the other riders are huddled. I take fist bumps, shoulder slaps, and cat calls, all still trying to catch my breath and shake out the pain in my arm.
Sadie pushes through the crowd, wearing a smile from ear to ear, tears in her eyes as she storms me and slams into me. “You did it, Daddy! You won! You got the highest score! You won! You won!”
I bury my nose in her hair and take a deep breath, looking to steady my soul. Ididdo it. I didn’t fail my girl.
And yet I’m realizing now that saving my land and saving the farm means nothing if Quinn isn’t there with me.
