20. Wilder
20
WILDER
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA — EARLY DECEMBER
T ravis is pulling his glove on while I zip up his protective vest. His event starts in a few minutes, a highlight in the marquee for the crowd that’s still buzzing from the barrel racing that just concluded.
Charlotte is still at the medical station, and even if I’m worried about my girl, I’m so proud of her for pulling off the most amazing race of her life. She crushed the competition, setting one of the best race times in the past twenty years.
With her force-of-nature approach to racing, a horse more competitive than her, and a bright, beautiful smile when she pulls her hat off to whoop at the crowd, Charlotte Stryker is a bona fide rodeo star. Her future is full of possibility, even though she’s already left an indelible mark on the sport from her accomplishments this season.
“Which bull did you draw?” I ask Travis as we make our way over to the chutes. The livestock is being shuttled to where they need to be, the snorts and hooves ratcheting up the tension in the area. The thousand-pound beasts bang against the metal bars, in protest or anticipation for what’s to come, it’s hard to tell. They have as much to prove and win as the cowboys who will drop down on their backs and hold on for eight seconds.
“Buttercup.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I look at him as he notches a boot on the bottom rung. He shakes his head and flashes a hard smile. “Shit, I bet the breeder let his kid name him.”
“Maybe he’ll treat me sweet.” Travis shrugs, and I laugh with him. He’s stiffening up, and the sound is a little forced as he mentally slips into the zone he needs to in order to focus on his ride.
The sound of horse hooves coming up behind us has me turning around to view the recovery riders making their way to the entrance gate. It’s a different crew than was in the arena with me yesterday for the bronc events, and any sense of relief I feel at the sight of them being here to support the riders vanishes when an unwelcome face is among them.
“Son of a bitch,” I grit out between my teeth. Brett rides at the back of the trio, his ruddy face hidden under a deep brown hat. The last time I saw him was in Salt Lake City, working a circuit that clearly hadn’t vetted their employees since Tim had told every contact he had to avoid the man. I still don’t know how Brett managed to get the position that day or how the fuck he ended up with this prestigious assignment. Without a glance our way, the riders proceed to the arena, and I spin to Travis, who looks puzzled and annoyed. “You watch your ass out there, you here? Don’t count on anyone but yourself.”
Travis nods, and then the event boss calls him over to chute number three. I watch him walk away, then step up to the rails of the arena and wait for him to ride, watching the dark form of Brett with unease. The riders position themselves evenly around the space, leaning down to chat with the barrel men in their hazardously bright clown attire. The crowd is buzzing as music pumps through the speakers and the announcers give a rundown of the event’s rules.
The first rider doesn’t last two seconds before he’s thrown, the bull quickly spinning away. A barrel man pulls his attention as one of the recovery riders helps the cowboy shuffle off the dirt and climb the side of the fence. My eyes swing to Brett, who doesn’t seem to register that the event has even started. His other riding partner goes past, something being exchanged before Brett kicks his horse into action, moving closer to the chutes. I think I see him sway, but I can’t be sure if it’s my subconscious supplying it or my eyes.
The arena comes alive during the second competitor’s ride. He hangs on for the full eight seconds with near textbook form. The bull is lackluster, so I don’t think his score will be what he wants. With a final spin, the bull loses his rider, and I watch Brett move in to offer a hand. But he’s riding too fast and misjudges the distance, flying right by him. I grip the railing in irritation, but relief floods me when I see the bull has already lost interest and is heading through the stock gate.
As the crowd waits for the score, a tiny hand slides into my back pocket, and I relax slightly. I glance down and see Charlotte smiling up at me. It’s not the usual one that makes the green of her eyes sparkle. Nor is it the one I’m expecting to see from her after her win, but I can see her trying.
“Hey, baby.” I gather her against me, and I don’t miss how she leans in close, a little shuddering breath escaping her. “Did the doc get you all fixed up?”
“She helped me figure out what’s going on,” Charlotte acknowledges. I kiss her forehead, hoping the slightly dull look I see in her eyes is just fatigue. We’ll get things sorted after we watch Travis win his buckle. The crowd cheers as a replay and the score are shown on the jumbo screen. Charlotte doesn’t elaborate, she just takes in what’s happening. “Did I miss Travis?”
