“It looks like it.”
“Good. Listen, we need to finalize your schedule for the fall. I’ve been talking to some people.”
I close my eyes. “Gary, the APBRA is suspended. We don’t have a schedule.”
“The APBRA is suspended,” Gary agrees. “But the world doesn’t stop turning just because Jack Dalton is an idiot. I’ve been in talks with the organizers of the Bayou Circuit down in Louisiana.”
My eyes snap open. “The Bayou Circuit?”
“It’s a regional circuit, but it’s got backing. Deep pockets. They’re looking for headliners to draw a crowd. They want you.”
“Louisiana?” I ask. “That’s... far.”
“It’s a ten-event series,” Gary says, his voice picking up speed. “Weekends only. September through November. Lafayette, Baton Rouge, Shreveport, maybe even New Orleans. The payout structure is solid. Ten grand a win, plus a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus for the championship.”
Fifty grand. That would cover the fines. It would cover the money I have tied up in investments. It would set me up for a year, maybe two.
“The structure?” I ask, trying to sound professional. “Is it PRCA sanctioned?”
“No, it’s independent,” Gary says. “Which means there are no union rules, but also no union protections. But the prize money is guaranteed. No purse splits. You win, you get paid. And if you win the championship... you’re looking at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars total.”
One hundred and fifty thousand.
My grip tightens on the phone. That’s life-changing money. That’s security.
“It sounds too good to be true,” I say.
“It’s an opportunity,” Gary says. “The rodeo world is shifting, Knox. The big associations are going to be tied up in lawsuits and investigations for months. The independent circuits are where the action is going to be. This is your chance to stay on top while the titans fall.”
I look out at the dark horizon. I can see the lights of the town in the distance. I can see the dark shape of the mountains.
“It starts in two weeks,” I say.
“Yes. So I need to know. Are you in or are you out?”
I open my mouth to say yes. It’s the logical choice. It’s the smart choice. I’m a rider. I ride bulls. I don’t fix fences. I don’t play house with a lawyer and two ranch hands.
But something tethers me here. Something heavy and invisible.
I think about the broken irrigation line Rhett was fixing this morning. I think about the pile of lumber we still need to buy. I think about the way Saramaria looked when she realized she might lose the ranch.
I think about the pack.
“We can discuss the contract details later,” I say. “But Gary... I can’t just leave right now.”
“What do you mean you can’t leave? It’s your job.”
“The ranch is in trouble,” I say, the words coming out rough. “The fines, the repairs. Saramaria... she’s trying to fix it, but she can’t do it alone. If I leave now, I’m abandoning them.”
“Them?” Gary asks. “Who is them?”
“My... pack.”
The word hangs in the air. I’ve never said it out loud before. I’ve never admitted that what we have—what’s forming between us, including her—is real. That it’s not just roommates.
Gary is silent for a long moment. “You’re kidding, right? You’re talking about that girl? The one who pepper sprayed you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m talking about her. And Rhett. And Boone. We’re in this together. I can’t just pick up and leave for three months while they’re drowning in debt and work. I have to see this through.”
