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"Worse?" The question crackled between them, stark against the cacophony of cheers and neighs.
"Yep." His Adam’s apple bobbed with the effort of his confession. "Some say he's got blood on his hands."
Before Rachel could probe further, a shadow loomed over them. Another rider, face obscured by a Stetson's brim, moved with purpose, a hand heavy on the talkative man's shoulder.
"Enough, Jeb. Don't spread tales you can't prove," came the sharp hiss, a warning dressed as concern.
But Jeb, fueled by something more potent than fear, shook off the hand. "It's Henry I'm thinkin' of. Good man, he was. Better than Silas will ever be."
"Silas killed Henry?" Rachel pressed, her heart beating a staccato rhythm that matched the urgency in Jeb's eyes.
"Wasn't no accident in Carlsbad," Jeb blurted, voice rising above the din. "Henry was ahead in points, and then..."
"Jeb!" The other rider's grip tightened, but the words were already careening through the charged air.
"Then he wasn't," Jeb finished, defiance etched into the lines of his face.
Rachel's gaze flicked to Ethan, signaling with an imperceptible nod.
The crowd erupted as a rider was thrown, the spectacle a mere backdrop to the unfolding drama by the pens. The taller cowboy dragged Jeb away, chastising him for speaking to law enforcement.
She watched both men go, then turned her attention back to the man in the ring.
The dust rose in clouds around the hooves of bucking broncos, the air filled with the scent of hot leather and earth. Silas had distanced himself from the angered steed, and was laughing, pointing at a scoreboard that had tracked his time. A new high score for the evening. Rachel Blackwood's eyes narrowed as she watched Silas Martin bask in the adulation of the crowd, his tell-tale boots glinting under the harsh moonlight.
"Think we can handle him?" Ethan's voice was low beside her, a steady presence in the chaos.
"Let's find out," Rachel murmured back, her resolve steeling within her. In this crowd, she felt more than one eye cast in her direction. Sometimes, she felt every inch the outsider her heritage made her, but it had honed her instincts sharp as barbed wire.
She weaved through the throng, her steps silent and deliberate. As she closed in on Silas, the clamor of the crowd dimmed against the drumming of her own pulse in her ears.
"Silas Martin." Her voice cut through the noise, commanding attention.
He turned, recognition flaring in his eyes before they cooled into calculation. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked — predator and prey in a fleeting standoff.
"Got some questions for you," Rachel said, her tone even but loaded like a chambered round.
"Sorry, darlin', show's not over yet," Silas drawled, the smirk on his lips grating against Rachel's nerves.
In a flash of movement, he mounted a second horse, tied to the paddock, a powerful roan that seemed to sense its rider's urgency. With a kick and a shout, he spurred the animal forward, galloping away from her through a parting sea of spectators.
"Dammit," Rachel hissed under her breath, frustration flaring hot in her chest.
Ethan shouted after the fleeing rider, but Silas hopped a small, wooden fence, and continued his flight.
She scanned the area, her gaze falling on a tethered palomino, its coat shimmering like desert sand. Muscle memory kicked in, the same survival skills that had taught her to track, to hunt, to survive.
"Cover me," she called to Ethan, already moving towards the horse, her movements lithe and determined.
Fingers deftly untying the rope, she swung herself onto the horse's back with an ease that belied the pounding of her heart. The palomino shifted beneath her, picking up on her urgency.
"Go!" she urged, leaning into the rhythm of the horse's gallop as they burst forth in pursuit of the fleeing figure. Her focus was singular — the chase, the need for answers.
Ethan's voice was a distant echo, "I've got your back!"
The rodeo became a blur around her, the cheers of the crowd fading into nothingness as she fixed her sights on the rapidly disappearing form of Silas Martin. Her fingers tightened around the reins, every muscle coiled and ready.
"Come on," she breathed to the palomino, willing the horse to close the gap between justice and escape.