“He’s next.” I point to the chutes, watching as Travis settles in. There are shouts and curses when Buttercup lifts Travis dangerously in the box. Charlotte tugs on my sleeve to get my attention. She points at Brett.
“Why is he here? Tim practically blacklisted him. There’s no way he should be here,” Charlotte hisses, her head whipping back to where Travis and the rest of the staff are working at getting Buttercup to settle down long enough for him to mount properly. “Oh my God, is he even sober? What about the riders?”
I give her a squeeze, sliding her to stand in front of me where I can hold her and still see the action. She stiffens oddly when I slide my hand along her stomach; she’s never shown signs of being ticklish, but I think maybe her muscles are sore from throwing up and riding. She relaxes once I get my hands in her opposite front pockets, pulling her back against my chest.
“I don’t know what kind of state Brett’s in, but there are two other riders and the barrel men out there,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her that everything is fine. I drop a quick kiss to her shoulder. “Let’s just watch Travis win.”
It takes another minute before I see Travis’ hat bob up and down, and the chute flies open. I feel Charlotte take in a deep breath, and I think I’m holding my own as well. Buttercup is hell on hooves; twisting and spinning viciously as he tries to get Travis off him. The bull is an absolute beast: all black with snot flying in huge, thick strands, and grunting angrily. But he can’t shake Travis loose, and my best friend is riding better than I’ve ever seen him. His free hand arcs perfectly through the air, and he slides up and back on Buttercup’s back in a way that makes him look like part of the animal. I don’t even need to watch the rest of the competition. Travis has this in the bag.
I start hollering and waving my hat as Charlotte applauds, calling out for him. She bounces a little on her feet, and the buzzer sounds. A cacophony of applause, stomping feet, and the announcer live reacting to the ride make it hard to hear. Charlotte and I are both giddy with our excitement as we watch Travis try to release his grip and get off Buttercup safely.
With an ease that shows his prowess in the sport, he utilizes the momentum of a spin to jump off but stumbles in the dirt on his landing. Before he can right himself and get clear, it feels like the world slows. Travis takes one step and the bull behind him keeps turning, his flank nudging Travis in the back. My best friend goes down in the soft dirt hard.
The barrel men are hollering for Buttercup’s attention, and I see Brett and another rider begin to encroach. As Travis begins to push up, the bull changes direction, away from the clowns calling for him. He leaps and drives both back hooves down sharply.
One thousand pounds of violent rage crushes into the dead center of Travis’ back.
* * *
The air is sucked out of the arena. Seventeen-thousand people collectively hold their breath. The only sound is of the barrel men shouting to gain the attention of the bull. Brett and the other riders circle Travis’ crumpled form in the dirt, trying to give some protection. The exact thing they failed to provide mere seconds ago.
Travis isn’t moving.
But I am. I’m off the side of the fence, ducking under the rails and running into the arena before anyone can stop me. I can hear voices now, the hollow vacuum of silence evaporating; they’re calling at me and for help. The bull has been corralled through the stock gate as I skid into the dirt next to my friend. The only friend I’ve ever had.
Travis is on his stomach, limbs immobile and head turned to the side. His hat lies a step away from him, and he appears to be looking at it when I throw myself onto the dirt beside him. I know better than to touch him. I can’t risk causing more harm than good, but I need him to know he’s not by himself. He gives a half-blink when I call his name, his back rising and falling in breaths so slow and shallow they’re nearly undetectable.
“Travis? Hey,” I call, lying flat on my stomach to look him in the eyes. “That was a hell of a ride, man.” I can’t help but let my eyes scan his body. There are no visible injuries, but that’s almost worse. I school my face and take a deep breath to try and keep my voice steady. “Real good. Doubt they’ll be a better score than what they give you.”
A pained smile tries to spread across his lips, his teeth and gums are tinted with red. It stalls and collapses from his face.
“Maybe,” Travis finally manages to wheeze out. Over his shoulder, I can see the medics running into the arena. It feels like it has taken them hours to get this far, but it’s likely only been a few minutes since he went down. “You’ll”—his breath rattles ominously—“have to”—it pains me to listen to him talk—“tell me later.”
