6. Wilder
6
WILDER
DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA — LATE MAY
P lunk.
There is a leak in my roof. I never would have discovered it if this spring storm hadn’t decided to roll through Deadwood as I showed up in town. Now, I’m standing in what amounts to the hallway of my trailer, watching the steady drops from the corner of the skylight fall into the saucepan I put on the floor.
Plunk.
The rain outside continues to come down, not heavy but steady, making everything look bleak. It’s going to make the rodeo tonight a real pain in the ass, and the last thing I want is to come back to a possible lake in my trailer. Most people don’t realize rodeos are held rain or shine. My only knowledge of a cancellation is from when there were lightning strikes in the area. But rodeoing in the rain makes everything more complicated. The animals tend to be more subdued, which makes the ride harder because the showmanship suffers. Scores are lower. The ground is thick and mucky, which can potentially lead to injury. Generally, rain rodeos are terrible.
There’s a sharp knock on the door. I take the two steps to open it, smiling when I see the reinforcements I called in standing under the awning, looking unimpressed under the brim of his waterlogged tan hat.
“You’re here, good,” I say by way of greeting. I give him a big smile. “I’ve sprung a leak.”
“That better not be a damn euphemism, Wilder,” Curtis grumbles, a thumb hooking lazily into his belt loop. “We’ve got a road doc for that kind of shit.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, and leave those muddy boots outside.” I push open the screen door, indicating a metal tray where my own boots sit. Curtis lifts an eyebrow at me, but leans against the side of the trailer before pulling his boots free. Then he steps into my space, shuffling closer to the dining table as I close the doors. I point to the skylight and pot. “Roof has a leak, and I need someone to stay inside while I go up top and try to patch it.”
Curtis walks to the problem, removing his hat to set it on the counter, brim up, before looking up and back at me.
“Yeah, all right,” he agrees, picking up the tube of caulking I have. “Think it’s a seam?”
“I hope so,” I tell him as I pull out a worn baseball cap and hooded rain jacket. “Don’t have time for anything more than that until later in the season.”
Curtis grunts an agreement, and I get to work. Twenty minutes later, I’m nearly soaked to the bone, but the leak is patched, and I’m desperate for a hot shower and a cup of coffee as I climb off the roof and back under the awning. Curtis opens the door, offering me a towel while I try to shake off as much excess water as possible from my hair and clothes. I hang the jacket and hat on some outside hooks before pulling off my boots again and making a beeline for the back bedroom to find some dry clothes until I can get to the wash house of the campground. Back in my living space, Curtis is pouring some coffee grounds into the machine and getting out mugs. After rubbing the towel through the ends of my hair, I sit down at the dinette.
“When did you get the new machine?” He points to the coffee maker I bought a few weeks back. It damn near takes up the entire counter with its multiple parts: the drip, the frother, and a tank for ice. But it makes a damn good coffee, the machine so efficient that even someone like me—who’s content with caffeinated sludge—can’t mess it up.
“The old one finally gave up the ghost after Jonesboro,” I lie. Was my old one-pot machine ancient and on its last legs with a cracked handle? Yes. Would I have replaced it if I hadn’t been thinking about Charlotte? No. But once I got it in my head to surprise Charlotte in Kansas City with a cup of coffee—and begged Rayna to tell me how she drinks it—I couldn’t let it go. I made a pit stop at a local department store, picked up the shining monstrosity, and studied the hell out of the instruction manual to learn how to operate it. Given the little sigh Charlotte made when she took her first sip that morning in the arena, I know it was worth it.
“Ride’s going to be rough tonight,” Curtis says without preamble, breaking the silence stretching between us. He leans against the counter as we listen to the coffee machine work, the nutty aroma of the brew filling the small space. I glance out the window where the weather has doubled down, blocking out the midday sun; the rain pelts heavier against the roof, and I know the arena is likely turning into a bog as we speak. “Of all the nights for there to be sponsors here.”
“Sponsors, really?” I ask, not bothering to hide my interest, all thoughts of mud-caked boots and ruined jeans forgotten. In my short career, I’ve managed to win a few minor deals with companies. The advances and residuals paid for my trailer and keeping my gear up to date. The responsibilities have mostly been wearing patches on my vest and flashing a smile for their social media. Occasionally, I drop their names when I do an interview. But the companies have been relatively small-time in this business, and aside from earning a championship buckle, a long-term contract with one of the big five ensures security even when the rodeo days are over.
“Which sponsors?” I prompt. The man across from me rubs his stubbled jaw, taking his time before he answers.
Curtis grunts out an acknowledgment, pouring the fresh brew into our mugs and joining me at the small table. I adjust, sitting taller to keep my knees from knocking against his. We both sip, and I let the hot liquid warm me from the inside out, banishing the last of the rain-soaked cold from my bones.
“Ace High and Horizon. Both want to sign a new representative this season.”
