I open my eyes.
"Ride it for her, Dakota. You always do."
Somewhere deep in my belly, I’m pissed. I’m angry she hasn’t said anything. That she vanished off the face of the Earth.
Where the fuck is she?
I nod. He squeezes my knee through my jeans once and steps back.
Spur is at the rail. Holt is at the rail beside him. Rogue at the rail ten feet down.
I'm at the gate. The announcer's voice comes over the loudspeaker.
"Up next, from Sharp, Texas—Dakota Lyle on Jaeger."
The buzzer goes off and Jaeger comes out of the gate hot.
The first barrel is clean.
Wide entry. Tight pocket. Kick out fast. Jaeger's stride right under me.
Coming out of the first I'm fourteen seconds for it.
On the second barrel, the saddle moves on the entry.
An inch. Maybe two. My body realizes it before my brain does.
Something'swrong.
I think it's the dirt, my balance, something.
I round the second anyway because I'm three feet from the barrel and there's no time to think.
Coming out of the second barrel, I know it's the saddle.
Three lengths of stride between the second and third.
Fuck, the cinch is going.
I kick my feet out of the stirrups and don't grab the horn.
I slide my weight back onto Jaeger's hindquarters and let him run.
The saddle comes loose halfway between the second and third.
It hangs off his left side by the breast collar, dragging at his ribs, and Jaeger keeps running because Jaeger trusts me.
Pops used to say a barrel horse runs the pattern not the rider.
I round the third bareback.
My thighs do the work my stirrups can't. My seat does the rest. My hands stay loose on the reins. Jaeger doesn't break stride.
Coming out of the third, I let him run for the gate.
The crowd is on its feet.
The clock stops at 17.4, and I breathe.
