“That’s very generous of you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
After that, the conversation died. Neither of us tried to restart it.
The radio faded in and out as we rolled down the long, empty highway. Then the traffic started picking up: horse trailers, dirty pickups, and rodeo signs everywhere. By the time we rolled into Cody, it felt like the whole state was heading to the same place.
I heard the fairgrounds before I saw them. Music and a booming PA voice floated through the afternoon air, still too far away to make out the words. Then the rodeo came into view. People in boots and cowboy hats moved between trailers, calling out to each other. Warm air poured through the open windows, thick with the smell of dust, livestock, and fried food.
Brock pulled into the contestant lot and killed the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the arena through the windshield. His shoulders were squared.
“I need to go check in and see when I’m up,” he said. “Don’t go behind the chutes. I’ll find you later.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need the distraction.”
He grabbed his gear bag from the backseat, got out of the car, and disappeared behind a trailer.
I found the ticket office, picked up my media pass, and looped it around my neck. I headed to the rail near the announcer's booth. It was close enough to see everything, but farenough from the chutes to stick to his rules without looking like I was trying to.
I unzipped my bag and pulled out the Outlaw drink. The can was hot from sitting in the truck. I made a face, already imagining his reaction when he opened it later. Sorry, Brock.
I set it on the rail anyway.
“That stuff any good?”
I turned. A guy with a camera rig around his neck was leaning against the railing a few feet away. Sunburned arms, a pass just like mine.
“It’s not terrible,” I said.
“That’s a hell of an endorsement.” He glanced at my pass. “You with one of the riders?”
“I’m with Brock Wilder.”
“Wilder. No kidding.”
He smiled and stuck out a hand. I took it, giving him a quick shake before letting go.
“I’m Jake. I shoot most of the PRCA events out here.” His eyes dropped to my boots. “I like those, by the way.”
“Thanks. They’re brand new.”
Wren had helped me pick them out when we went shopping. These were my deep brown pair, the second of the two pairs I now owned. The other ones were still caked in mud from yesterday.
Jake’s gaze stayed on them. “They’ll look better after tonight.”
I was about to reply when Brock’s voice cut in from behind me.
“We doing this video or what?”
I turned. He was standing there holding that neon pink can. The old T-shirt was gone, swapped for a fitted blue western shirt that hugged his shoulders and chest. Sponsor patches coveredthe front and sleeves, and his worn tan chaps hung low on his hips.
Damn. I didn’t want to notice how good he looked in the whole bronc rider getup. I’d been doing fine not thinking about him like that.
“Shouldn’t you be behind the chutes?” I asked, sharper than I meant.
He glanced at Jake for half a second, then back at me. “I got time.”
