"Whatever you have going on in there, clear it out," he advises.
Panic hits me. Did he see Willow?
"I'm clear," I insist.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. "Forget this is your first professional ride. It's you, Devil's Backbone, and eight seconds. Nothing else matters. Understand?"
I let out a breath laced with relief. He didn't see anything. I nod. "Don't worry. I'm good."
"You've prepared for this your entire life. But don't get cocky," he orders.
I shake my head. "I won't."
He studies me a moment, then releases me and slaps my back. "Good. Go do your thing."
I nod and walk to the exit. I open the door, and the music from the arena surrounds me. I take it all in, with another shot of adrenaline kicking in.
I'm finally here.
The nervous anxiety builds in my stomach. I survey the stands, find the Cartwrights, and try not to keep my eyes locked on Willow's for too long.
It's not time for that,I reprimand myself, then refocus on why I'm here.
Bucky and Matrix are waiting for me. The rodeo clowns and pickup men are on their horses, ready to help protect me when I jump off the bull.
Devil's Backbone snorts in the chute, unhappy he's caged in and unable to escape. But he isn't just a bull. He's a legend stitched together from fury and muscle and a storm waiting to damage everything in its path.
His thick shoulders twitch with every breath. His flanks coil tight like a spring begging to snap. A low, guttural snort pushes out of him, then again, louder, with steam curling from his nostrils.
I step closer to the gate, meeting his wild, rolling white glare.
He slams his horns against the steel, and it isn't because he's scared.
He's pissed.
Devil's Backbone was never meant to be caged and contained. His hatred is hotter than Hell, and he's ready to punish me for even thinking I can tame him, much less dare to try.
A horn blows, and the clock turns to zero.
"Time to ride," Bucky booms, then spits tobacco on the ground.
"Hold tight with your thighs," Matrix reminds me.
I nod, slide my glove onto my hand, and step up. My heart pounds so hard, it could burst through my chest cavity. I sling my leg over the angry bull, and he snorts several times.
"Eight seconds. You got this," Bucky declares.
A drop of sweat drips down my chin. I grip the braided rope and push my hat tighter on my head. My knuckles lock, and all 800 pounds of Devil's Backbone shifts, full of pure muscle and his bad mood.
I don't blink. That would break my focus. There's only my breathing, the bull, and the brutal silence right before all hell breaks loose. It's nerve-racking but one of my favorite feelings.
"Ready?" Matrix asks.
Eight seconds.
"Cut him loose!" I order, squeezing my thighs against the beast.
The gate swings open, and Devil's Backbone's fuse is already lit. He charges out of the chute, bucking and circling, angry with the need for revenge.
