‘It’s important,’ she huffs. ‘It bleeds into every aspect of our lives. School, the justice system, road maintenance, the environment. And good reporting is an important part of that.’ She huffs again. ‘It’s better than sports, anyway.’
‘What’s wrong with sports?’
‘Nothing, if it’s your thing.’ She reaches for her notepad, but only so she can fidget with the spiral at the top. ‘I guess after what happened to me … I just … find it hard to be around.’
I consider that, but still draw a blank. ‘Why?’
‘Just people like you—living your dreams, doing what you love. Following your passion. When I had to sideline mine.’
That lands even harder than her admission about Kirk. The thought of Bailey carrying that grief around with her—when I should have known she’d feel that way. I should have known, because I’ve felt it too.
‘Yeah,’ I say sympathetically. ‘After my accident, when I was on the ranch again, I could hardly bear to watch rodeos. To hear anyone even talk about it. It was too hard. A reminder of what I wanted to be doing—should have been doing—but wasn’t.’
‘Exactly.’ Her tone is triumphant. ‘I can’t even go to the ballet now. It’s like this big, fat ache, right here.’ She presses her hands to her chest. I reach out and take one of them, lifting it to my lips before quickly dropping it again. It feels too right, but also too intimate. Too meaningful, for what we’ve said this is. I put both hands on the wheel and hold on tight.
‘But it was always one of my favourite things. Not just the dancing, but the watching. The music, the storytelling, it was something that lived inside of me, until one day it didn’t.’
The air between us seems heavy with that confession, with her sadness, and then she’s moving, lifting the notepad up and opening it to a blank page.
‘Okay, cowboy. Talk to me about the championship.’
Frustration bites at me. She’s shutting me out, but I let her, because I can see she’s torn up by sadness and I hate that. I assume a lightly teasing expression, keep my tone nice and casual. ‘Well, it’s this prize you get at the end of the season, if you win the most points, get to the finals …’
She laughs. ‘No.Youand the championship. What will it mean toyouto win?’
I blanch. ‘Hell, no.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not talking about that.’
‘Why not? You must have thought about it?’
‘Everyone thinks about it, at the start of the season. Sponsors think about it the whole way through. But going event to event, all that’s on my mind is the bull I’m riding that day. The rope. My balance. The timer and the score for that round. Nothing more. If I get in my head about the championship, I risk losing my focus.’
‘Is that how all bull riders work?’
‘I can’t speak for all riders,’ I say with a shrug.
‘But in your experience?’
‘Yeah, there’re certain things we just don’t say. I reckon some are probably more motivated by the prize than others.’
‘So the fact you’re a contender for the championship isn’t something we should discuss?’
I flip a grin at her. ‘Nope.’
‘Okay. Let’s talk hypothetically then. If you were to come into a large sum of money and success professionally, what would you do?’
‘Clever, but you know, that’s still pretty thinly veiled.’
She reaches over and flicks my knee. ‘Answer the question.’
‘Only ’cause you asked so nicely,’ I respond, as we shoot past a sign for our first scheduled break. We’ve been on the road four hours, and there’s another thirty or so minutes till we reach the gas station and diner. I offered Bailey a stop sooner, but she’s been happy just riding beside me.
‘Money—I invest most of what I win.’
She glances at me, obviously surprised. ‘You do?’
