Chapter Twenty-Six
Bryce sits on the railing as Judd leads the American quarter horse into the chute. As soon as the horse makes it to the gate, Bryce hops down onto the saddle, leaning forward as it rears up, gripping the braided rope rein in one hand.
“Not too low, or he’ll pull you over the front,” I yell from my perch.
“Get your feet in the stirrups,” Judd adds. “Remember, after the first jump, mark him out by using your spurs on his shoulders. And hold it until his feet hit the ground, or you’ll be disqualified.”
Bryce’s free hand goes in the air, and he nods to Judd.
The gate slams open, and the horse explodes out of it, all power and fury, front hooves stabbing skyward, hindquarters kicking in rapid-fire.
For a split second, it looks like Bryce is flying—one with the animal, legs clamped, back arched, his hat low. The rein is stretched tight in his grip, his gloved hand locked, his free arm slicing through the air.
The bronc twists, all muscle and pent-up rage, but Bryce moves with it—hips rolling, shoulders loose. He’s not fighting the horse; he’s matching it, reading every twitch, every surge.
“That’s it, Bryce!” I scream as the fourth second ticks by.
Suddenly, the bronc arches back into a crescent and kicks all four of its legs to the side, dives, and twists midair. Bryce tries to stay centered, but the horse comes down hard, dirt flying. Bryce’s head snaps, the rein jerks, and he goes sailing off the horse, hitting the dirt hard.
He rolls to his feet in one clean motion. The bronc bolts for the catch pen as he stands there in the mud, chest heaving.
Judd jumps down and sprints to his side. “That was pretty damn good,” he says.
But Bryce shakes his head. “It wasn’t even six seconds.”
“You have to lock your posture in better. You’re not arching your back as you’re adding pressure, so your hips aren’t driving forward enough,” I say as I join them.
“The goal is to stay synchronized with the horse as he bucks, not just bearing down and holding. Unlike bull riding, almost every bronc rider can hit eight seconds. So, the judges look for balance and rhythm when scoring,” Judd says.
“Let’s go again,” I say.
Bryce’s eyes cut to me, and his lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue.
I run him through a few more practice rides before calling it a day. Bryce goes to the trailer to change, and I wait outside with Judd.
“He’s not comfortable in the stirrups,” Judd says.
“I know,” I say.
“Maybe you’d be better off having him go bareback?” he suggests.
I shake my head. “Thats just as dangerous as what he does now,” I say.
Judd barks out a laugh, and my eyes snap to him.
“That’s horseshit. A bull is an entirely different beast. More powerful and unpredictable.
They like to turn and attack their fallen riders.
You don’t hear of bronc riders getting gored.
Sure, we run the risk of sprains, strains, and mild fractures, but bull riders end up with broken bones, collapsed lungs, and other organ damage. ”
“And concussions,” I mutter.
“Those too.”
“He’ll get it,” I say more to myself than him. “It’s only been a month. He just needs more practice.”
“I don’t know, Charli. His heart’s not in it. He has the skill, but he’s gotta want it.”
And he doesn’t. Not the least bit.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but we both know it’s true.
Bryce emerges from the trailer, freshly showered and dressed in the same getup he wore for the photo shoot yesterday. We both thank Judd for his time and input before heading to the big arena to meet the Dry Canyon team.
As we approach, Micah breaks off from the film crew.
“Hey, you ready to get that outfit a little dirty?” he asks Bryce as he claps him on the back.
“What’s happening?” I ask as I take in the production. Zeroing in on the bull that’s snorting in the pen.
“Bryce here is going to do a little riding while we record.”
My eyes fly to Bryce.
“Uh, Micah, can you give us a minute?” he asks.
“Sure. But we’re on a time crunch here, so only one,” Micah says, grinning.
He trots back to the crew, and Bryce turns to face me.
“You’re not getting on the back of a bull,” I say.
His hands come to my shoulders, and he looks me in the eye. “They use older retired bulls for commercials. They’re calm, and they follow command from their wranglers. It’s not dangerous.”
“Is it going to buck?”
“It’d be a pretty sad commercial if it didn’t. Just a cowboy on the back of an old Brahman, trotting around an arena.”
I don’t laugh.
“Then it is dangerous,” I snap.
He sighs. “I know what I’m doing. The bull knows what it’s supposed to do. You’re gonna have to relax and trust me.”
“Bryce …”
“No,” he says, his voice steady. “We’re not fighting. You’re going to go sit by the fence and watch me ride, or you can go back and wait in the trailer.”
“Bryce! Burning daylight, my friend,” Micah calls.
Bryce raises a finger, then glances back at me. “Which one is it, Chuck?”
I huff out a frustrated breath and walk toward the fence.
Ten minutes later, he’s on the back of the bull, and when the gate opens, he and Ole Bruiser put on a show.
The bull spins and bucks, kicking its back legs toward the sky.
Bryce moves with the animal, his muscular body loose and fluid.
But it’s his face that draws my attention.
He’s loving every second. Even on a retired beast that’s spinning at the speed of an old mechanical bull in the middle of a smoky honky-tonk.
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” Bryce says.
I glance over and give him a weak smile.
