I’ve just seen a ghost; okay, sotechnicallyshe’s not dead, but her presence here certainly feels paranormal. Even after all this time, I would recognize her anywhere. That face is one I spent hours memorizing, and years trying to forget.
Maybe I’ve been transported back in time.
I turn to follow the girl, desperate to find out if I’m seeing things, but a hand wraps around my bicep, and I’m tugged into the present.
“Hey, cowboy,” Peyton coos in my ear, slinging her arms around my neck. In a place that otherwise smells overwhelmingly like sweat, livestock, and dirt, she’s nothing but strawberries and honey. I inhale deeply, smiling at her like I can’t feel each unsteady beat of my heart. Like my chest isn’t slowly closing in on itself. Like I’m not tempted to toss her aside to chase after a memory.
“Thought I was gonna come find you after my ride,” I say.
“Thought you might need a kiss for good luck.” She smiles up at me, but I can’t keep my thoughts from wandering to the empty space farther down the alley.
But what if it was…No, couldn’t be.
Of all the rodeos, this isn’t the one to be distracted at. It’s been months without any real saddle bronc practice, and I can’t safely sit my ass down on a thousand-pound animal when I’m not in the right headspace. So if I could quickly chase after her and confirm it was all in my head, I’d be fine….
“Denny.” Peyton interrupts my train of thought at the same time Colt grabs my shoulder to let me know it’s time to ride.
“Sorry, gotta go. I’ll see you after.” I pull back, flashing her a smile before directing my attention to Colt. Pushing the apparition I saw into a faraway corner of my brain.
Colt’s hand slaps down on the worn saddle, sending a cloud of shimmery dust into the air. “Saddled up and ready to rock.”
Showtime.
I check over his work, tightening the cinch and taking a deep breath before climbing to straddle the chute’s top rail. Thirteen hundred pounds of attitude sits below me, letting out loud snorting breaths, eager to get this show going. The thing a lot of people don’t understand about bronc riding—all rodeo sports, really—is how much fun the animals find this, too. If a horse doesn’t want to participate, they simplywon’t perform. It’s a game to them, a moment of blissful freedom to be wild, to play with humans the same way they play with other horses. Then they go back with the stock contractor to live a pampered life in a lush, green field. If Wells Ranch’s remuda could see these horses, they’d start bucking our cowboys off in hopes of finding a new job as rodeo roughstock.
The haggard, braided bronc rein slides through my callused hand, and I plop down into the saddle. Tuning out the cowboys slapping me on the back, repeating tips I’ve heard a million times.Lift. Lean back. Chest up. Chin down.
Eight seconds doesn’t feel like a long time to most. Outside of rodeo, I can’t remember the last time I noticed exactly how long a second is. But when those may be your last eight seconds alive, it’s a fucking lifetime. Yet despite the real possibility of serious injury, I can’t imagine ever giving up this sport. Life’s short, and the adrenaline rush of saddle bronc is better than just about anything I’ve ever experienced.
I shift in the saddle, adjusting my seat and securing my boots deep in the stirrups. Readjusting the bronc rein in my hand exactly three times, in time with three deep breaths—the way my grandpa taught me.
Lift, chin down, mark out.
Licking my sweat- and dust-covered lips, I hold my free arm out. Strong and steady, not that it’ll stay that way once this horse starts trying to throw me off. And before I have the time to overthink things, I give a nod.
The gate swings open with a bone-chilling creak. The only thing I have now is muscle memory. My heels hold tight to the horse’s broad shoulders, and the front hooves stomp the earth. We’re on fire—cemented in my seat, I’m spurring, lifting, riding out the wave with unwavering skill. We veer to the left and my focus snags on an apparition between the horse’s ears.
The girl who used to be my everything.
It doesn’t seem justified to call her the one that got away. Because that implies she slipped between my fingers; the truth is I dropped her and we both shattered.
The animal bucks and I tighten my core, gaze unbroken. When our eyes lock, I lose sense of everything around me. Forgetting where I am, what I’m supposed to be doing. Then I’m moving in the wrong direction and…
Blair
Bile rises in my throat as Denver climbs into the chute. It doesn’t matter that I grew up here, that I’ve watched rodeos hundreds of times, or that I used to be sitting atop his bucking chute when he rode. The stress of watching anybody willingly put themselves in danger wears on my heart a little bit, but I can’t deny that my anxiety’s skyrocketing now. Seeping into every muscle, ligament, fiber of my being. It’s different watching him.
Licking my lips, I wait with bated breath for the nod. For the release of the unruly bronc. The gate’s flung open and Denver’s feet are up, dulled spurs hitting above the shoulder blades, marking out his legal ride. For a qualified ride, he has to exit the chute in this position, and hold there until the front hooves hit the ground for the first time. Once he’s marked out, the eight seconds are about showmanship just as much as staying in the saddle. And,fuck,Denver Wells has always been great at putting on a show.
One second. His form is perfect—heels firmly held high, arm unmoving, ass barely leaving the saddle. So much better than I remember him riding as a kid.
Two seconds. His heels drag down the horse’s side with impeccable timing, before shooting back up to the shoulders.
Three seconds. The horse turns in my direction. Thequiet corner of the arena where I’ve been strategically hidden, avoiding locals. Avoiding him.
Four seconds. I swear his eyes meet mine, though I know there’s no way he’s paying attention to anything except staying on the bucking animal. Tell that to my skipped heartbeat, though.
Five seconds. The horse veers right midair, nearly tossing Denver out of the saddle with the unexpected, jarring turn. Suddenly, he’s struggling to keep his seat, death grip on the bronc rein, free arm fighting for balance. His sand-colored cowboy hat flies in the opposite direction, floating through the air before settling on the ground.
