1
SORREL
As a barrel racer, nothing matches the high I get charging down a sixty-foot alleyway on horseback at top speed. I imagine I feel the same way about barrel racing as drug addicts do about crack. I’m darn right addicted.
Today that sensation is no different when we emerge into the arena. The lights are bright, and I pray the ground is good. It’s just me and Zip. The rest of the world goes dark. I don’t hear the announcer saying my name or the roar of the crowd. The only thing I make out is the sound of hooves pounding into the deep arena dirt and Zip’s heavy breaths as he runs his heart out for me.
As I turn the first barrel to the right, my foot almost taps it—I miss it by mere centimeters. We’re wicked fast moving to the second.
God, I love this. My soul craves it.
In seconds I’m in position to turn the last barrel. I sit deep in my seat and I grab the horn of the saddle with my right hand, gripping the reins in my left. We turn as smooth as leather soles on a hardwood dance floor. Zip digs his hooves into the dirt and curves his muscular body left around the barrel. It’s a clean turn.He opens up, stretching out his long powerful legs. I push him hard running home, possibly setting a record time.
Once we’re almost to the alleyway, that’s when it hits me—the noise. The crowd is going crazy. I’m smiling from ear to ear as we clear the arena. I pull up on the reins to slow him down before getting to the end of the breezeway, and we come to a slow trot.
I finally let out a breath. Leaning down, I stroke Zip’s neck, so proud of my young barrel horse. Scoring a fast time of 16.97 seconds, my jaw damn near falls to the floor. Holy fuck.
It’s been so long since I’ve had anything remotely close to a good run, and we probably just ended up winning the whole damn thing. Divine intervention was definitely at play. I had been praying like a cowboy caught in a lightning storm.
Unwrapping Zip’s legs and loosening his cinch, I walk him around the arena grounds. I let him stretch his legs and cool off. There’s frothy sweat all over his chestnut-colored hair. I look him over with a smile I can’t seem to get rid of.
“You sure were working hard, my little Zipper,” I tell him like he can understand me. His ears twitch so I know he’s listening.
Continuing our walk, I turn through the first row of trailers. I keep my eyes peeled for a black Dodge Dually with a white camper on the bed. I’m sure he’s probably parked on the other side of the rodeo grounds with the roughies, but I keep scanning the rigs just in case.
The roughies travel in a different kind of setup so they're easy to spot. No need for a horse trailer since the stock contractors own the bucking horses and bulls. Bronc riders and bull riders can show up with their gear. Most of them sleep in their car half the time. I think of them more like the hippies of the rodeo world, free spirits going wherever the wind takes them. Barrel racers on the other hand are complete opposites. We havetrucks, trailers, semis, you name it. We always show up with more than enough horses—usually, a pack full of dogs too.
Walking down the second row of trailers, we pass Bloomers, Lakota’s, and Platinums. There’s some nice rigs out here today—that’s a pro rodeo for you.
We're almost to the back row now and I spot my rig. A modest setup, but still more than enough for just me and two horses, no doubt. I purposefully parked toward the back so I could peel out after my run—it was also easier to hide out in the back. I managed to steer clear of my ex all weekend. I’m over worrying about running into him at rodeos. I haven’t entered half of the rodeos I normally do in the summer. And if I was being honest, I spent most of it hiding out at the ranch. I’ve been able to avoid him since our breakup. I got lucky. He was in Arizona all winter and busy with rodeo season here most of the summer.
When I skimmed the bronc riding entries before my run, my heart sank into the pit of my gut. There it was, fifth from the top.Huck Kenzington.There should be a damn red flag printed next to his name. Hell, it might save a buckle bunny a little heartbreak. Bless their hearts, not knowing any better—most cowgirls do. Well, except me, I guess…I thought I did, but I wasn’t thinking right in the heat of the moment. Got swept up in the intensity of it all. Now everyone and their mothers know we broke up. Of course, they would though. That’s what happens when you live in small-town Montana. Everyone knows everything about everybody. Being on the rodeo circuit doesn’t help either—it’s like being on a reality TV show. There’s always some kind of gossip and drama going on somewhere. Huck and I were the entertainment of the year.
Zip whinnies at Duke, tied up to the trailer.
“Hey, bud,” I say to Duke, as I tie Zip up next to him. “We did it! We finally won a check. Now I can afford the entry fees fromthis weekend and your bag of grain,” I joke, roughing Duke’s forelock.
I decided to run Zip last minute this weekend. I was happy with my choice. Duke is my best barrel horse, but he seemed off lately. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Zip is young—he’s had plenty of wet saddle pads, but this was his first professional rodeo. I’d say he more than proved he’s ready today.
I train all of my barrel horses. My mom taught me everything she knew about barrel racing and training horses. She rode with me in her belly until she couldn’t anymore. The first time she ever put me on a horse was when I was two years old. I entered my first race at four and haven’t given it up since.
As I open the door to my trailer, my dachshund Dash comes running out. His tiny little legs are moving as fast as they can. Barrel racers get a lot of shit for the dogs we choose, most of them being wiener dogs, corgis, or any type of cattle dog breed. Maybe it’s because they’re kinda like barrel racers—a little crazy, a whole lot of fierceness, and tons of attitude packed into a tiny little body. Until you own one, you wouldn’t get it.
I’m eager to get back home as I load up my gear. “Time to load up, guys,” I say, to the horses.
If I were quick about it, I could be on the road this evening and back to the ranch by sunset. I move faster, emptying water buckets and mucking the horses’ portable pens. I hear footsteps approaching and look up to see my best friend Charli headed toward my trailer. I never responded to her text earlier about going to some concert tonight they're having at the rodeo grounds. I groan internally. Hopefully she’ll notice I’m packed up and ready to leave and let me off the hook tonight.
She struts over, her honey-brown curls bobbing up and down, and a smirk on her lips.Here we go, I think.
“Sorrel Saxxon, where on earth do you think you’re going? You aren’t leaving now, are you?” she says with her southern drawl.
Charli steps in front of me and puts her hands on her hips. She’s only about five feet tall with a short, curvy frame. Her cowboy hat gives her an extra inch, but I still tower over her.
“Charli, I told you before your run, I need to get back to the ranch tonight. We’re moving cattle in the morning and Dad needs my help.”
She flips her hair back over her shoulder and crosses her arms. “Oh, come on, Sorrel, you know damn well your daddy has more than enough hands. Stay one more night. You could use a little fun,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
I bite back a smile. It’s so hard to say no to her. She could convince a mule to listen to her, and they’re about as stubborn as it gets.
