“I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.
The noise of the chutes and the roaring crowd pressed in around us. There was so much I wanted to say, but none of it felt right. Not here.
“Okay,” I said instead. “I’ll be waiting.”
He gave a small nod and turned toward the gates. The handlers parted to let him through. Someone nearby muttered, “Wilder’s riding?” followed by a low ripple of conversation.
Pistol Annie was still in Chute 3, shifting impatiently.
Brock climbed the rail, swung his leg over, and lowered himself onto her back like the last thirty minutes hadn’t happened. He kept his left shoulder stiff, but his riding hand found the braided rein, and his grip was steady.
The announcer’s voice boomed overhead. “Folks, if you missed the chaos in the alley, you’re not gonna believe it. Brock Wilder took a hit from a loose horse to pull a woman out ofharm’s way. He just got stitched up, and now this cowboy is climbing right back on. That is Wyoming tough!”
A fresh, deafening roar went up from the stands. My stomach twisted into knots.
“Give it up one more time for Brock Wilder!”
The gate flew open.
Pistol Annie burst out violently, her back end kicking sky-high. Brock’s body snapped backward with the first buck, and his free arm flew up.
The crowd jumped to their feet, the rhythmic stomp of twenty thousand boots vibrating through the steel railing.
“Look at him match her out of the gate!” the announcer yelled.
I locked both hands around the top rail, holding on like I could keep him in the saddle by sheer force of will.
Brock rode every violent shift like he knew it was coming before it even happened. His free hand stayed high against the sky.
The buzzer blared at eight seconds.
The mare twisted hard. He leaned into her, riding the spin until the pickup rider closed in and he swung free.
His boots hit the dirt. He staggered a half-step, caught himself, and stood alone in the center of the arena. Dust plumed around him.
Then I saw it.
Blood was already seeping through the fresh bandage on his shoulder.
The grandstands detonated. The entire arena was on its feet, screaming.
The announcer’s voice rose above the frenzy. “The judges are going high on this one, folks. Ninety-two points! Highest score of the day!”
Brock turned and walked toward the chute gate like none of it mattered.
His eyes found mine first. And something about that, about being the first thing he looked for after everything, was the thing that finally broke me.
I tried to speak, to say his name or congratulations or anything at all, but when I opened my mouth, my voice broke. I touched my cheek. My fingers came back wet, and I thought,oh.
He stopped on the other side of the fence, breathing hard, blood staining his sleeve. Then he reached through the metal bars. His calloused thumb swept the tear from my cheek, leaving a gritty streak of dust behind.
“Don’t cry, Starlin’,” he murmured. “I won.”
eleven
. . .
BROCK
