2. Wilder
2
WILDER
JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL
T his horse is either going to make me a lot of money or give me a lot of broken bones. Maybe both. I’m hoping it’s the former.
The bay-colored mare has made it abundantly clear that she does not want me astride her. She leans heavily to one side of the chute, pinning my leg uncomfortably against the fence before flaring her nostrils loudly and grunting with annoyance. I’m settling my ass as comfortably as possible against the horse’s back when Travis Frost, my friend and professional bull rider, notices that there’s an issue with the mount. The handle I’m supposed to wedge my hand into and grip for the duration of the ride is secured to a mount around the horse’s chest. It’s loose, putting the entire ride in jeopardy. He’s about to turn to get an official to inspect it and delay my ride. Absolutely fucking not.
I drew the best horse tonight; I’m not about to miss out on the opportunity of a good ride because the mount isn’t fully secure. My grip is, I can tell my grip is secure as I move my fingers.
“Let’s just go!” I bellow at Travis. He knows what I’m asking, and his eyes widen. It’s a dangerous move to ride when the mount could break away unexpectedly. An even worse possibility could be that the handle slips to one side of the horse’s shoulders, putting me in a position where I can’t get off when the ride is up. I don’t think about how badly that could hurt; I just know it’s my turn to ride, and I don’t want to miss this opportunity. I glare at Travis, teeth grinding together when I say, “Fuck it.”
With a disapproving shake of his head, he turns, telling the official everything is good to go. I’m ready. I give the final nod and suck in a sharp breath as the chute gate flies open. My spurs dig in as the horse’s front hooves pound into the dirt.
The mare, named Happy Trails, twists violently, her back legs shooting out behind her. I hold on tight, flinging my free arm in the air, knees lifting above the mare’s shoulders. The horse keeps performing like a hellspawn, snot flying from her nose as she tries to dislodge me. It’s exactly the kind of ride everyone hopes for. My arm stays in the air, and I move up and down along the horse’s back. I can feel it in my blood. This is going to be huge.
The buzzer echoes in my ears. Eight seconds.
And if I’m lucky, the purse tonight.
I’m allowed to let go and hit the ground, but the handle has shifted to the right, loosening against Happy Trails’ shoulder. The exact worst-case scenario, and this horse is still pissed that I haven’t vacated her immediately. I lean forward, over the mount, to try and twist it back to the middle where I can extract my hand more easily. I wiggle my fingers and pull hard to my left to move the mount as I see our two rescue riders approach. It doesn’t matter. With a quick slide, the mount moves, and my fingers pop free. It’s fast and awkward enough to send me tumbling to the ground.
I grunt as my hip hits the dirt, but survival instincts have me rolling to my side and knees almost immediately. It’s just in time as Happy Trails swings her back legs in my direction, the kick displacing the air close enough to me that I can feel the whoosh of the wind against my face.
“Hand, cowboy!” The command comes from my left, and the petite rescue rider in the black Stetson and braids reaches down. Curtis has Happy Trails backing away, but the wild horse seems to be targeting me, staring stupidly at the hand being thrust in my face. It doesn’t take more than another stamp of Happy Trails’ massive hooves to get my body in motion. I reach up to clasp the girl’s forearm, giving myself a small running jump as she hoists me behind her saddle with a surprising amount of strength.
I’m not a small man. At six feet, I’m the tallest competitor in my event and an outlier for bronc-riding cowboys. I have broad shoulders and a considerable amount of lean muscle honed from years of ranching, riding, and keeping my body in shape. But this girl’s grip is fierce, her fingers digging into the flesh of my arm through the plaid shirt and arm tape I have on, almost like blunt talons. She swings, using my momentum to help me land on the back of her horse, a beautiful red roan with a braided tail and little braids in his mane. The ribbons match the two at the bottom of the braided pigtails in front of me. My arms wind around the girl’s narrow waist as she trots away from Happy Trails, who’s been roped by Curtis and is being led to the livestock gate.
The announcer is calling for attention to the screen at the end of the arena, where a replay of my ride is being shown. I twist to watch it over my shoulder. It’s a damn good ride on the back of a damn good horse. My score flashes boldly at the conclusion of the replay: 89.5.
“Fuck yeah!” I whoop, pulling my hat from my head and waving it around as the crowd cheers.
