Dean
I slide my black chaps over my jeans as I get ready outside my truck.
The lights from the rodeo grounds across the lot are so bright you’d think we were riding in the middle of the day.
Being at this rodeo tonight actually brings a smile to my face, and I don’t fucking smile.
I don’t know what it is about this place, but it feels good.
Feels like something is about to happen. I’m not sure what, but I’m ready.
“Whoa!” Kasey James stops in his tracks and spins towards me.
“Is that a smile I see on Wilder’s face?
” A few other riders I’ve seen over the years pass by us, but they barely give me a glance.
I’ll admit, I haven’t been the most approachable over the years, and after all this time, it’s too comfortable to start trying.
Not that I’d want to. Being an ass to everyone makes it easier to be alone.
But Kasey is one of those guys who won’t quit.
He’s a good rider, but I’ll never admit that to his face.
If I was a better man, I’d actually let him be a friend.
“Fuck off, James.” I turn towards my Chevy and grab out my hat, running my hand through my unruly, brown hair before pulling it low over my eyes.
Sighing when I realize he hasn’t kept walking and is still standing a few feet away, I turn towards him.
His stare burns through my vest and it makes my skin crawl.
Why does he have to be so fucking nice? He reminds me of my brother, and that pisses me off even more.
“I mean it, Kasey, get walkin’.” As I turn back towards the cab of my truck, I catch a glimpse of him running a hand across his buzzed head.
He pauses as he turns, as if he wants to say something else, but nods and starts off across the lot to the arena.
Ghost thrashes around in the trailer, and I move to the gate to open it.
“Easy bud, I’m comin’.” All black with just a white diamond between his eyes made choosing his name easy.
He wasn’t always a nasty motherfucker, but I think over the years he’s adopted my temper towards everyone else.
I walk in and run my hand over his back up towards his mane.
He nuzzles into my touch and I lean into him.
Kasey fucked with my head, got me feeling things I’ve buried deep down.
I grab Ghost’s black halter off the hook and lead him out of the trailer.
Even though I don’t ride Ghost in the rodeo, he still goes everywhere with me.
I always find a trail or two wherever we stop to get a ride in with him.
He’s been my only companion for five years.
Most people assume my parents passed away or that I’m an only child because I travel alone and don’t have family in the stands cheering me on.
It wasn’t always this way. The passenger seat of my truck used to have a revolving door of family coming on the road with me.
My dad rode bulls back in the day, until he got thrown off and didn’t roll out of the way fast enough.
Even though he walks with a permanent limp on one side, it hasn’t slowed him down.
Despite my mom’s best efforts, he rides every day—at least he used to.
I wouldn’t know how it is back home now.
I grew up going to the rodeo in the next town over and spent a few summers on the road with my dad before his accident.
That, and growing up watching old westerns with him instilled a love for the Wild West. The way the cowboys seemed so rough and untouchable was inspiring to me.
As I got older, the challenge and chance at winning titles and money became an addiction.
My dad was always supportive of my ambitions and drive to be the best bronc rider.
My best memories are in the front seat of this truck, laughing and talkin’ shit.
My baby brother tagged along sometimes when he didn’t have school.
I loved watching him hold onto the gate and watch the riders in the arena.
It gave me something to be proud of, that he loved what I did.
And my mom, man I miss my mom some days.
She’s the reason I love riding on trails.
She was fearless, packing my brother and I up to go riding even without my dad.
I’ve never seen a woman hitch a trailer quite as fast as she could.
But I fucked that all up. Memories from that night invade the peaceful moment and I rest my head against Ghost as I let it all surface.
We’d been driving back from one of my rides at a local rodeo when my little brother Owen brought up wanting to ride bulls for the first time.
Without hesitation, I shut him down. He’d just graduated high school, and he needed to think about college.
I told him it was too dangerous for him, put him in his place, and turned my back on him.
I’ve been thrown off enough times that I couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch that happen to him.
“Don’t be like that, Dean!” Owen practically shouts in my face before slamming the front door behind us so hard the pictures rattle against the living room wall.
“Don’t be concerned that you’ll get killed?” I shout back, closing the space between us so we’re basically nose to nose. “I’ve seen plenty of riders get thrown off, their careers over like that!” I snap my fingers in his face. “Just look at Dad.”
“Don’t drag me into the middle of this,” Dad grumbles, standing from the couch and crossing the room to stand between us.
Owen and I have had our fair share of arguments over the years.
Brothers love hard, but we fight hard, too.
“Dean, I never once told you not to ride. Not once. What happened to me could happen to anyone.”
“You’re ok with this?” I turn on my dad. “Watching Owen get chucked in the dirt like a ragdoll doesn’t bother you?”
“Dean,” my mom whispers next to me, grabbing my arm and tugging me towards her.
“Of course we worry. We worry about you, too.” I pinch my nose with my fingers.
They don't get it. Owen is everything I’m not.
Kind, smart, funny. He needs to go to school, needs to get an honest job.
Not one where he travels most of the year riding bulls.
I’ve only been riding professionally for about three years now, and already I can feel my body revolting every morning I roll out of bed.
“Fuck him, he can’t fathom the idea of sharing some of his fame,” Owen all but spits in my face, throwing his hands in the air and turning down the hall. I see red . I push my mom gently behind me before lunging at Owen’s back, the pair of us landing with a hard thud against the floor.
“Boys!” my dad shouts. It isn’t the first time we’ve thrown some punches, but this one feels different. Each punch is just a little harder than we usually throw at one another. Words cutting a bit deeper than before.
“You think that’s the reason?!” I hiss in Owen’s ear just before his elbow connects with my ribs.
Rolling, he shoves me off of him. Before he can walk away, I kick his legs out from under him, and he slams to the ground with a grunt.
Before I know it, his fist is slamming into my cheek.
Pain explodes and stars dance in my eyes, but I blindly swing back, the crunch of his face and split of my knuckles letting me know I’ve landed my fist on his face.
“Dean!” my mom shrieks, reaching down and pressing a towel to Owen’s split cheek.
“I would never choose fame over you,” I sputter, rolling my jaw back and forth a few times. I stand over Owen, offering a hand to pull him up. He eyes it for a moment, considering it, then slaps it away and mutters, “You already did.”
I left, too scared to stick around. Scared that I’d lose my temper again and not have someone there to pull me back.
He went off to college in Colorado not long after our argument, and we haven’t talked since.
I tried going home a few times, but it always felt awkward.
Owen felt like he couldn’t come home while I was there, and I hated being the reason my parents didn’t get to spend time with him.
Eventually, my visits became farther and farther apart until I just stopped showing up.
I know my parents love me, and that makes me hurt even more.
So instead of facing it head on and repairing what I tore apart, I stay away.
No attachment. It’s easier this way. I’ve acted like an asshole long enough that now it’s who I am.
No friends, no girlfriends, no smiling, no small talk. Just black. Just storm clouds.
If I close my eyes, I can still see the Green Haven Ranch sign passing overhead when you pull up the drive towards the house.
Somedays, I long to be back on the ranch in Colorado, riding in the greenest pastures I’ve ever laid eyes on.
The sky is endless and the stars at night seem like they run off the edge of the world.
Ten acres of freedom and I haven’t been back in years.
Most nights I don’t even look up at the sky, it makes me too homesick.
Other nights, I throw a pile of blankets and my sleeping bag in the bed of my truck and get lost in them until I fall asleep, dreaming of all the possibilities and what ifs had I stayed.