I drive into town, my head throbbing in time with the ruts in the road. The Salt Lick is quiet in the afternoon light, the only cars belonging to a few sleek sedans parked out front.
I walk inside.
The main floor is empty, but I hear voices in the back office. I head that way, pushing open the swinging door.
I stop dead.
Sitting around the small conference table are three men in suits. They look out of place amid the rustic decor, like eagles perched on a fence rail.
Pearl and Dot are there too, along with Josie, who is pouring coffee.
“Saramaria!” Pearl says. “Come in. You know the APBRA executives.”
My eyes widen. I recognize them from the gala events in Denver.
Marshall Lane, the president of the APBRA. A polished Alpha with silver hair and a politician’s smile. Next to him sits Anthony Hayes—the CFO, stern and hard, though his eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at me. And Dane West, the logistics coordinator, a boisterous man who looks like he’d rather be at a rodeo than a boardroom.
“Ms. Cruz,” Marshall Lane says, standing up. He extends a hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard a lot about your... efforts.”
I shake his hand. “My efforts?”
“The hoedown,” Dane West booms. “It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. We’ve been talking about it non-stop since we heard.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“The turnout, the community support,” Marshall says, sitting back down. “It’s exactly the kind of grassroots energy the sport needs right now. We’re trying to repair the image of the APBRA. Move away from the corporate stuff and get back to the riders, the fans, the heart of it.”
“We raised a lot of money,” I say.
“And you brought the town together,” Anthony Hayes adds. “That’s no small feat, especially given the... recent turmoil.”
“So,” Pearl cuts in, beaming, “they have a proposition.”
Marshall leans forward. “We want to make the hoedown an annual event. The official kick-off to the rodeo season. We want to host it right here in Muddy Creek, the weekend before the circuit begins.”
“We want your book club to run it,” Dane says. “You did such a great job this time, we don’t trust anyone else.”
My mind spins. “The circuit... you’re bringing it back?”
“We are,” Marshall confirms. “We’ve cleaned house. Jack Dalton is gone. We’re instituting new protocols. We’re starting fresh. The season will resume next month.”
My heart stutters.Next month.
If the season is resuming, does that mean Knox will come back? Does he cancel the Bayou Circuit? Or is he contractually obligated to Louisiana for this season? Hope flares in my chest, bright and painful, before I shove it down. I can’t rely on him. I can’t build my future on a maybe.
“We’d love to help,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the conversation. “But I’m not sure how much time I’ll have. I’m still fixing the ranch.”
“We’ll help,” Anthony Hayes says. “The APBRA wants to invest. This is good PR for us, and it helps you. It’s a win-win.”
They spend the next hour discussing logistics. Dates, permits, marketing. It’s surreal. A week ago, I was trying to sell this place. Now, the head of the APBRA is talking about turning it into a festival destination.
When they finally pack up to leave, the mood in the room is lighter. The executives shake my hand again, promising to send over contracts.
“Good work, Saramaria,” Marshall says.
After they walk out, the silence in the room is replaced by a collective exhale.
“I think that went well,” Dot says, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
