Chapter 2 Brick #2
We step back into the sunlight. It hits like an oven door opening.
The fairground hums harder now, a big old machine cranking up—music up, crowd thick, the scent of fried food and dust and sunscreen mixing into a thing that takes up residence in your nose.
We push through the bodies toward the stands, weaving past bachelorettes in fringe and old-timers in sweat-stained hats who were listening to rodeo on the radio when I was less than a thought.
“Dad,” Blaze says, tugging me to a stop by the rail for a second. “You rode good.”
“Didn’t think you noticed, seeing as you were busy flirting with Jaden.”
She ignores the commentary. “You look old when you ride.” She grins sideways, mean and loving both.
“I’m forty-six.”
“Practically a fossil in this business.” She laughs, then sobers quick like teenagers do. “I like watching you out there. But I don’t like thinking about you out there.”
“I get that. I don’t like thinking about me either.”
She bumps her shoulder into my arm, and I know what she means. She doesn’t like seeing me take the risk. What I mean is I know and I do it anyway because I’m built wrong for safe. All us Wyatts are. I also like keeping the lights on.
Not that I need the money much anymore. But I have no idea what I’d do if I were to retire. I try not to think about it.
Cash is at the back of the chutes, hand on his rope, talking trash to a kid.
He’s got my smile and his mama’s eyes and the kind of seat that makes a judge set his pencil down for a second.
He sees us, tips his chin, and then flips the switch in his face from my kid to a fierce competitor.
I love that switch. I taught him where it lives. He wired the rest himself.
“Ford’s here,” Blaze says, flicking her lashes. “Don’t let him talk you into anything dumb.”
“I am an adult,” I say, even though I will let Ford talk me into some things because Ford likes money. The bigger the risk, the bigger the purse, the bigger his payday. Ours too, but it’s our necks on the line.
We hear him before we see him. “Wyatts,” Ford calls in a tone that says my headache is named after you and it’s chronic.
He’s threading through the row with a clipboard that has more tabs than a well-loved Bible and the same cowboy duds as everyone else, even though the man’s never ridden a horse.
Sunglasses, hair gel, all that city polish that somehow doesn’t come off on the dust. He’s good at his job, which is to get us paid and cheered for in equal measure.
“Ford,” I say, shaking his hand. “Good to see you in the wild.”
“Always a treat,” he says, which is his way of saying you terrify me and I love the commission. He kisses Blaze’s temple without asking because she lets him—Ford has uncle privilege when he’s earned it. “You injure anything I need to be aware of?”
“Just my pride. Score was fine.”
“Cash looks dialed in,” Ford says, sliding his sunglasses up to scan the chute like there are dollar signs perched there I can’t see. “He’s such a show-off.”
“He takes after his father,” Blaze says, dry, and I bump her with my hip.
“He does,” I admit. I could pretend otherwise, but lying is pointless. We know each other too well. “He likes the roar of the crowd. The trick is teaching him the roar is the tail, not the dog.”
“Good line,” Ford says, scribbling like he’s going to use it in a meeting.
“Don’t put that in a deck.”
He chuckles. “It’s already on slide eight.”
We watch Cash settle. He’s a talker in the chute—some boys are quiet, but mine mouths a little prayer made of cuss words and jokes until his body signs on to what his brain wants.
When the gate bangs, he’s with the bull like he thought of the move first. He’s got a loose upper body and a tight core, which is how God intended cowboys to be made, and he milks the free-arm line for every tenth of a point he can find.
Blaze whoops loud enough to make the woman in front of us flinch. I let my grin show. Fathers should be allowed to look like fools in public when their boys do something right.
“Good run,” Ford says when the horn goes, and Cash dismounts clean. “Wasn’t perfect, but crowd’s in his pocket. Judges like a kid who remembers they’re showmen first.”
“Show-offs. Gender neutral, remember, Ford?” Blaze says.
“Apple, tree,” I mutter.
We keep watching, our family’s version of church. Levi’s down the row jawing with a sponsor rep and half listening to Cash get needled by the other boys. Reno isn’t here, and that’s a hot stove I don’t put my hand on.
But he’ll be here. He’s a moth to a flame, especially when we’re all together.
Ford shifts his weight like the thought in his pocket is poking him. He clears his throat. “Blaze,” he says too casually, “we going to talk about your…very robust social media presence?”
I feel my daughter stiffen the way a cat does when you run a vacuum.
“Define robust,” Blaze says, sugar-hard.
Ford lifts both hands. “You are magnetic on camera. It’s a gift. But the photos with…friends.”
“Guys and gals,” she says, chin out in that sweet defiance that makes me proud and gives Ford a rash. “I kiss who I want. I post what I want. It’s your job to handle the fallout, not judge me.”
“I am not judging,” Ford says, and I believe him. He’s a numbers man, not a morals man, and thank God for it. “I am simply saying there’s a…brand alignment challenge when half our sponsors are selling family values with their jeans.”
“Family values,” Blaze says, rolling it like a stick of gum she doesn’t want. “What’s that, Ford? Jerseys tucked in at church and nobody cusses at Thanksgiving?”
“Blaze,” I say, quiet, because I don’t need her to scorch him every time he looks her direction. “He’s doing his job.”
“And I’m doing mine,” she says, flicking her hair so the ribbon flashes. “Being a Wyatt. We’re not boring. That’s part of the package you sell, isn’t it?”
God, I love my girl.
I clap Ford on the shoulder so he knows I’m not letting him drown. “Look,” I say, smiling easy because it’s true, “I didn’t name her Blaze for nothing. She’s a wild card, and any person who tries to tame her is going to get bit. Don’t try. It’s part of her charm.”
Ford gives me a look like he both appreciates and resents that I just made his Q3 harder. “I would never try to tame Blaze,” he says, hand to heart like a court oath. “I just wish she would align more with the…let’s call it the ‘responsible western heritage’ messaging I’ve built for the Wyatts.”
I laugh, full belly, because if I don’t laugh I’ll start explaining things that don’t fit on slides. “She’s making you earn your commission.”
Ford’s professional smile goes tighter than my jeans. “Every damn day.”