Ace High and Horizon . Two of the big five companies. One is the biggest Western clothing supplier in North America, and the other has a rope on every ranch in the United States. Both have been rodeo staples for decades. Every cowboy and cowgirl that signs with them has become the most sought-after in our sport. Their representatives' popularity transcends beyond the dirt of the arena. I’d give anything to have either company’s attention for long enough to prove I’m a good investment.
“Well, shit, Curt,” I say, drawling my cuss a little. It doesn’t charm him the same way it does women if the glare he returns is any indication. I chuckle, going on, “I better iron my good shirt for tonight.”
“Don’t know what for.” Curtis smirks, extending his arm along the back of the booth seat. “Ace High is looking for a cowgirl, and you might be pretty, but you don’t have the ass to fill their jeans.”
“My ass fills my jeans just fine, thank you.” I clutch my hand against my heart in mock-offense.
“Yeah, well, I already introduced their rep to Charlotte.”
“She does have a great ass.” I whistle low, remembering how her jeans mold to the muscular curves that bounce so enticingly when she rides.
“Watch it,” Curtis warns bitingly. “I love that girl like she’s my own.”
“Weird. You were the one talking about her ass,” I point out. Curtis’ face goes red as he leans forward.
“Not. Like. That. ”
I wave a hand dismissively between us. I know damn well he didn’t mean anything in our conversation like that . He thought he was teasing me. I can’t help that he walked into an awkward as hell moment. Plus, just because he would never think of Charlotte’s ass that way doesn’t mean I don’t.
“She deserves it. She’d make a great brand rep,” I give him, downing half my coffee to keep from looking him in the eye.
“Charlotte’s worked hard, but talent isn’t everything,” Curtis ventures. I nod along, licking my lips for any remaining drops of coffee foam, before lifting my eyes. “It’s important for her to have reliable people in her corner, supporting her. She’s had too many people try to tell her how to live her life or get in her way. She doesn’t need another.”
I can feel my friend and mentor assessing me. It’s in the slight pinch at the corner of his eyes, the subtle shift in the lift of his chin. He tried to warn me off Charlotte the night I met her, but he knows once I set my mind on something, I won’t be moved from it. I hold his stare, keeping my shoulders relaxed, trying to convey I’m not aiming to hurt her. He must see what he needs because I get the briefest nod. I let out a quiet exhale at passing his unspoken test.
“That box for her?” His eyes flick to a small rectangular box wrapped in emerald paper on the counter. I forgot it was there once I started dealing with the leak, but there’s no avoiding it now.
“Yeah,” I tell him, standing with my empty mug and reaching for his. Curtis hands it over, and I put both in the sink before picking up the box. It fits neatly in the palm of my hand, the shine of the wrapping catching the light and highlighting the corner I couldn’t get to fold properly.
“How did you know it was her birthday?” Curtis asks, rising and reaching past me for his hat. He meanders to the trailer door, leaning against the wall as he waits for my answer.
“She mentioned it in Jonesboro.” I set the box back on the counter, turning the contents over in my mind and hoping the gift I picked out isn’t a mistake. Curtis has one eyebrow lifted when I give him my attention again. He waits, and I let out a sigh. “But I promised Rayna a fifty-percent tip if she told me the exact date. That’s how I know it’s today, okay?”
“Well.” He pulls his boots on and opens the door, stepping outside where the wind blows the rain sideways under the awning. He levels me the kind of look I remember seeing when I was learning to ride: stern and unforgiving. The kind of look that conveyed how important the next words out of his mouth would be. Pulling his hat snugly on his head, his voice growls against the growing storm, “Don’t fuck it up.”
* * *
The arena is part lake, part mud pit, and all kinds of a pain in my ass.
The rain finally stopped about thirty minutes ago, in the middle of the steer wrangling, but the ground bears the scars of a messy, dangerous night for all the participants. Human and animal.
As I walk through the staging area, there are a couple of cowboys in the first aid tent getting checked out for sprained wrists and ankles, and I notice at least one steer under the supervision of a veterinarian as it limps lamely around a holding pen.
I pat my arms, checking that the lingering dampness in the air hasn’t soaked through my wraps and tape before securing the buttons at the cuff. It’s easy to assume that most rodeo athletes don’t give a shit about health and safety, given the very nature of what we do for a living. But every rodeo comes with hours of preparation and practice, from strength and cardio training to the clothes to the time I put in wrapping my arms with athletic tape to help absorb some of the shock of my ride. I pull my protective vest onto my shoulders, my fingers deftly working the zipper, securing the final piece of my minimal armor. It isn’t much, but every bit of it helps me endure the thrashing and twisting of the thousand-pound animal I have the pleasure of trying to stay on top of.
At the participants' gate, I can just make out Charlotte’s uncle, Tim, the organizer of tonight’s rodeo, waving his arms animatedly at the opening of a tent next to first aid as he speaks to whoever is inside. Tim is a good operator. His rodeos are clean, efficient, and, despite a few close calls, safe. I lean against the announcer’s tower, watching the interaction I can’t hear with detached interest until the familiar body of a red roan blocks my view.