“Goddamn it, get off my fucking horse if you’re going to act like a clown,” the girl hisses. We stop next to the exit gate, one of her hands reaching back to push at my thigh. Just like Happy Trails, she clearly wants me to exit her space. I put my hat back on, glad that, at this angle, her strength isn’t enough to dislodge me. On the soft breeze that flutters through the spring air, I catch a hint of peaches. The scent so faint and inviting I lean forward to follow it back to the curve of her neck, where it originates.
“What’s wrong? You sick of me already? I kind of like riding with you.”
I have no idea why I say it, much less whisper it in her ear. This girl saved my ass, but I can’t seem to resist the idea that she’s not impressed by me. And somehow, that just won’t do. I’m a goddamn delight if the loud screams from my left are any indication. I catch sight of a group of women in the stands, wearing white cowboy hats and matching shirts with “Looking for a Wild time” emblazoned on them.
“And now, the ride is over,” she announces when we pass through the gate. She pulls up short on the reins, turning fully to pin me with her stare. Her green eyes—nearly gem-like in their emerald color—blaze with irritation, one black braid swinging to the front with the force of her turn. “Get off.”
“A gentleman always gets his lady off first.” I smirk, hand reaching out to toy with the red ribbon in her hair. The smack I receive on my wrist isn’t unexpected, and I laugh loudly as she flips the temptation back over her shoulder.
“You’re no gentleman, Cowboy.” Her eyes flick up and down my body in assessment before she jerks her chin to the ground, her wordless direction clear. “And I’m plenty capable of getting off without anyone’s help.”
I hold my hands up in surrender, spinning to swing a leg over and slip off the back of her horse. Boots firmly back on the ground, I look over my shoulder to get in a parting shot, but she’s already trotting off toward the warm-up ring. I watch for far too long at the enticing sight of her round ass posting in the saddle.
“You’re a real dumb son of a bitch, you know that?”
Curtis’ disapproving voice has me walking to where he’s now tying up Dusty on a post near the gate. He spits in the dirt as I get closer.
I look down at it and give my friend and mentor an apologetic frown.
“But, I won.”
“Winning means nothing if you’re not around to enjoy it,” Curtis says, genuine concern laced in his words. “Wilder, you’re one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. But you have no goddamn sense. The ride only really counts if you live through it. That horse was inches away from knocking your head off your shoulders.”
“That wouldn’t improve my looks any,” I joke, hoping to take the worry away. Curtis took me under his tutelage when I was sixteen after I watched him win in Tulsa. He was a legend, and I was persistent. I followed him around for the rest of the night like a lost puppy, asking question after question until he finally told me he’d train me if it meant I’d shut up. The man took a dumb kid with enthusiasm and a ‘devil may care’ chip on his shoulder and turned me into a near-champion rider. Along the way, he’s tried to turn me into a better man, but that hasn’t come as easily.
“Shit, Wild.” Curtis sighs. “If Charlotte hadn’t been there, it could have gone really bad for you, kid.”
“Charlotte.” I let the name roll around my tongue, slipping it past my teeth, almost like a kiss. I try it out and smile when I like how it sounds. I haven’t seen her at events before.
“No.” Curtis’ voice is firm.
“What?” I ask innocently, holding up my hands and stroking Dusty’s snout. The horse chuffs and moves away from me. Figures he’d take sides. Curtis is glaring at me. Hard. “I was just confirming her name.”
“Bullshit.” Guilty as charged. Curtis goes on, “It’s Charlotte’s first season since moving up from juniors. She doesn’t need anything—or anyone —messing with that.”
“Did you hear how she talked to me?” I laugh. “Something tells me ‘distraction’ is the last thing she thought of me.”
“Keep it that way.” Curtis hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “Get going. I’ve got a race to watch, and I’m sure you want to get over to Tim to see about your winnings.”
“Thanks, Curt,” I say, stopping long enough to clasp the man’s shoulder. “You’re always trying to take care of me.”
A grunt is the only reply I get as I make my way back toward where my trailer is parked for the night. I drop off my vest and aim for the main tent to find Tim. But my boots carry me in a different direction, circling around to the side of the arena. I hitch a heel on the lowest rail, arms crossed across the bar in front of me, and tip my hat back a little to see the action before me.
The black horse streaking around the barrel is fast. Its rider, a blonde, extends over her saddle and quietly urges the animal to turn faster before streaking to the other side to round another barrel. They go into the next turn wide, the horse fighting against its rider and slowing them. I glance up at the timer on the screen. I don’t race, but I know that hitting the second barrel at twelve seconds won’t win you any prizes.
