The Tulsa Invitational was forty-eight hours away. The bus left Billings at dawn on Wednesday. Ryder Stone had run out of time to heal, run out of time to plan, and run out of excuses.
He was in the round pen behind the barn. It was 2:00 AM. The moon was a sliver of bone in a black sky.
Ryder wasn't on a barrel tonight. He was on a horse.
Not just any horse. He had saddledGhost, a young, spooky gelding that Cole hadn't finished breaking. The horse was green, unpredictable, and prone to shying—the closest thing to a bull Ryder could find without actually opening a chute.
Ryder sat in the saddle.
His left leg was strapped to the fender with duct tape. He had wrapped the stirrup to his boot to prevent the foot from slipping, a dangerous, amateur move that would drag him to his death if the horse went down. But he couldn't trust his adductor muscle to hold him.
He was sweating. The pain in his femur was a constant, screaming noise, a siren that drowned out the crickets and the wind.
Just one ride,he told himself.Prove you can take the impact.
He gathered the reins. He squeezed his legs.
"Hup!"
Ghost jumped forward. The horse felt the tension in the rider—the trembling leg, the rigid spine—and reacted with panic. He bucked. A short, crow-hop series that jarred Ryder’s spine.
Ryder gritted his teeth.Ride it. Absorb it.
He loosened his hips. He countered the move.
Ghost spun left.
The torque hit Ryder’s bad leg. The titanium rod vibrated. The screw sites burned like hot coals.
Ryder gasped, his vision graying out. He grabbed the saddle horn—a rookie mistake, a mark of shame—to keep from falling.
"Dammit!" he hissed.
He pulled the horse up. Ghost skidded to a stop, snorting, his ears pinned back.
Ryder sat there, panting. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. His leg was throbbing so hard he could feel his pulse in his ankle.
He wasn't ready.
Physically, he was a wreck. If he got on a bull in Tulsa, he would last maybe two seconds before his leg gave out or his mind broke.
But then he thought about the red boots. He thought about Leo standing at the fence, looking up at him like he hung the moon.
I need the money,Ryder thought desperately.I need the truck. I need the six figures to buy him a future. I can't be the broke dad. I can't be the cripple living in the guest room.
He viewed fatherhood through the only lens he understood: Performance. Provision. Glory. If he couldn't be a present father, he would be a rich hero.
"Again," Ryder whispered to the horse.
He adjusted his grip. He kicked the horse.
Ghost leaped.
Ryder rode. He rode through the pain, rode through the fear, rode through the darkness, chasing a gold buckle that he thought was the key to his son’s heart.
He didn't see the headlights wash over the barn. He didn't hear the car door slam.
He only heard the roar of the crowd in his head, cheering for the comeback king.
