For the final night, we’d scored the best seats in the house. Front row, right along the rail near the contestant area.
“Here we go,” Wren whispered, grabbing my hand and squeezing.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena. “Up next, riding last in saddle bronc on the final night of the NFR… drawing the unpredictable white mare they call White Lightning… give it up for Brock Wilder!”
The crowd exploded, the roar shaking the stands.
Colt jumped to his feet. “That’s my brother, baby! Let’s go!”
I looked up at the Jumbotron, my heart pounding. Brock sat deep in the chute, looking worn out but completely at ease.
The gate swung open.
White Lightning exploded from the chute like a rocket, launching into the air before twisting hard. Brock stayed glued to her, his chaps flying with every kick while his body moved in perfect sync with all her chaos.
For eight heart-pounding seconds, he wasn't just riding—he was flying.
The buzzer sounded through the stadium.
Brock held on for one more beat, then grabbed the pickup man's arm and slid smoothly off the bucking mare. He landed clean, his boots hitting the dirt hard. Chest heaving and covered in dust, he straightened and tipped his hat.
Wren and I grabbed each other in a tight hug, both of us yelling as the crowd thundered around us. Colt stood beside us with his arms stretched wide.
“Hey! Where’s my hug?”
Wren looked at him, pretending to think about it for half a second before launching herself at him. She hit him with such force he stumbled back a step, nearly knocking over his beer.
“You asked for a big-time ride, and you got one! Eighty-nine points on the board. And that right there is your NFR Average Champion!”
The three of us screamed with the rest of the arena, our voices lost in the deafening cheers.
“Folks, that wraps up saddle bronc here on the final night. Up next, we’ve got tie-down roping!”
Officials swarmed Brock with congratulations, but he barely paused. Instead of heading for the tunnel with everyone else, he turned and started walking straight across the arena toward our section in the stands. Security parted as he approached the rail.
He stopped directly below us and reached both arms up.
I didn’t hesitate. I leaned over and his hands closed around my waist. For a heartbeat, I was weightless as he lifted me clean over the rail and lowered me onto the dirt. The moment my boots touched the ground, he crushed me to his chest.
“Brock—”
He didn’t let me finish. He cupped the back of my neck and kissed me, right there in front of thousands of roaring fans.
“We did it, Starlin’.”
I smiled and cupped his jaw. “You were incredible.”
That worn-out grin I loved tugged at his mouth, his blue eyes still shining. “Told you I had it handled. Now let’s go home.”
thirty-five
. . .
SIENNA
A week after Vegas, the deafening chaos of the stadium already felt like a lifetime ago.
The ranch had its own kind of noise now. Orders for the Ryder collab were still rolling in, and I’d insisted on adding a personal touch to every holiday package. That decision had turned our evenings into something new. Every night after dinner, the Wilder family gathered around the kitchen table in an assembly line.
