“It’s the same expression you get when you’re painting.” Hail sealed clay in storage containers with firm presses of his thumbs. “Complete absorption, like nothing else ex-ex-exists.”
He was right. Whether at my easel or helping students shape their first clay animals, I lost track of time completely. The anxiety that had haunted me for years had faded into something manageable, replaced by deep satisfaction in meaningful work. My chest no longer tightened with random panic, and I slept through most nights without startling awake.
After we’d locked up the pottery barn, we walked through town, the brisk evening air carrying the smell of wood smoke and a hint of winter. It would snow soon, and I couldn’t wait. Dry leaves crunched under our boots on the boardwalk, and I stuffedmy hands into my coat pockets to keep them warm. Almost time to drag out my mittens and hats. Tressa trotted beside us, her white fur rustling in the stiff breeze as she sniffed everything that interested her along the way.
“Dinner at the saloon?” Hail asked, though he already knew my answer. Friday nights had become a tradition. All the brothers and their mates gathered to share meals and stories, celebrating another week of building the life we’d created for our community. The new orc chef, Lavon, would be cooking tonight.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” My stomach growled at the thought of food, reminding me I’d worked through lunch without noticing.
I slid my hand into his, his fingers immediately closing around mine, warm and paint-stained and exactly right. “I think Holly said something about a new bread recipe.”
The saloon windows glowed with warm yellow light as we approached, and voices and laughter spilled out into the evening air. The wooden steps creaked under our weight as we reached the front door, but raised voices from inside made us pause.
“—absolutely ridiculous to use sorhoxes when horses would work fine,” a woman said in a high-pitched voice. “The handling characteristics are completely different, but if you’re serious about establishing a legitimate rodeo circuit?—”
“I’ve been working with sorhoxes for a very long time,” Becken snarled. “Sorhoxes have been the foundation oforcrodeo sports for longer than you can?—”
“Traditional doesn’t mean optimal,” the stranger said. “I’ve reviewed your setup, and frankly, the safety protocols you’re using are not going to work.”
Hail and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Through the window, we saw a woman wearing worn jeans, dusty boots, and a weathered cowboy hat, gesturing at Becken, who sat in front of her with his arms crossed on his chest and a tight jaw showing barely contained patience.
“New arrival?” I asked.
“Looks like it,” Hail said, amusement warming his voice. “Becken has-has been waiting for the ro-rodeo consultant to arrive. Sounds like he got one with an attitude.”
“And another thing,” the woman said, pulling a tablet from her bag, waving between them. “Your livestock handling procedures need a complete overhaul. I’ve never worked with sorhoxes before, but any competent rodeo professional should be able to adapt?—”
“Shouldbe able to.” Becken’s voice came out dangerously quiet. “With complete respect, though I’m not exactly sure why I’m bothering, you can’t adapt to something you’ve never seen without observing it first.”
The stranger bristled. “I’ve worked with every major rodeo circuit from Calgary to Cheyenne. I think I can handle a few oversized beasts.”
Becken rose to his feet, towering over her. “They’re their own species, with their own behaviors and handling needs. Like orcs, I’ll kindly point out.”
“This is exactly why we should stick with horses for the competitive events,” she shot back. “Standardization is key to developing a legitimate?—”
Hail caught my eye and nodded toward an empty table in the far corner. We slipped inside quietly. Tressa padded between us, her nails clicking on the wooden floor. We settled into chairs where we could watch the ongoing battle.
Lavon appeared at our table, carrying steaming bowls of stew and a basket of Holly’s fresh bread. The aroma made my mouth water.
“Those two have been at it for twenty minutes,” he said with a sparkle in his dark eyes. About Aunt Inla’s age, he hadn’t been on the surface for long, but he was an amazing cook. I couldn’twait to taste his stew. “I believe Becken is about ready to feed her to the sorhoxes.”
“What’s her background?” I asked, tearing off a piece of bread still warm from the oven. The crust crackled between my fingers, and the inside was soft and yeasty-smelling. Steam rose as I slathered it with sorhox butter.
“Carla has professional rodeo circuit management, apparently. Impressive resume, according to Greel. But she walked in here acting like she already knew everything about our operation. I believe Becken is about to show her she’s made a mistake.”
I glanced at the ongoing debate, where Carla was checking her tablet while Becken maintained the patience of someone dealing with a stubborn student. She appeared about my age, while I knew Becken was eight years older than Hail.
There was something fascinating about watching two experts clash over their knowledge. I took a bite of my stew, the rich flavor of meat and herbs filling my mouth. The broth was perfectly seasoned.
“—standardized safety equipment that meets International Rodeo Association specifications,” Carla was saying, scrolling through her screen.
Everyone else in the room watched them just as intently.
“I’ll point out those specifications were written for horses, little lady,” Becken said with more patience than I’d ever have. “Sorhoxes have different bone density, different muscle structure, and different responses to pressure. You can’t apply horse protocols to sorhoxes and expect?—”
“I’ve been managing rodeos for almost ten years.” Carla dropped her tablet on a nearby table with a thud. “I’ve never encountered a situation that couldn’t be managed with proper adherence to established protocols.”
Becken’s brow ridge rose. “Managed. Have you ever ridden in a rodeo?”
