Page 167 of Dusty Spur Ranch Cowboys

I pass the coffee pot without stopping. Whatever’s been bothering me since yesterday won’t disappear with caffeine.

The rodeo grounds come into view as dawn begins to break, pale light creeping over the empty parking lots and silent grandstands while the stadium lights still burn against a sky that hasn’t fully decided to wake.

The championship doesn’t begin until tonight, leaving the grounds in that strange space between yesterday and the chaos still waiting to arrive.

My boots echo across the pavement as I head toward the arena, every step sounding louder than it should. I keep expecting someone to appear around the next corner, a groundskeeper unlocking gates or a stock contractor making an early start.

But the place sits unnaturally still, wrapped in a silence that settles heavier with every yard I cover.

I don’t trust myself to stop walking. The feeling that dragged me out of bed refuses to let go, and I can’t shake the certainty that something is wrong.

I trail my hand along the outside fence as I walk. Maybe I’m chasing a feeling more than anything else, but that’s gotten me this far.

Travis has stayed one step ahead of everyone for weeks. If he’s arrogant enough to come back, he’s also arrogant enough to think nobody’s looking.

I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find. Maybe loose wire or footprints. Maybe proof I’ve officially lost my mind.

I crouch beside the post and run my fingers over the exposed metal. Fresh curls of steel lie scattered across the dirt below it, bright enough to tell me they haven’t been sitting here long.

Maintenance crews have been working around the grounds all week, so one scraped brace doesn’t prove anything, but I reach beneath the rail anyway and test the nearest bolt.

It turns beneath my hand.

I tighten my grip and twist again, hoping it’s nothing more than a loose fitting, yet the nut spins with hardly any resistance.

A prickle crawls up the back of my neck.

My stomach tightens as I reach for the next brace.

The bolt turns beneath my fingers with barely any resistance, and the one after that does the same.

By the time the fourth one loosens just as easily, I quit telling myself the maintenance crew missed a few bolts because this is no accident.

Whoever did this worked their way along the fence with patience, loosening each support enough to hold its place until the right amount of force hit it.

I straighten and look the length of the arena, following the damaged section from one brace to the next while the picture falls into place.

Tonight, contestants will crowd these rails waiting for their rides. Pickup men will race alongside the bulls, photographers will squeeze into every opening they can find, and the grandstands will fill with families hours before the championship begins.

One bull crashing into this section would tear the weakened supports apart, sending the fencing into the crowd while loose livestock burst through the opening and hundreds of people fought to get clear.

My stomach drops as I follow the damaged section along the fence, and the picture forms before I can stop it.

Tonight these grandstands will be packed with families, kids perched on the rails trying to see over the crowd, pickup riders chasing loose stock, horses charging through the arena, and one hard hit against this weakened stretch will send the fencing crashing into hundreds of people.

Panic claws through me as I imagine the screaming, the dust, the animals breaking free, and bodies scrambling to escape.

This has gone way beyond sabotage. Travis is basically planning a massacre.

I push to my feet, already reaching for my phone as I head toward the parking lot. I have to find Red before anyone else walks through those gates.

“I figured it’d take a little longer before somebody found it.”

The words stop me before I can pull out my phone. I turn and find Travis Mercer standing beside the service gate with his hands tucked into the pockets of a faded canvas jacket.

Everything around him feels alive, horses snorting, generators humming, people getting ready for another rodeo, and somehow he stands in the middle of it looking completely empty.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me. If anything, he looks satisfied.