Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
WHAT KIND OF COMMITMENT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?
WYATT
The Spokane Arena pounds with the heartbeat of ten thousand people hungry for eight seconds of man versus beast.
I should be feeling that familiar buzz that makes everything else fade to nothing. Instead, I'm planted behind the chutes with a phone full of talking points Kinsley emailed me yesterday, trying to figure out how to turn myself into some smooth-talking politician in boots.
My phone buzzes in my hand—a spam text—but holding it makes me think of Kinsley and all that she’s facing at home.
I asked her to forward me those anonymous texts she's been getting, and the latest one came through this morning: You're choosing the wrong side.
The Halloways will drag you down with them. Last warning.
My jaw tightens. I don't like being three states away while some coward’s trying to scare her off. She insisted she's fine, that it's just noise, but the messages have gone from warning to threatening, and that shift sits wrong in my gut.
"You look like you're fixing to lose your lunch," Jake says, dropping his gear bag next to mine. "Which is strange, seeing as you don't ride for another hour."
"I'm good," I mutter.
"You sure about that?" Jake presses. "Because you're holding your phone like it's gonna save your life."
"Maybe it will." I shove my phone in my back pocket. "Kinsley put together talking points to help me convince people to go to Gritstone for that party I told you about."
"Your girlfriend's doing your homework for you?" Jake's grin is pure mischief. "That's either really sweet or really emasculating."
"It's practical," I say, though the word tastes wrong on my tongue. Nothing about what I'm feeling for Kinsley is practical. "She knows how to present issues so that people care about them."
"And you're just the pretty face delivering her message." He goes to pinch my cheek, and I punch him in the side. He grunts and laughs. "She coming out this weekend?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Work." I don't elaborate. Don't say that I've been calling or texting her every hour just to hear her voice and know she's okay.
Jake reads between the lines anyway. "You got it bad."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." I meet his eyes. "And yeah."
Jake nods once and lets it drop. "Alright," he says, clearly sensing my mood needs redirecting. He hooks his elbow around my neck and starts dragging me away. "Let's go charm some cowboys."
We make our way toward the warm-up area where Casey Williams is adjusting his saddle. He’s getting ready to ride a blue roan that he’s had for three years and make a run in the tie-down.
"Casey," I call out, extending my hand. "How's the season treating you?"
"Can't complain," he says, though something in his expression suggests he actually could complain plenty. "Heard you took first in Jackson Hole."
"Got lucky." I take a breath, trying to remember Kinsley's advice about easing into the conversation. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something that affects all of us."
Casey's attention sharpens. "Oh yeah?"
"You ever deal with the Forest Service trying to redesignate your grazing land?" I ask, following Kinsley's script about starting with a question that gets them talking.
The change in Casey's expression is immediate—his jaw tightens and something dark flickers behind his eyes. "Lost two sections to spotted owl habitat. Been fighting it ever since."
Bingo. Kinsley called it perfectly.
"Same kind of thing's happening to my family's ranch right now," I continue, feeling more confident as the conversation flows exactly like her notes predicted. "Federal fire hazard designation that'll force us to remove twenty thousand head of cattle in ninety days."
"That's impossible," Casey says immediately. "They know that's impossible."
"Of course they do. That's the point." I lean against the fence, letting my frustration show through—no script needed for that part. "They make compliance impossible, then use our failure to justify taking the land."
Casey nods grimly. "Same playbook they used on me. What are you doing about it?"
"Fighting back.” I explain the details, watching Casey's expression shift from skepticism to interest to something that looks like hope. By the time I'm done, he's nodding slowly.
"Count me in," he says finally. "Been waiting for someone to organize something like this."
As we shake hands, I feel a rush of success. That's one. Well, three if you count me and Jake.
Jake and I work our way through the crowd, and with each conversation, I find myself relying less on Kinsley's notes and more on my own instincts. Her research gets me through the door, but it's my genuine anger about what's happening to our land that closes the deal.
By the time we break to get him set up to ride, we've collected promises from fifteen people. Fifteen voices to add to whatever coalition Kinsley's building back home.
"Not bad for someone who hates politics," Jake observes as we head back toward the contestant area.
"This isn't politics," I tell him, meaning it. "This is survival."
"Wyatt!" A voice cuts through the noise behind the chutes, and I turn to see Brittany weaving her way through the maze of gates and equipment like she owns the place.
