She looks at my cuff where the gauze is barely showing. "That from your man?"
"Yeah."
"What's it say?"
"His nickname."
She closes her eyes for a second and opens them, smiling wide. "You finally did it."
"Yeah."
"Honey, I'm gonna cry at this fence, and I haven't cried at a fence in God knows how long."
I laugh. "Don't cry, Brynn."
"I'm gonna. Just a little. Then I'm gonna go ride my run and you're gonna go ride yours, and after this is all over you're gonna call me from a hotel room and tell me what his hands felt like."
"I will."
She squeezes my shoulder once and walks back to her own horse at the far end of the pen.
I do my pre-ride check at the saddle stand the way I always do.
Topside of the saddle. Horn. Cantle. Skirts. Latigo.
Cinch—I run my thumb along the topside, feel the leather. Tight. Whole.
I don't check the underside.
Nobody checks the underside of a cinch they tightened themselves an hour ago.
While I'm working the topside, a man in a baseball cap walks past the trailer pad.
Doesn't make eye contact. Doesn't slow down.
Uncle Holt watches him go from his spot at the F-250.
A different man calls Spur over to the front of the trailer pad—a photographer, no credentials, trying to get back-lot access. But Spur deals with him.
His back is to the trailer for maybe a minute or two.
At three-forty-five I tack Jaeger back up and walk him to the arena entrance.
Spur falls in beside me. Uncle Holt maybe ten feet behind.
"You ride your own run, Dakota," Spur tells me. "The man's not in the arena."
"I know."
Uncle Holt comes up alongside me on Jaeger's other side. "Baby girl."
"Uncle Holt."
"Your mama would've watched this run."
I close my eyes for a second. "She used to pop the cap on a Crown and Coke before every one of my runs."
"Yeah she did. I'm doing it for her tonight."
