Page 30
Twelve
Autumn
The second I step out of the truck, it hits me all at once. An announcer’s voice cracks through the speakers, loud and relentless, while the crowd answers him in waves. Whistles, shouting, and laughter cut through it all. Something metal clangs shut, and I flinch before I can stop it.
The sun beats down as dust rises up in clouds, sticking to my skin and throat. The smell of sweat, leather, and livestock settles heavy in the air, pulling something tight low in my stomach.
Everything moves at once. Boots grinding into dirt as a horse lunges against the rail, close enough that I feel the vibration through the ground, nostrils flaring.
My fingers lock around the truck door, pulse kicking harder than it should.
I wasn’t ready for this.
My boots sink into packed dirt that’s been churned over a hundred times already, the ground uneven under me.
“Overwhelmed already?” Briggs’ voice cuts in from somewhere behind me.
I glance back, my fingers loosening from the door as I straighten. “No.”
He lifts a brow, visibly not buying it.
My shoulders roll once, pushing the tension out. “It’s just… a lot.”
“That it is,” Tripp says, stepping past me like this is nothing, like he belongs in the middle of all of it.
And that’s the thing that throws me; they don’t hesitate.
Clint grabs something out of the back, moving like this is just another day. Tripp’s already halfway to the trailer, nodding at people as they pass, easy smiles, quick handshakes. “You coming?” Briggs asks.
My fingers curl into my palms, grounding myself, and I push away from the truck.
I’ve been around worse than this. Renegade parties get loud. Bodies everywhere, music pounding so hard it rattles your ribs. Men twice as rough as anything out here.
I didn’t fold there, and I’m not folding here.
“Yeah. I’m coming.”
Briggs falls into step beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him even through my jacket.
The trailer rattles as Clint drops the gate.
“C’mon, Cap,” he mutters.
The big black-and-white paint stomps down the ramp, ears flicking while noise crashes around him from every direction. Clint reaches for his neck on instinct, rubbing down the thick muscle before adjusting the lead rope.
Briggs is already moving around inside of the trailer, unlatching another divider before leading his horse down with easy confidence.
Tripp shuts the trailer door and glances toward the arena. “I gotta go check in.”
“You know your draw yet?” Clint asks, unclipping Captain’s lead.
“Pretty sure I’m early,” Tripp says with a shrug. “Need to check roughstock.”
I frown. “You’re not unloading a horse?”
He huffs out a laugh like I asked something obvious. “Nah, Sweetheart. Bareback bronc riders don’t ride their own horses.”
My brows pull together.
