Tate walked off toward the stretching mats. I let out a slow breath and zipped my chaps up over my jeans.
For years I’d climbed into these chutes running on empty, riding to keep the bank away. Today felt different.
I slung my saddle over my shoulder and started toward the gates. My blood was running hot and clean. I had a ranch that was finally breathing, and a woman up in those stands who had my back.
If I rode strong today and punched my ticket to the National Finals, they would extend Sienna’s contract. I was riding to keep her back home in Wyoming, in my bed, for good.
The air behind the old wooden chutes tasted like crushed grass, hot dust, and copper. The roar of seventeen thousand fans pressed in from every side, loud enough to rattle my ribs.
Arenas are usually hard-packed dirt. You know how you'll land and how a bronc will dig in. But Pendleton was different—a massive grass football field.
Horses hate it. They slip, scramble, and buck harder to find their footing. It makes every ride here unpredictable and dangerous as hell.
I climbed the worn wooden boards of Chute 6. Below me, the 1,200-pound bay gelding named Gannon shifted uneasily, heavy muscle rolling under his dark coat. The strong smell of horse hung thick in the air.
The PA announcer’s voice rang out across the field:
“Folks, next we’ve got Brock Wilder coming out on Gannon! This mean bay has put more cowboys on the ground than most broncs twice his age.”
Gannon flicked an ear back toward the voice and blew a heavy huff through his nostrils.
He wasn’t mean. He was just good at his job, and his job was putting cowboys in the dirt. I respected him for it.
“Hey, big fella,” I murmured, leaning over the rails. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”
I peered through the wooden slats, past the judges’ tables, out to the chain-link fence where the dirt track met the grass.Sienna stood right there, both hands gripping the fence tight. She’d left Colt and Wren in the stands to get closer.
Even from forty feet away, I could see the tension humming through her body. She hated this part.
I caught her eye and gave her a single nod. She returned it.
My palms were sweating, and I wiped them off roughly on my leather chaps. I didn’t usually get too nervous, but this ride carried too much weight. I couldn’t screw it up. I couldn’t let her pack up and go back to a cold apartment and a boss who treated her like garbage.
I locked my jaw, dragged in a lungful of sharp air, and forced the nerves down, replacing them with a cold, sharp focus.
The gateman leaned into the shaking chute, keeping the latch pinned as Gannon slammed his hip against the boards. “Ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
I slid my boot down the rail and dropped into the saddle. The bay tensed beneath me but stayed steady. I shoved my boots deep into the stirrups, found the rein, and wrapped it snug around my palm.
I shifted my hips, settling my weight. A sharp pull caught in my left shoulder. I tightened my grip on the rein and turned to the gateman.
I gave the nod.
The gate flew open.
Gannon exploded from the chute, launching himself and twisting violently in the air before slamming back down. Turf and dark dirt sprayed across my chaps.
The impact rattled my teeth. He spun left fast, hind legs slipping on the slick grass. I rolled my hips, fighting to stay on as the world jerked and bucked under me.
The crowd roared like thunder.
The bronc whipped right in a plunging leap, trying to tear me loose. My shoulder screamed at the stretch. The rope burnedagainst my palm, but I gripped it harder. I threw my weight backward, keeping time with his front feet.
The pickup men suddenly flanked me. I hadn’t even heard the buzzer over the blood pounding in my ears.
I reached out, grabbed the leather harness of the nearest pickup horse, and swung my right leg over Gannon’s back as he bucked. I let go of the rigging and dropped to the ground.
