“Sure, you do. Just a little.”
I shake my head, but my pulse quickens as I unload Daisy. She steps off the trailer with a familiar, containedenergy, ears flicking and muscles taut under her glossy coat. I run my hand down her neck. “You ready, girl?” I murmur, and she tosses her head.
Same.
The stands are more crowded than usual by the time the barrel racing starts. The announcer’s voice booms across the arena, echoing against the metal bleachers. When he calls mine, everything else fades. I nudge Daisy into the gate, and the world narrows to dirt and the three barrels in the arena. My heartbeat syncs with hers as my fingers tighten on the reins.
The buzzer sounds, and we explode. There’s no other word for it. Daisy surges forward like a bolt of lightning, hooves tearing into the earth. Wind rips at my shirt and steals the breath from my lungs. The first barrel looms, and we dive into it, tight. My knee grazes the rim, lifting it off-center as dirt sprays behind us.
My body moves on instinct, shifting my weight and squaring my shoulders to maintain balance with Daisy automatically. When we round the second barrel, we’re so in sync with each other, it doesn’t feel like we’re two separate beings.
I hear the crowd, but it sounds distant, like thunder rolling far off in the hills. All I feel is the electric crackle of pushing us right to the edge and stopping before we teeter off the edge.
We clear the last turn, and Daisy launches for home. The timer flashes when we cross. The sound that erupts from the stands hits me a second later. I slow her gradually, my chest heaving and heart slamming so hard, I can barelybreathe. I look up at the board to see my name at the top, by a margin that makes my hands shake.
“That’s my sister!” Knox yells from beside the gate, his hat whooshing in the air.
I laugh breathlessly, patting Daisy’s neck. “You did that,” I whisper into her mane. “You did that.”
Even though I know he’s working and won’t see it for hours, the first thing I want to do is text Easton.
I won
You should’ve seen Daisy. She was incredible.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of congratulations and handshakes, carrying a buckle that is heavier than it looks. Fittingly, the silver is engraved with flames curling around the edges. A few girls from other circuits give me tight smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes, but I don’t care. I feel untouchable as I grin for the pictures, pride swelling in my chest.
“C’mon,” Knox nudges. “Let’s go spend a little of your prize money on something irresponsible.”
We meander through vendor stalls set up along the edge of the grounds. Country music drifts from the speakers overhead, and we wander through a sea of handmade leather goods, turquoise jewelry, ropes, hats, and old vinyl records. I pause at a booth selling vintage western memorabilia—old rodeo programs, faded photographs, concert posters curling at the edges.
Knox keeps walking, distracted by a display of custom spurs a couple of booths away.
My fingers trail over a stack of worn posters, flipping casually through icons, like Dolly and Willie mixed with younger musicians whose names I don’t know.You don’t exactly keep up on popular music and pop culture when you spend most of your days saddled up in the middle of nowhere.I pause at a bold image with dark stage lighting, and a man at a microphone, his guitar slung low.
I know those eyes.
All the breath leaves my body as I pull the poster from the pile and read the name sprawled across the top in large, unapologetic letters.
EASTON SHAW
The Wild Rose Tour
My gaze is fixed on the photo as I try to convince myself this is just one of those things where you see someone’s face everywhere you look. But the longer I stare at it, the more I convince myself this is real. Unlike the usual clean-shaven face or slight scruff he has now, this beard is thick and full, less the tiny bald patch near his chin. It’s the spot I’ve run my fingers over more times than I can count.
“Teag?” Knox’s voice sounds so far away.
I swallow hard, staring at the poster, and suddenly, I feel stupid. I’ve been building something with missing pieces on a faulty foundation, and I didn’t even know it.
“Teagan.” Knox steps closer. “What’s wrong?”
I try to answer him, but my throat feels impossibly tight. I lift the poster slightly so he can see it.
His brow furrows with confusion. “Okay?”
“That’s Easton,” I muster.
He leans in, squinting. “No way.”
