12. Charlotte
12
CHARLOTTE
LARAMIE, WYOMING — LATE JULY
I t’s hot and dry. Much more than any place I’ve been recently, and I’m sucking back water like it’s my job. It isn’t, of course, but hydration is really important on rodeo day. I’m also pulling double duty again today because Uncle Tim still hasn’t fired Brett.
I pull a little too hard on Rooney’s bit as I stand next to him, frustrated at the prospect of us doing more work. I really wanted to try and give him some rest after our ride. Instead, we’ll be back in the arena, corralling ornery broncs and rescuing the fools that try to ride them. Rooney protests when I try to nuzzle against his nose.
“Hey now, don’t be like that.” I stroke his neck gently in apology. “I’m sorry I pulled.” He shifts his weight closer to my touch, the indication that he forgives me clear, but I move to his side and begin fixing his mane and continue, “And I’m sorry that I’m making you work twice today. I know I should tell Tim to find someone else, but.” I pause, considering all the reasons why I am still helping my uncle. I thread a thick peach ribbon through the braid I’m weaving. It matches the bow at the bottom of my own plait. The color stands out against both of our hair and the deep chocolate color of my button-down. “Tim’s the only family who actually gives a damn I’m doing this, you know that. Mom and Dad pay the bills, but it’s not the same. And now with Wilder…I can’t stomach the idea of something happening to him when I could have been there.”
It’s the truth. I’d rather put us through more work to keep Wilder—or any of the other riders—from harm. They shouldn’t be at risk because their recovery rider is still seeing double, or can’t stay upright on his horse. As I finish weaving and tying off a final flourish to Rooney’s mane, I also know I need to tell my uncle I’ve had enough. It’s getting too late in the season to keep adding this kind of work to my rotation, and the risk is something I’m tired of taking.
Rooney and I are on an unbelievable hot streak. We’ve won every race we’ve ridden in. I’m sitting at the top of the leaderboard for Nationals qualification. Despite the unexpected addition of Wilder to my life, I feel confident in myself and my horse to see our names on a title in five months. But there’s a growing unease in my gut; a stirring I can’t quite name that speaks of danger or darkness. I know the outcome is going to be more than I’m prepared for if I can’t get us out of this cycle with Uncle Tim.
“Well, if it isn’t the prettiest damn thing in the rodeo.” Wilder’s arms wrap around me, breaking me from my rapidly spiraling thoughts, his scent and steady hold bringing me back to the moment. “And his rider.”
I thrust an elbow back at his joke, catching him easily in the side. The quick exhale of his breath sends the baby hairs framing my face fluttering. Spinning free, I see him nearly doubled over as he recovers, but there’s a wide smile mixed with the discomfort.
“That’s what you get, Cowboy.” I cross my arms over my chest, completely unrepentant for my actions. Rooney shifts away, used to avoiding Wilder’s boisterous behavior, to give us a wide berth. I pat his shoulder before walking away from where I have him hitched.
Wilder follows at my heels, hands slipping into my back pockets and pulling until I relent. I lean against him, even if in the July heat, it’s uncomfortable to be so close in the sun. I soak in his unspoken apology, and I give him mine. There isn’t a reason to make more of his ridiculous joke, so I spin around until I can kiss him.
His lips are chapped but eager against my own. Lifting onto my toes, I press more incessantly against him. His arms are like a steel band at the small of my back, and when he sneaks one hand into one of my pockets again to squeeze my ass, I can’t keep the smile from parting my lips. Wilder takes full advantage, deepening our kiss with a sinful swipe of his tongue. I let him devour me, swallowing every gasp and moan I give him. It’s a heated kiss, full of the promise of dirty deeds in the dark, and I allow myself to be lost in the sensations.
“Break it up, you two, or I’ll have to get the hose. We’ve got rough stock that behave with more professionalism than the pair of you!” Uncle Tim’s voice is like the crack of a whip, breaking us apart.
It’s only after the haze of being wrapped in Wilder fades that I can hear the dying whistles from nearby cowboys, their heckling not unkind, but still pointed. My cheeks heat, but Wilder doesn’t let me feel embarrassed. After pressing a final kiss to my forehead, he steps back, still keeping me close by moving me in front of him, thumb hooking in the belt loop next to my buckle. It’s possessive in a way that gives me the confidence to shake off the lingering self-consciousness.
“That can’t possibly be true, Tim,” Wilder begins, the cockiness I’m used to hearing lacing his jovial tone. “That bay gelding kicked at me as I walked past this morning. Unprompted. Not exactly the epitome of a consummate professional.”
“That gelding is supposed to kick. He’s slated for the saddle bronc event. It’s kind of his whole damn job, McCoy.” Tim looks unimpressed from where he leans against the hitching post.
“But he wasn’t on the clock, is my point.” Wilder shrugs, and Uncle Tim rolls his eyes. Before this can go any further, I speak up.
“What do you need?”