I take in the mud-caked boots in the stirrup, following the long, lean lines of mahogany chaps over jean-clad legs to the flare of wide hips. A shockingly pink flannel shirt stretches across firm, round tits, the button straining slightly before I arrive at a plump set of lips twisted in a little smirk at me. Vibrant green eyes are narrowed playfully as Charlotte leans over her saddle horn toward me.
“Whatcha looking at, Cowboy?”
“Forgot it the second I saw you,” I tell her, unable to fight the smile on my face. It isn’t my usual grin—all showmanship and bravado—but a genuine one because seeing this woman makes me happy. “This view is better.”
“You’re practically at my feet, Wilder.” She scoffs, the sound a little inelegant, like she’s trying to hide a giggle, but I like that she doesn’t hide it. It’s unfiltered. A peek into who she is when she isn’t wrapped up in winning.
“You don’t like men at your feet, Charlie?” Her eyes widen, lips parting in a tantalizing little ‘O’ shape in surprise. I run a gentle hand along Rooney’s flank, stepping closer until I can pick up the floral undertones of her scent through the petrichor of the night air. “’Cause I got no problem getting on my knees for you.”
A beautiful, bold pink flush spreads from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing under the collar of her shirt. It almost matches the ribbons woven into the singular braid draped over her shoulder. I hold her gaze, waiting to see what she does next, winking when my name being called breaks the moment first.
“McCoy! You’re up first!”
“Yeah, all right!” I call back, not taking my eyes off Charlotte. The color fades from her fair skin, her lips thin as she presses them together and leans back in her saddle. I take a step back, intending to get to work as the horses are filed into the bucking chutes, stopping short when Charlotte speaks.
“Good luck,” she tells me. I want to say something; tell her thank you or ask why she’s here riding recovery for my event again. Instead, the moment is broken by another shout of my name, this time more annoyed than the last.
“Wilder! Let’s go!” The event boss calls again from the chutes, and I lift my chin at Charlotte in thanks as she kicks Rooney through the gate being opened. Curtis rides up behind her, both making their way into the arena.
Grumbles meet me as I hitch my leg up the rails of the chute, but they’re soon drowned out by the music blasting from the speakers and an announcement of my name. I swing a leg over to straddle the horse standing irritably below me before I lift a hand to the crown of my hat, poised to raise it in my automatic greeting. There’s a ripple of applause from the crowd that’s endured the rain, specifically catcalls and high-pitched whistles. But as I glance out, clusters of beautiful women huddled together in clear ponchos and holding beer bottles, the sight before me does little to elicit the usual excitement, and I hold my hat in place.
I swivel my head until I find the black-haired beauty riding recovery again tonight. She’s at the back of the arena, a bored expression on her face, but I don’t miss how tense her body is, the tight grip of Rooney’s reins in her hand. Charlotte’s ready to do her job, and it hits me that her seriousness is likely why I made it off the ground the night we met instead of ending up in the back of an ambulance. I wait until her eyes find mine, tipping my hat intentionally as I hold her stare.
“If your ass isn’t on that horse in three seconds, I’m going to disqualify you,” the event boss growls from the ground. The irritation in his voice makes me smirk, but I don’t hurry myself at his threat. I follow my usual routine, settling against the back of the horse, checking my grip, and bending my knees in the way that will earn me the most points as my spurs settle against the shoulders of my ride. Finally, I lift my free arm to the rail and nod.
The ride is a blur of light, sound, and mud. My horse isn’t the showiest I’ve been on; it’s unlikely she’ll earn me many points as she twists more than she kicks, the lack of bucking will lower my score. When I hear the blare of the horn, I hold on for another second until Curtis and Dusty ride in step next to me. With a swift lift at the back of my belt, I lunge as Curtis pulls, and I find myself against Dusty’s flank while my mare wanders aimlessly away. I slide down Curtis’ saddle into the muck of the arena floor, slapping a firm handshake to my friend while Charlotte urges the mare toward the open gate. I look for my score, unsurprised when it’s in the mid-seventies, but hopeful it will be enough in these shit conditions to win.
I trudge through the mud to the side of the arena, waving in gratitude as the crowd cheers. Rooney walks past me, slowing when I climb the fence so I’m eye to eye with Charlotte.
“Well, at least you didn’t end up on your back,” she comments and gestures to a small group gathered under a tent through the livestock exit. “Good thing, because those men are from Horizon, and they want to talk to you.”
The teasing comment I had about being on my back for her dies on my tongue.
“Thanks, Charlie,” I manage instead, clearing out of the arena as the next rider is announced. “Have a good race.”
I hop over the rails, fighting the nerves I haven’t felt all night, now flaring to life. I swallow as I walk toward what I hope will be a big part of my future.