We’re about two hours into our three-hour road trip to Tulsa. And I’ve been lost in my thoughts.
“Sorry.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad, aren’t you?”
I shake my head. “No. Just tired. Someone kept me up all night.”
His eyes cut to me and then back to the road. “I did warn you that we had to be up early, but you insisted we go out with the boys. So, whose fault is it really?”
I sit up, stretch my arms over my head, and take a look around us. “Are you planning to feed me today, cowboy?”
“We’ll be at my parents’ place in about forty minutes, and I’m sure my mother will have a feast on the table when we get there.”
We fall back into silence as I replay the last couple of days in my head.
Bryce was in his element. He schmoozed the sponsor with his down-home persona, commanded the crowd at the event, had his fans eating out of the palm of his hand, acted every bit the ornery cowboy at the bar last night, and looked amazing in the footage the crew shot of him riding Ole Bruiser today.
I just don’t know where Wildhaven, broncs, or I fit into all of it.
He turns the truck onto a dirt road that leads to a white farmhouse. A pretty woman with chin-length chestnut hair steps out onto the porch as we park. Her blue eyes light up when Bryce steps out of the truck, sprints up the steps, sweeps her off her feet, and spins her around.
“Hey, Momma,” he says as she laughs.
A man comes from around the side of the house, carrying a weed eater. He’s tall, broad, and wide. His smile is surrounded by a salt-and-pepper beard. His son is the spitting image of him.
“Dad.”
“Hey, son.”
Bryce sets his mother back on her feet and gives his father a quick one-armed hug before they all turn to me.
“Guys, this is Charli. She’s the trainer from Wyoming I told you about. Charli, these are my folks, Chord and Celia Raintree.”
Celia descends the steps and wraps me in a warm embrace. “Welcome, Charli. It’s so nice to finally meet you. Bryce has been raving about you and your family.”
I raise a brow as I glance at him over her shoulder. “Oh, he has, has he?”
“He sure has,” she confirms. She releases me and steps back. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“She’s about half an hour into hangry territory,” Bryce quips.
I narrow my eyes at him, and both he and his father grin.
Yep, chip off the old block.
“Well, come on. Let’s get you two fed, then.”
Bryce wasn’t kidding. Celia has a feast waiting in the kitchen—roast beef, au gratin potatoes, lima beans, glazed carrots, broccoli casserole, and cornbread, with peach cobbler for dessert.
We settle at the dining room table with our plates and talk for almost two hours.
Celia fills Bryce in on all the town gossip.
Chord tells him about the new field they planted with corn this year.
Bryce tells them all about his new endorsement deals.
And I soak it all in. Here, he’s not the cocky superstar cowboy; he’s just Chord and Celia Raintree’s son.
And there goes another layer.
Celia asks about my family. Apparently, Bryce told her all about Matty’s engagement. We talk about my sisters, Daddy, and Mom’s passing. By the time dinner is over, it’s like we’re old friends.
Chord takes Bryce out to show him the new combine harvester he bought at an auction while I help Celia with the dishes.
“So, how did Bryce do in Lawton? Did you have to tie him down to keep him from entering?” she asks.
“Almost,” I say. “But thankfully, he was preoccupied with Dry Canyon most of the time.”
She nods. “That boy is like a kid in a candy store when he walks into an arena. It’s all he ever wanted to do from the time he could walk.”
“From what I saw yesterday, I don’t think he’s growing out of it anytime soon,” I say.
“Trust me, I’m aware. My father was an old rodeo cowboy. He loved it till the day he died. He was the one who got Bryce hooked.”
“Does it scare you?” I ask.
I don’t know why I asked. Of course it scares her. She’s a mother. Aunt Irene is always worried Axle or Royce is gonna come home, busted up.
“It’s been hard for me at times. All the broken ribs, torn muscles, fractured vertebrae, and concussions. Every time the phone rang, I would jump, but like my mother used to say, you have to learn to roll with it when you love a cowboy.”
“I guess. It’d be easier if the cowboy could let go of the bull horns and embraced the saddle,” I say.
“What would be easier?” she asks.
“Loving him,” I say, and my head snaps up to look at her. “I mean, for you. It’d be easier for you, loving your cowboy, if he’d stop resisting and try with the broncos.”
“You got him on one this weekend, did you not?”
“Yes. But he wasn’t really trying. He was pacifying me. To be honest, I don’t know if I’m getting anywhere with him. I might not be able to train the stubbornness out of him.”
“You won’t,” she agrees. “Not because you aren’t good at what you do. It took me a long time to realize that being a bull rider isn’t something Ry does. It’s who he is. I could no sooner tell the sky to stop being blue.”
“Yeah.”
She rinses the last plate and places it on the drying rack and turns to me. “But, Charli, I’ve been paying attention, and I think you might have made a bigger difference than you realize.”
“What’s that?”
She smiles as she cups my cheeks. “You’ve given him something worth living for.”
I open my mouth to tell her she’s mistaken, but before I can form the words, the back door swings open, and Chord and Bryce come walking in.
“I think we walked off enough dinner. Let’s have that cobbler,” Chord says.
Celia drops her hands and turns to her husband. “I’ll start the coffee.”