We eat for a while in comfortable silence, the conversation around us ebbing and flowing. The mechanical bull keeps drawing my attention, my brain turning over possibilities. A champion rodeo bull. Retired. Legendary. And currently terrorizing the locals for fun.
I nod toward it with my fork. “You ever wonder if people think they’re riding the real Brutus when they climb onto that thing? Like it’s some kind of tribute.”
Carter snorts into his beer. “If you’re so obsessed with Brutus, why don’t you go ride him yourself and get it out of your system?”
I shoot him a look. “He wouldn’t stand a chance with me.”
June makes a small sound that might be a laugh, and when I glance over, she’s smiling like she’s trying not to. “You’re way too good for Brutus,” she says, then reaches across the table and brushes her fingers over my hand.
Just that. Bare skin to skin.
My whole body lights up. I turn my hand slightly so our fingers fit together, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and the way she watches me while I do it ruins me.
I hold her gaze, letting my voice drop. “For you, I’d do anything.”
Her lashes flutter, and her mouth parts like she’s about to say something she shouldn’t. The heat in her eyes is quiet but real, and I mean every word.
Carter clears his throat like he’s not listening, even though he absolutely is. He finishes his beer and stands. “Anyone need a refill? I’m heading to the bar.”
Orders fly at him from around the table, and he wanders off to collect drinks. Seth’s father appears a few minutes later, weaving through the crowd with the slightly loose gait of a man who’s had a few whiskeys.
“I need to—” I gesture vaguely. “Be right back.”
Seth gives me a suspicious look, but I’m already moving.
It takes me twenty minutes to track down the old farmer. He’s holding court at a table near the bar, surrounded by other weathered ranchers trading stories and giving each other shit. When I approach, they all go quiet, sizing me up with the particular wariness rural folks reserve for outsiders.
“Mr. Crawford?” I keep my voice respectful. This is his home turf. “I’m Kai Kahele. I ride for the Wildfire Star circuit.”
“I know who you are, son.” His voice is gravelly. “Seen your picture on those big banners.”
“That’s me.” I grin. “Mind if I ask you something about Brutus?”
The old man’s eyes sharpen with interest. “What about him?”
“I heard he used to compete. Back before he retired.”
“Best damn bull there was.” Pride straightens his spine. “Threw most riders who tried to stick him. His retirement record was a ninety-seven percent buck-off rate. Only three people ever made the full eight seconds on him.”
“And now he just… roams around?”
“He’s earned the right.” Farmer Crawford shrugs. “Spent his whole life performing for crowds. Now he gets to do whatever he wants. If that means escaping his pasture to scare the hell out of tourists, well, that’s his choice.”
I like this man.
“What would it take,” I say carefully, “to get him back in the arena? One more ride?”
Farmer Crawford stares at me for a long moment, as do his buddies nearby. Then he starts laughing—a deep, wheezingsound that shakes his whole body. “Boy, you’ve got a death wish.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Brutus hasn’t had a rider attempt him in years. No one’s crazy enough to try.”
“I’m crazy enough. I’m not saying I’ll stick to the full eight seconds.”
He studies me, something shifting in his expression. “Then why would you want to?”
“Because the circuit is thinking about pulling out of this town.” I lay it out straight, no bullshit. “Towns like Honeyspur Meadow are the first to get cut. But if we could offer something special that people would travel to see, it might change the equation and get more attendees.”