My uncle’s face darkens before he breaks eye contact, looking around the vast staging area. He pushes off the post, walking slowly toward me with his head down. When he stands before me, his eyes pinch in the corners from his contrite expression. “Brett’s fighting to ride tonight. He’s pissed that I’m keeping him from the arena.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I acknowledge, thinking back to Deadwood. Brett couldn’t stand on his own two feet in the medical tent when Uncle Tim escorted him there for IV treatment, but the man insisted he didn’t need to miss the bareback event. It was only when Tim quietly insisted a small amount of sedative be added to Brett’s fluids that the man relented. I rode that night without knowing any of this, but having Tim fill me in later sent a chill down my spine. I loved how my uncle wanted to support people trying their best, but it was becoming clear that Brett wasn’t trying as hard as he should.
“Yeah, but he’s not doing it because of a relapse this time. I pulled him because the idiot couldn’t pay his boarding fee for Bacon, his horse, and the stable manager took him as collateral.” Tim sucks his teeth, glancing at Wilder before he speaks again. “He’s pissed off and looking to take it out on anyone who crosses his path.”
“Jesus, Tim. Have you put Charlie in some kind of danger?” Wilder’s voice is cold steel. His anger radiates off him like the sun’s heat on the nearby rooftops. Tim rears his head back in shock.
“Of course not. Brett might be an asshole with a drinking problem, but he’s never tried to hurt anyone.” Tim looks at me, concern in his eyes. “I just wanted you to know so you can steer clear of him tonight until after the bronc event.”
Wilder growls low behind me, his dislike of the situation clear, but he’s not challenging Tim. I give my uncle a firm nod. “I never intend to be around him to begin with. This won’t change anything for me. I can take care of myself.”
The flex of Wilder’s hand against me tells me he doesn't intend to let me be alone too much. The protective instincts he hides so well in sweet, thoughtful gestures flare to life in a more visceral way now. I look over my shoulder, eyebrow lifting in a question of trust. He kisses the corner of my eye, soothing the unease, and I know he believes I can handle anything that needs to be done.
“All right.” Tim grips my shoulder. “Have a good race, and see Rayna when everything’s done tonight. She’ll have your extra pay for the recovery ride.”
Tim’s barely out of earshot when Wilder speaks. “I don’t like this, Charlie.”
A heavy sigh escapes me, irritation and frustration warring at the situation I’m in. I busy myself with double-checking Rooney’s tack and mount, the familiarity of the tasks soothing as I ready myself for Wilder’s protests and commentary.
“Wild, please,” I try to head him off. My event starts in ten minutes, and everything about my routine has been thrown off by Tim’s words. I’m desperate to get my focus back. Rooney turns his head to check in with me, my anxiety, irritation, and anticipation passing easily to the empathetic animal I so deeply cherish. Wilder steps up beside me, brows furrowed and lips thin. “It’s unlikely I’ll even have to see Brett, and your event needs two riders.”
“We can find someone else. One of the ropers—Ellis, maybe, he’s quick and has good instincts.” Wilder pulls my hat off the saddle horn, where it always rests before I ride. Even as he tries to negotiate a way out of this for me, he’s helping me get ready for my race. “Plus, I’ve seen him fight. He’s got a hell of a right hook.”
“Stop making it sound like Brett is walking around taking shots at anyone who dares look at him.” I roll my eyes. “He’s pissed, broke, and bitter. He’s lost his horse, and he has to realize he’s damn close to losing his job. The anger will last only as long as it takes him to find a bottle to crawl into for the night. And none of that affects the job I have to focus on.”
“But it shouldn’t even be your job, Charlotte! Why do you keep doing this?” Wilder throws his arm out, my hat clutched tightly in his grip, voice rising with his own frustration. Rooney stomps a foot at the dramatic behavior, so I try to settle him with some pets at his chest. I shoot daggers at Wilder, my eyes narrowing dangerously. It’s one thing to heave his attitude at me before a race, but I won’t let him mess with Rooney’s head. I depend on Rooney for everything from the moment we enter the arena. His attention has to be sharper than mine, and right now, none of this is helping.
“Because Uncle Tim is the only person in my family who ever gave a shit that I love this fucking life!” I fire back. “Because if he needed me to take the tickets at the entrance or muck out every stall, I would do it for the support he’s shown me!”
I steal my hat from his hands, pulling it on my head a little too hard, and hitching a foot into Rooney’s stirrup. My horse is moving around, his behavior a reflection of the tense atmosphere around him. I need to get us somewhere we can center ourselves again. And fast.
With practiced ease, I swing into the saddle and glare down at Wilder. He has the decency to look a little ashamed, and he’s stepped back to give Rooney and me a little space. He’s breathing deeply, pushing out steadying exhales, and I find myself matching his rhythm. Even in our disagreement, he’s still dedicated to showing me he cares, finding equilibrium for us. Rooney relaxes enough to let Wilder untie him from the post, something I failed to do in my haste. Wilder hands me the reins and stands at my knee.
“I’m sorry.”
The two words slice through me, burning out the rest of my anger in a flash. I slip off Rooney’s back to throw my arms around Wilder’s neck, folding myself into the hollow at the base of his throat. “I’m sorry, too,” I apologize. “I’ll be careful tonight, and I’ll tell Tim that I can’t do this anymore. He promised he would fire Brett at the end of the season, but I think my helping him is only prolonging the inevitable. Tim’s become too comfortable relying on me, and I think I’m letting him.”
