Page 138 of Stay Wild Darlin’

The score didn’t matter because he was so far ahead of everyone else, but, of course, he was on the number one bull in the country. A thick-muscled, unpredictable animal that always went away from Dalton’s hand on the left.

He’d trained for this exact bull. Practiced on every similar draw Kline had on the ranch. He’d spent hours replaying tape, breaking down the turns, the first jump, the speed of the spin.

I kissed Cora’s cheek and whispered, “There’s your daddy.”

Fable stood beside me in those ridiculous pink pants, her T-shirt still stretched with a younger Beau’s face grinning right across her chest. Harleigh was leaning forward, arms resting on her knees.

I couldn’t move.

Dalton adjusted once in the chute, fingers flexing around the rope. He tugged, settled, and exhaled.

Right before he nodded, he looked up. Not directly at us, but close enough that I felt it. That tether between us tightening.

He knew we were here.

He knew we were watching.

Then he gave the nod.

And the gate flew open.

46

Dalton

The gate swung open, and chaos erupted. The bull lunged out of the chute, and I snapped forward, then whipped back as he kicked high. My arm strained against the first jolt, but my grip was solid.

He jerked to the left, away from my hand, and I immediately countered, shifting my weight over his left shoulder. The bull’s hooves thudded into the dirt as he launched into a tight spin. Dust and the clang of the bell under his belly blurred into the general roar of the arena.

He came around again, faster in that leftward spin. My body wanted to whirl off, but I clamped my legs. He leaped and twisted midair, a wicked belly roll that sent his torso one way and his hind end the other. The violent move jerked me off-center, and for a split second, I was weightless, barely touching the bull with anything but my hand on the rope. Instinct kicked in, and I dropped my inside shoulder and shoved myself down into position an instant before his front hooves slammed back to earth. My teeth gritted as I absorbed the shock through my legs. Pain lanced up my riding arm and into my shoulder, but I couldn’t let go.

The bull drove forward out of the spin, then pitched into a series of gut-churning bucks down the pen. He swapped ends to the right, into my hand, and I adjusted again, riding the surge as he reversed course. All my riding style cues fired at once: chest over my rope hand, chin tucked, hips loose, free arm whipping for counter-balance. I lifted on the rope, staying fluid with his every move. Another strong kick jarred my spine and nearly yanked my arm from its socket, but I dug deep and spurred him one more time, refusing to be a passenger.

The buzzer went off. I didn’t hesitate for a second. I let go.

I slammed into the dirt, back first, knocking the air from my lungs in one ugly rush—but I rolled fast, pushed to my feet before the bull’s back hooves could find me.

The bullfighters were already on him, working him back toward the pen, keeping the chaos contained as the crowd erupted behind me.

Screaming.

Stomping.

A wall of noise so loud it cracked the sky open.

I stood there, dust coating my tongue, chest heaving, body vibrating with the aftershock of adrenaline, and slowly lifted my arm, fist in the air.

I fucking did it.

The whole arena lit up. People standing. Cheering. Waving hats, spilling drinks.

I was a champion.

And a fucking millionaire.

I could barely wrap my head around it. My whole life, I’d been chasing that gold buckle. Not for the paycheck, not for the fame. For the proof.

Proof that I belonged.