Hannah
TWO YEARS LATER
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Tearing my eyes off the tunnel that leads out to the rodeo grounds, I look over at my coach, Matty.
His weathered hands rest on the horn of his saddle.
His kind, brown eyes meet mine, and I give him a soft smile.
Pulling the brim of my hat down over my eyes, I look back towards the noise waiting for me at the other end of the tunnel.
Not the hat. No, that hat was burned the second it was put in my hands.
It’s been two years since I’ve raced, but the moment the house was packed up and anything that I didn’t want to keep was sold, I loaded everything else into the new truck and stuffed it into a storage unit.
Then I took off, Queen loaded into her new trailer, and drove across the country.
I stopped at rodeos along the way, trying to ease myself into it little by little.
I’d sit in the crowded bleachers and watch the riders while pushing away thoughts of my parents.
I watched girls I’d raced with for years win first place, happy that they had their moment, but knowing it wouldn’t be for long.
I’d let them have their moment while I was recovering and preparing to come back, but my mind was made up the first time I climbed on a horse.
This is what I was made to do, and I’d be the best at it.
“You know I am, Matty,” I state dryly.
“I didn’t mean that you ain’t ride ready, Hannah.
” His voice is soft, and I want to kick myself for being such an asshole.
Matty has been my riding coach for as long as I can remember.
He and my dad met when my dad worked as a pickup man at the Oakley rodeo every summer.
The pair became quick friends, attached at the hip.
After my grandpa passed, I watched as Matty became a father figure to my dad, as well, giving him a shoulder to lean on while he became a dad to me.
There isn’t a birthday or Christmas dinner that I don't remember seeing Matty and his wife sitting at our family table. He’s always been a parental figure to me, even when my parents were alive.
Then, after the accident, he didn’t shy away.
He didn’t fade into the background in the name of giving me space to recover.
He called every week, and when I didn’t answer, he’d send a text, always letting me know that he was there, that he loved me.
His voicemails kept me afloat more times than he knows.
Over the past couple years, he’s been the only person left who has stayed a constant in my ups and downs.
And I love him for it, although I do a shit job showing him that.
I may still wear pink when I race and smile wide at the crowd when I collect my check, but underneath it all, I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks. Not anymore. “What I mean is, are you sure your heart is ready? You don’t have to ride the circuit anymore, you could?—”
“Could what?” I snap, whipping my head back in his direction, staring into his kind eyes with a heat that would make anyone want to wither and walk away.
“I sold the house, Matty. Sold it all. What do you want me to do?” I throw an arm out to emphasize my point.
“Live in the same small town that no matter where I go, I see Mama and Dad?” He side steps his old Paint horse closer to me and rests a hand on my knee.
“No, Hannah. You weren’t born to stand still. I just worry about you is all.”
“Hannah Harlow and Queen, riding out of Oakley Utah,” the announcer calls my name, and I’ve almost missed our spot in the lineup.
“Shit,” I mutter, pushing Queen into a quick trot to the entrance.
“Let’s go, girl,” I whisper, rubbing her neck as she digs into the dirt.
God, I’ve missed the smell of this. Missed the buzz that radiates through the air.
My mind shuts off, my hands grip the reins, and I hunch over Queen, ready to be let loose.
And hell, if we do. I hold tight with my thighs and let Queen do her thing.
The world slows, and we round and clear the first barrel.
“Yes, girl!” I yell. I kick her sides as we take off towards the second barrel in pure bliss.
I let my wild smile free, closing in on the third I hold my breath.
I don’t even spare it a glance as we pass, knowing that it’s still standing, and then we take off towards the line that stops our clock.
As soon as we clear it and enter the tunnel back to the practice arena, I let out a loud, “Yeehaw!” That ride felt like heaven. It felt like home.
The blood rushing through my ears slows just enough for me to hear the score come in, and the crowd goes insane.
I just topped the list, and it’ll be a hard one to beat.
Matty rides over and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“Your folks would be so proud of you.” He takes off towards the gates by the parking lot and I wipe the tears away before they can even fall.
We are not breaking that promise today. I clean up Queen while I wait for the awards at the end of the night.
“Hell of a ride, Hannah. It’s good to have you back.
” I glance up at Mallory George as she and her speckled horse exit the gates.
She’s been killing it in the years I’ve been gone.
“Thanks, Mal. You too.” She gives me a kind smile before clicking her tongue to get her mare moving towards their trailer.
I rest my forehead on the soft spot between Queen's eyes and let the world around me move on. No matter how hard I try to be the girl I was before my parents passed, I can’t do it.
It doesn’t feel right to be happy. It doesn't feel right to smile and laugh like I used to. Queen is the only one I’ve let close to me.
Over the years, I’ve tried to push myself to open up, I’ve even tried to go out, but after a couple dates, I pull back, ghost ‘em, and move on. It’s not worth the pain to get attached to anyone.
My friends still check in on me, but I’ve withdrawn from going out with them.
The last time we went out, I got way too drunk and ended up waking up in the bed of my truck with new ink on my ass.
As if just thinking about it, I feel each letter of the cheesy Yeehaw tattoo printed on my left ass cheek burn.
Mama would murder me. That’s the last time I let myself let loose, it’s better to be in control.
The walk to pick up my check in the arena is a long one, but I don’t mind it.
I’ve earned this, so I smooth my pink button up down, tug my hat off my head, and give the crowd a wave.
