“Hey!” I shout, lifting an arm and waving it at one of the construction crew members. “Can you kill that thing for a minute?”
The man holding it glances up, shrugs, and keeps going.
Oh no, you don’t.
I march straight toward him and jab a finger toward the ground. “I said shut it off!”
This time, he does, lifting his goggles and scowling at me like I’m the inconvenience here.
“What?” he barks.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
One of the other men—older, rounder, with a neon vest stretched tight across his gut—steps forward. He looks me up and down, eyes lingering a beat too long.
“We’re pouring concrete for the feeding pads, and Frank here is boring the holes for the anchors,” he says.
“Anchors for what?” I ask, already knowing I’m not going to like the answer.
“Fence panels,” he says. “Chutes go up next.”
My stomach drops. “Chutes for what?”
He sighs like I’m slow. “Bull riding arena.”
I stare at him.
Then I laugh. A sharp, humorless sound that surprises even me.
“No,” I say, “you’re not. Not here anyway.”
He frowns. “Excuse me?”
“The bull riding arena is going on the other side of the new stables,” I say, pointing west. “Away from the riding pens. Away from the horses. Away from the kids.”
He folds his arms. “That’s not what the plans say.”
“I’m pretty sure they do,” I say.
“Well, I’m pretty sure they don’t.”
“Then your plans are wrong,” I state.
His jaw tightens. “Look, lady—”
I step closer, close enough that he has to look down at me. “You’re going to have to move it.”
Now he laughs. “That’s not happening.”
“It is,” I say flatly.
“We’ve already got the land cleared,” he snaps. “You don’t just move something like this.”
“Great,” I reply. “Then the new riding arena can go here. Problem solved.”
His face reddens. “That’s not what Bryce wants.”
The name lands heavy, deliberate.