As the racer blows through the exit gate to stop her time, Travis steps up beside me. Our public address announcer goes on in the background about the score and introduces the next competitor.
“Hey, man,” I greet my friend. He holds my eyes for a second too long, and I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry I put you in that spot. I already caught hell for it from Curtis, don’t need it from you, too.”
“I get your hat,” Travis replies, voice heavy and serious. I blink stupidly. He drapes his arms on the rails, watching the action before us, and smiles. “The next time you do something that does get you killed, I get your hat.”
“Fuck you.” I shove against his shoulder, playful and dumb, just like most of our antics. He laughs, and I know all is well between us. As a bull rider, he’s crazier than I am. The racer finishes in the arena, and a good time flashes on the screen.
“Eighteen point three! That’s the time to beat, folks. But we still have one more rider,” the announcer booms from his perch in a tower next to the gates. “This pretty little lady comes to us from Evers Ridge, Montana, and is a two-time junior world champion. She’s won three of the last five shows and is looking to extend her streak here. Stomp your feet for Charlotte Stryker and her horse Rooney!”
I swing my attention to the woman on the back of the red roan bursting from the gate. She’s leaning way forward in her saddle, practically over Rooney’s ears but as flat against him as she can get. They take off like a bullet from a gun, tackling the left barrel first. It’s the only one they have to complete an inside turn for, the hardest part of the race. Charlotte is urging Rooney on with her solid grip on his reins. They make the tightest revolution I’ve ever seen, not quite brushing the barrel, but getting close enough that Rooney could suspect what it feels like against his flanks.
Rooney has barely finished the circle when Charlotte calls out, urging him across to the next barrel and into the next turn. I take my eyes off them long enough to check the time: they’ve just passed the eight-second mark.
“She’s got to turn and burn here, ladies and gentlemen!” the commentator says as Charlotte heads into the final turn of the cloverleaf pattern. This barrel is placed at the back of the arena, the furthest distance from the exit gate. All they have to do is round it and run flat-out to the finish. Doing just that, Charlotte and Rooney cross the line, killing the timer at 16.5 seconds.
“Damn,” I say, impressed. Travis whistles low next to me while he adjusts his hat.
“That girl is fast.”
“Yeah, she is.”
The event has concluded, signaling a brief intermission while they clear the arena and introduce the rules for the steer wrangling event. Travis and I push off the fence, once again turning for the backstage area.
I can’t help but scan the riders and various individuals for a black hat and a flash of red ribbon. I’d even settle for the sight of Rooney’s mottled red coat. I must be less subtle about my search than I think because Travis ribs me with his elbow before pointing toward the path leading to the trailers.
“There she is.”
“There, who is?” I try to ask without interest. But the truth is, I am interested. I want to talk to the woman who hauled me off the arena floor, insulted me, and sent me on my way, and who just dominated the barrel racing competition.
“Charlotte.” Travis has one eyebrow cocked. “She’s nice, from what I know. And she wiped you off the floor tonight, so don’t be a dick.”
I pull up short, turning to my friend. “I’m not a dick.”
“You don’t mean to be a dick,” he corrects, crossing his arms over his chest before he steps closer. “Look, I know how much fun we have. The buckle bunnies, after the show, always know what they’re signing up for when they decide to put our hats on their heads and come back to our trailers. It’s a damn good time. But Charlotte isn’t a buckle bunny.”
“I wasn’t planning on trying to get in her jeans, Trav,” I protest. Yes, I was. I was definitely going to try and get into her jeans. Because they are tight and make her ass look amazing. “I was just going to properly thank her for riding recovery tonight. Things would have gone a lot differently if she hadn’t been there.”
Travis takes a minute to assess me. It’s taking all of my self-control to appear as earnest as possible. His warning hasn’t really deterred me from wanting to get more than friendly with Charlotte, but he doesn’t need to know that. I tilt my head in farewell and turn to make after the girl with the green eyes and an attitude who got under my skin.
“If what I said doesn’t keep you on your better behavior—because Lord knows your best behavior abandoned you when puberty hit—then know this: Charlotte is Tim’s niece.”
I pause, letting that revelation wash over me. I wave over my shoulder and keep moving forward. Charlotte Stryker is Tim’s niece.