Every muscle in my back goes tight. She shouldn't be back here. Every rodeo has the same unspoken rule—fans stay on their side of the fence. Behind the chutes is sacred space, reserved for contestants and crew. The fact that she's brazenly ignoring that boundary sets my teeth on edge.
"Hey," I say, keeping my voice neutral. Jake stiffens beside me.
"I've been looking everywhere for you." She's wearing tight jeans and a western shirt that looks like it came straight off a boutique rack—all flash, no function. "I brought someone who wants to meet you."
A man in his mid-forties steps up beside her, wearing pressed jeans and a polo shirt with a logo I don't recognize.
He extends his hand. "Derek Rhodes, VP of Marketing for VitaPerform.
We're looking to break into the western sports market, and Brittany here suggested you might be a good fit for our brand. "
I shake his hand, trying to process. A sponsorship opportunity is nothing to sneeze at—especially from a company I've never heard of, which usually means they're flush with cash and eager to make a splash.
"VitaPerform," I repeat, buying myself time to think. "What kind of products?"
"Performance supplements. Vitamins, protein powders, recovery drinks." Derek pulls out his phone, showing me their website. "We're already established in CrossFit and MMA. Rodeo's our next target market."
"This is my guy," Brittany says, sliding closer and resting her hand on my arm like she has every right to touch me. Derek glances between us, and I see him clock the possessive way she's standing, the familiarity in her touch.
I step back slightly, putting distance between us, but my mind's already working through the math. A supplement sponsorship could mean extra cash for flights back to Colorado between rodeos and more time with Kinsley without draining my savings.
"I appreciate you thinking of me," I say to Derek. "What kind of commitment are you looking for?"
"Social media presence, wearing our gear at events, maybe some promotional appearances." Derek pulls up something on his phone. "We're offering a tiered structure—base sponsorship starts at five thousand, with performance bonuses."
Five thousand would cover a lot of plane tickets. "This sounds like a good opportunity. Let me give you my number.” I rattle it off for him.
"Perfect." Derek grins. "Brittany, let's get a photo with Wyatt before we head out."
Before I can object, Brittany's pressed against my side, her arm around my waist. Derek snaps a few photos with his phone, then hands it to Brittany so she can check them.
"These are great," she says, as she taps at the screen. I catch a glimpse over her shoulder—she's cropping Derek out of the frame, making it look like it's just the two of us together. Cozy.
My stomach turns. "Brittany—"
"Thanks so much, Wyatt." She looks up at me through her lashes. “I hope this works out for you.” She and Derek disappear, and I'm left standing there with a bad taste in my mouth.
"That was weird," Jake says quietly.
"Yeah."
We head back toward our gear bags because Jake needs to get ready for his ride. The music changes and the announcer gets all excited. The horses are run into their chutes and the energy shifts.
Jake's draw tonight is a sorrel gelding called Thunder Road—a horse with more attitude than sense and a tendency to sunfish that's sent plenty of good riders to the dirt. But Jake's loose and confident as he settles in, the kind of calm that usually means a good score. He hands me his phone.
"He'll try to dump you to the right about four seconds in," I tell him, checking his rope one final time. "Counter it and ride him to the whistle."
"Thanks for the tip." Jake grins up at me from the chute right before he nods.
The chute gate flies open, and Thunder Road explodes into the arena. Jake stays centered through the horse's initial rage, his free arm finding rhythm while his riding hand stays locked in position. He starts spurring and I holler at him to, “Ride! Ride!”
The crowd's on its feet. The horse tries every trick he knows—spinning, sunfishing, trying to scrape his rider off against the fence—but Jake matches him move for move, making eight seconds look easy.
When the buzzer sounds, Jake kicks free and lands on his feet like he planned it that way. The scoreboard flashes 87 points, and the arena erupts.
I can't stop grinning. Jake points at a group of buckle bunnies in the stands and blows them a kiss. They swoon.
My phone buzzes. Kinsley: Update?
Me: Jake scored an 87.
Kinsley: Yes! Be safe. You got this.
I grin down at my phone. What I have is fifteen cowboys and cowgirls signed up for dinner in Gritstone.
Kinsley: 15!! You're incredible.
For the first time in my life, I can't wait to get home. "What are you doing to me, Kinsley?" I ask quietly.
I'm not sure—but I like it and want more.