Page 124 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

But Barnyard wasn’t making it easy.

The bastard kept shifting, pressing his weight against my inside leg, making it damn near impossible to sit square. My boot scraped against the metal as I tried to push off and settle my weight evenly, but he wouldn’t give.

“Fuck,” I gritted, adjusting again, trying to coax him forward.

Dalton yanked on the rope, securing it as tight as I needed, but the second I moved, Barnyard slammed his body against the chute wall, pinning my leg.

“Come on, big guy,” I muttered, wincing. The bullfighters outside whistled, clapped, trying to get his attention. Nothing. He was locked in, stubborn as hell.

Then I heard it.

“Dammit,” I shouted.

They’d put me on the clock.

Thirty seconds.

I had thirty fucking seconds to get this bull to settle, or I’d be disqualified before I even nodded my head.

Panic clawed at my chest as I fought to get square, my body twisted wrong, my weight uneven. Barnyard kept shifting. I scooted up, trying to force him forward, but he braced harder.

“Shit, come on,” I gritted, tugging at the rope, but it wasn’t working. My grip was slipping, my body off balance.

“Fifteen seconds, Banks,” someone shouted.

I yanked at my rope again, my breaths coming fast. I needed to get square. I needed to be forward, to get control before that gate swung open. But Barnyard had other plans, his body rolling under me, shifting enough that I was perched too far back.

Fuck.

I grabbed the bottom of my gold helmet, my heart hammering, and nodded.

The chute doors flew open.

The second Barnyard bucked out backward, I was in trouble. Bulls weren’t supposed to do that—it threw off my weight.

Adjust. Stay centered. Find the rhythm.

There wasn’t one.

He was wild beneath me, jerking left, then right, like he wanted me off now, and I fought to keep my legs locked, my grip tight, to stay on him for those eight fucking seconds.

Then—shit.

He pulled a sudden, vicious snap to the right, away from the well. The force yanked me sideways, my hips slipping, my fingers burning against the rope—I was losing it.

Hold on. Hold on.

My grip faltered.

Fuck. No.

I lost the rope.

The fall happened too fast for me to stop it.

The ground slammed into me, but I barely felt it before my wrist twisted beneath me with a sickening crunch.

Pain exploded like fire, white-hot and brutal, and I gasped, trying to push myself up—get up, get up, move—but my fingers weren’t working.