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“I’d never be able to do it. It’s even scary to watch.”
“You’ve seen some?”
“Of yours, yeah.” My eyes swing up, but she doesn’t meet my gaze as she continues. “On YouTube.”
I knew some of my rides were on there, but I never thought anyone would seek them out. “When did you watch those?”
“A few years ago. I don’t know how you didn’t end up with concussions and broken bones.”
“I did. A couple times. Arms and ribs mostly.”
She shakes her head in wonder. “Do you miss it?”
“The broken bones? No.”
She quirks a smile. “The bull riding.”
I shrug. “Sometimes. The thrill of it, maybe. The friends. The rodeos. When things were simple. Not the professional rides, though.”
“What was different about those?”
“The stakes,” I answer simply, then turn my attention back to the papers in my hand.
She wanders next to the shelf that houses a few more photos from my rodeoing days—me with my first trophy as a kid, riding broncs, and cheering on the sidelines for friends. She folds her arms and studies each one, a look of intrigue in her eyes. Then she points to the photo of me in my professional years next to another cowboy, the image secured in a simple, brown, wooden frame.
“Who’s this with you?”
My heart twists. “A good friend of mine. Stetson Pickett.”
“You guys are close?”
I nod, holding a pen between my pulled-in lips to use an excuse for my silence. Six years have passed, and still, I can’t bring myself to speak much about him to anyone.
She keeps looking at the photos, but I’m done walking down memory lane.
“Here you go.” I extend the pen toward her and the paper on a clipboard. “You’ll have to sign this waiver to make it an official trail ride.”
“Are you serious?”
“It just lets me know you don’t intend to sue me in the rare chance you become injured.”
She laughs. “I’m not going to sue you.”
She tries to hand the clipboard back to me, but I wave my finger.
“You don’t trust me?” she asks.
“You? Yes. Your dad?” I leave the question unanswered, which answers it anyway.
“Fine, I’ll sign it. If only to get you out there faster and finally get some answers.”
She scribbles her name down and hands it back to me.
“Thank you...” I look at the signature. “Miss...Wan...ree...o.” I give her a look. “You have a terrible signature.”
She laughs in surprise, then tosses the pen at my chest which I catch on instinct. “I was just trying to be fast.”
“If you say so.”