They may see me as the perfect Rodeo cowgirl, but on the inside, I’m just drifting with the wind.
A wild mess of heartbreak and pain. My dark brown hair pulls loose from its braid as the summer breeze kicks up.
“Hannah Harlow, welcome back.” I nod at the announcer and give him a big fake smile.
“Tell us what it feels like to be back in the arena after two years?” I open my mouth to answer just as a man dressed in head to toe in black bounds up the steps to the stage, stopping right across from me.
Good God, where do they make men like that?
My eyes drag from his black Lucchese boots, up his black fringed chaps, to his massive buckle sitting tightly against a black pearl snap shirt.
My mouth goes dry thinking about what sits underneath it.
A black Resistol hat sits low on his head, but it’s his eyes that truly have me mesmerized.
I’ve never seen gray-blue eyes quite like his, and they stand out against his dark appearance.
When they snap up to mine for a heartbeat before he looks back at the floor, it’s like I’m staring into a mass of storm clouds.
My body buzzes with electricity. “Hannah, are you alright there?” The announcer gently touches my elbow, and I jump at the contact.
“Oh, right. Um, sorry, what was the question?” I give a small laugh, putting my smile back in place.
As the announcer repeats his question, I risk another peek at the man across from me, something familiar knocking at my memory.
His jaw is square, covered in a heavy layer of brown, neatly trimmed stubble.
His chin has a dip right in the middle, the smallest imperfection on a man that looks like he walked off the pages of a Wrangler magazine.
My eyes trace the lines of his lips and up over his nose that’s slightly crooked in the middle, likely from a bad break at some point.
Wide shoulders and broad chest taper down into a trim waist. He’s a specimen, one I can’t look away from.
Large hands are cupped in front of him, both covered in ink.
I make out a giant rose covering the entire expanse of the back of his right hand, the left with a spur tattooed around his index finger and thumb.
I can’t make out what else he’s got inked on the rest of his skin, but I notice it doesn’t stop at his hands.
It winds around his wrists and up under his shirt sleeves.
He keeps his eyes on the floor in front of him.
I don’t get the sense that he’s shy, more like the world isn’t worth his time.
When the microphone is shoved in my face, I remember to answer.
“I’ve missed this energy, it feels like coming home.” Then I look out over the crowd, “Thank y’all.” I shake the announcer's hand and step away, making my way across the stage towards the steps, but I have to pass by the man in black on my way off.
As I approach him, his hat tips up, just like one of those old black and white movies where time slows down, revealing the eyes underneath it.
Like an electric shock, I’m taken back to that night.
Weightless, numb, and pain. So much pain.
Until I looked up into gray-blue eyes, those stormy eyes.
A silhouette of a cowboy in all black standing outside the ambulance doors.
My boots are suddenly too heavy to walk in and I stumble, but before my knees hit the stage, those hands I’ve been staring at reach out and hold me steady.
The skin on my forehead burns at the memory of a chaste kiss placed there when I was carefully set in the ambulance.
Such a gentle gesture has eaten at me for so many restless nights.
Did I make it up? Or did the pull that seemed to snap our souls together that night really happen?
“You ok there, darlin’?” That voice, it’s been on repeat in my dreams for two years.
His fingertips dig into the skin just above my jeans.
I meet his stare, the words I want to say to him catching in my throat.
When he lets me go, my whole body aches to lean into his touch.
To feel those hands on me again, to have them hold me, touch me.
It’s as if I haven’t felt anything before this moment, and it consumes my thoughts.
Before I know it, I pull myself out of his grip and all but trip down the steps.
When I reach the bottom, I turn to watch as the announcer shakes the man’s hand, my cowboy’s hand.
“Dean Wilder, congratulations on your ride! You’re a tough man to beat on the back of those broncs, gave the crowd quite the show tonight.
” Dean Wilder. There is no way. I shake my head and rub a hand over my chest. He is notorious for being a grade A asshole, not a kind bone in his body.
His words, not mine. I’ve never met him in person, have I?
I’ve heard through the rumor mill that he is as mean as they come.
He doesn’t have any team that rides with him from rodeo to rodeo.
No friends he hangs with after the crowd leaves.
And he runs through buckle bunnies like he does the broncs.
Hard and with no emotion. “What can we expect from you this season on the road?” I look up to the men on the stage, while Dean tips his hat down before answering.
“A whole lot more of this.” He lifts his check in the air and turns to walk off the stage. What a dick! I turn on my heel and walk as fast as I can towards my trailer before he has a chance to get down the stairs.
There is no way that man is the cowboy from that night.
Absolutely no way, but something about him felt so fucking familiar.
The ache in my chest intensifies, and I rub it harder with my knuckles.
Even the way he smelled tonight reminds me of being carried out of the arena after my fall.
I could place that smell anywhere. It smells like, fuck , it smells like home.
Fresh cut grass and rides through the fields.
Another reason to hate the man. He reminds me of too much.
Brings up memories I’ve worked hard to lock away.
I stomp over the gravel parking lot to my trailer and toss open the tack room door.
I put in my ear pods and blast Sleep Token as I clean off Queen’s gear.
I may be all pretty pink when I ride, but deep down, I’m broken.
I learned quickly to drown out my pain with loud music when I checked off the post ride tasks that my parents would always help with.
But tonight, even drowning in the music, I can’t stop replaying the feeling of those hands.
The hands that caught me tonight. And the hands that saved me two years ago.