“No, you’re going to see it for yourself. Soon as these guys get you patched up.” The EMTs are gently encouraging me to give them space to work. I can’t bear the idea of leaving him, though, so I swing around, keeping our heads level in the dirt and sticking my legs away from his body. A cough that sounds like tires on gravel comes from Travis’ body, a spray of blood evicted from his mouth by the force. He’s quickly going pale, and his eyes start to lose focus. “Trav, you’ve got to stay awake, man. You have to keep talking to me.”
My words come out far harsher than I intend, but I can see him slipping away. The EMTs flutter around, working diligently and methodically as they assess the damage caused by the blow of the bull’s hooves. Travis works to keep his eyes on me, the hazel irises skewing tawny in the bright arena lights. I give him an encouraging nod, but he just looks at me solemnly. My nerves are alight with the dread that slips into my veins like ice water.
“You get my hat.”
I barely catch the whisper, broken and pushed out with tremendous effort as I’m distracted by the smirk that twists darkly on his face.
Every fiber of my being knows that look. I spent too many years working too many farms not to recognize the moment a creature can see its own ending. Sometimes, it was through design, others the sheer will of Mother Nature. But now, I’m cursing the cruel twist of fate that orchestrated this. I’m proud when my fingers don’t shake as they reach for Travis’s still hand. I have no idea if he can feel my touch, but I’m praying to something I’ve never believed in, that just for this moment he can. That he’ll know he isn’t alone.
Travis doesn't say anything after that. The EMTs finish their work, prying my fingers away when they finally flip him over and secure him to a backboard. The ambulance drives into the arena, the doors thrown open to receive the body. I think every person in the crowd knows what’s happened, but for whatever reason, they don’t cover Travis’ lifeless body with a sheet like I’ve seen in movies. It’s agonizing to pull myself from the dirt, but I do it so I can take one final look at my friend as the doors close and the responders drive away.
I walk to Travis’ discarded hat, tipped to rest on its crown. Waiting. Collecting luck that will never come.
“Wilder!”
Charlotte crashes into me as I stand there, running my finger along the dusty brim. I know her arms have come around me, but I don’t feel anything. A sickening numbness spreads from where my heart is breaking in my chest outward. Even the sight of Charlotte’s tear-filled eyes isn’t enough to break me from the disconnect happening. I want to comfort her; seeing Charlotte cry guts me. Her pain is my pain, but it’s also so much less than what I know I should be feeling.
Instead of joining her in despair, or even finding a sliver of stoicism to soothe her, the flash of Brett dismounting is enough to jolt my system to finally latch onto an emotion. Anger . It burns through me, physically making me recoil from Charlotte’s tender touch and propelling my feet across the arena.
Nothing else exists. There are announcements coming over the speakers. The murmur of the crowd. Flashes from nearby cameras. But there’s a rage roiling inside that won’t be contained.
The second my fist connects with Brett’s jaw, the tempest pounding inside my chest settles for a moment. The valley before another wave peaks dangerously when I hit him again as soon as he twists from the first. Then, I’m swept in the tide of pain. Brett’s. Travis’. Mine.
“Holy fuck, Wild! Stop it! Stop. He’s out cold!”
Charlotte is screaming in my ear, but I can barely hear her. She has both of her arms wrapped around the one I have cocked back to strike again.
“Please , baby,” Charlotte sobs but wedges the heels of her boots deep in the soft dirt, pulling hard to get me to stop my relentless assault. I look at the pitiful excuse for a man, bloodied and unconscious, at my feet. I straighten up, only now realizing I was following him to the ground to dole out more punishment. “Killing him won’t bring Travis back.” Her voice breaks around the words. The adrenaline leaves my system as quickly as it came.
My hand drops under Charlotte’s pressured insistence, and I turn away. I’m directionless but not alone. I know she’s next to me as I make it half a dozen steps. Travis’ hat is still clasped tightly in my hand. I’ve practically crushed it. The sight of damage to it is enough to undo me. I pull it to my chest, finally really looking at Charlotte, a solemn nod of affirmation.
Another three steps and my knees buckle underneath me, dropping me to the very ground that gave me my greatest dream and worst nightmare. I don’t recognize the sound that bursts out of me. It’s an ugly wail, and there suddenly isn’t enough air to replace what has been spent from my lungs to make it. But somehow, another rattles loose. Over and over again, the cries wrack my entire body except for where Charlotte has wrapped herself around me. She holds me and whispers as I struggle to understand.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Travis Frost is dead.