The gate beside us burst open.
The bronc exploded into the arena, twisting and kicking. The rider lasted maybe three seconds before he was launched, hitting the dirt flat on his back as his hat sailed off. The crowd groaned, then applauded when he climbed to his feet and limped away.
The announcer's voice boomed through the arena. “Tough luck there, but let's give him a hand for a good effort.”
My stomach knotted. Brock was next.
I stepped closer to his chute. He looked down at me.
“Hey,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the noise. “Good luck.”
For a second, the hard focus in his eyes softened. “See you in eight seconds.”
“Coming out of Chute 3… he's got one more ride tonight on the tough mare Pistol Annie! Three-time Cheyenne champion, give it up loud for Brock Wilder!”
Brock stood on the rails, pulling his leather glove tight, the Velcro ripping sharply. He reached for the braided rein?—
BANG.
Not the gate. Behind me. Metal buckled violently down the alley.
“Back gate!” someone screamed. “Loose bull!”
I spun around. A massive black bull crashed through the broken panel, horns swinging as it charged down the narrow alley.
The chute beside me flew open.
A horse launched out, nostrils flared, eyes rolling white with panic. It reared, a thousand pounds of muscle and thrashing hooves blotting out the lights.
Then it came down.
Right where I stood.
Brock's boots clanged against the rail.
He slammed into me, one arm locking around my waist, the other hand shielding the back of my head as he pulled my face into his chest.
The horse struck him.
A deep grunt ripped from Brock as the impact drove us both into the dirt. His full weight crashed over me, his belt buckle digging painfully into my stomach.
I couldn't breathe.
The crowd screamed, but the sound blurred into a distant roar. All I saw was skin. All I felt was the rise and fall of his breathing, the burning heat of his body, and the hollow of his throat pressed against my lips.
ten
. . .
SIENNA
Our hearts were pounding so hard I couldn’t tell whose was whose. Shouts and banging metal filled the alley, but all I could focus on was Brock’s chest heaving against my own.
“Sienna.” His voice scraped against my ear. “You hurt?”
Dust clogged my nose and throat. My ears rang. I couldn’t answer. My lungs refused to work.
He shifted, taking some of his weight off my chest. I gasped for air.