“Baby, that’s not what I meant.”
“I know it isn’t,” I tell him. Rooney nudges my back, and we laugh, breaking apart. I hold my horse at his bit as Wilder rubs his velvet nose. “But I can’t keep working Rooney like this. We’ve been lucky so far, but we’re just as likely to take a kick from one of those murder horses as you are out there. I can’t keep putting him at risk. And I appreciate your concern, too. I haven’t had anyone to care like that before.”
“Whatever you want to do, okay?” he reassures sweetly. His hands run up and down my back when I turn back to my mount. I leverage myself back into the saddle, more focused and calm than before. I look Wilder over once more, my gaze catching on the peach ribbon he has wrapped as a band around his hat. It perfectly matches the set Rooney and I wear. My heart swells so much at the sight, it feels a little hard to breathe. I have to swallow more than once to clear the emotion from where it’s lodged itself like an unbroken sob in my throat. The little shake of Rooney’s head tells me he’s ready, too, and I turn us toward the arena, ready to race.
“I’ll see you after.”
* * *
“With that knocked-over barrel, Charlotte’s earned a five-second penalty, folks. Her final time is twenty-five point three. She won’t be sitting in the money this evening, but that time is unlikely to knock her out of her current first-place seeding on the Nationals table.”
The echo of the announcer carries as I walk Rooney back to his stall for a snack and a rest. For once, the reins feel heavy in my hands, the taste of losing bitter in my mouth. Rooney stays close, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. I shouldn’t be too upset; losing was bound to happen; it happens to everyone. But I’m biting the inside of my cheek as we near the stable to keep from tearing up.
It’s my own fault that we lost. I allowed myself to become distracted. Strayed too far from my pre-race practices. Became too complacent that all the change around me wasn’t impacting what is most important to me: proving that I’m good at racing. That Rooney and I can win.
I keep my head down and quickly set about securing Rooney in his stall, distracted by my own melancholy and disappointment. My movements are mechanical, easing the saddle off him before putting it away for the next hour. With my back to Rooney, I reach for the brush, intending to give him a little extra attention, hoping it will help make me feel better by default.
Suddenly, I’m pushed into the side wall of the stall as Rooney stomps his feet violently and lets out an ear-splitting whinny. It’s a panicked, alarming noise that has me on edge as I struggle to get a full breath. I spin around, looking for danger and reaching for Rooney’s lead. He’s still moving around erratically, eyes wide, and the sounds of distress from him aim directly at my heart. I gain control of the reins, pulling at them to get Rooney to focus on me, still searching for signs of danger.
There, slipping under a loose board at the bottom of the stable, the back of a snake in a familiar pattern and honeycomb tail disappears. My heart stops beating before it plummets into my stomach. I’m frozen in place as fear races through me.
A rattlesnake.
“Charlie, I’m so sorry, it’s only one race—” Wilder’s voice sounds from the half-opened stall door. It’s enough to set me back in. I immediately crouch, examining Rooney’s front legs as carefully as I can. I sense Wilder slip into the stall, his voice murmuring soothing words as he picks up the reins I discarded, keeping Rooney still and calm. I think he says my name, but I can’t focus on him enough to care. My fingers move gently, but with practiced efficiency, up and down Rooney’s limbs. Searching. Dreading what I might find.
There, just below the knee on his left front leg, two puncture marks pooling with blood.
“He’s been bitten.” My voice is soft. The taste of bile teases the back of my throat, my stomach churning with the outcomes of this reality, each darker and scarier than the next. My horse—my constant companion—has been bitten by a snake. Even if I can process the fact, my emotions are hung up on the terrifying possibilities of what it means.
“What?” Wilder asks, concern and confusion clear. I look up to him, the image blurring as tears cloud my vision. I swallow thickly, infusing my words with more strength than I actually have.
“Rooney’s been bitten by a snake. A rattler.” There’s more confidence in my words, but I struggle to stand. My hands never leave Rooney. I brush and pet, trying to give him some comfort as my sweet horse begins to favor the injured leg.
“Fuck.” Wilder takes a breath. “Someone get the vet! We’ve got a snake-bitten horse that’s going to need help!” His voice commands attention, even though all of his is focused on me. There’s an answering shout, the message being conveyed through the alleyway.
Wilder’s hands are on either side of my face, thumbs working away the tears that have started falling. Their salty residue is drying in tight trails over the curve at my cheeks. There’s a gentle squeeze at the nape of my neck as Wilder shakes me softly to get my attention. It’s hard to concentrate on him when my whole world feels like it's been knocked off its axis. But that steadiness I’ve come to love so much about him reaches through as he locks eyes with me. Then, with silent grace, he removes one hand from me to place it on Rooney’s muzzle. “I’ve got you. Both of you. It’s going to be okay.”
Something about the certainty in Wilder’s statement gives me permission to break. The resolve I’ve been clinging to since the end of my race crumbles to pieces as he wraps me in his arms, and I collapse against him.