Chapter 9
nine
. . .
SIENNA
We’d been in Cheyenne for four days, but Championship Sunday felt different. The fairgrounds came alive before the sun was fully up. Fans crowded the fences for barrel racing, steer wrestling, and the other events I was finally starting to recognize.
“Next up, we’ve got a 78-point ride from Travis Moore!” the announcer boomed. The crowd erupted.
Brock didn’t speak. He just reached into the cooler, pulled out a bottle of water, and handed it to me. That was him before a ride, quiet and focused, like all his thoughts were somewhere I couldn’t reach. Or maybe he was just better at keeping them to himself.
My flight back to Chicago was tomorrow morning.
The thought had hovered over dinner the night before. Wren had barely touched her steak, pushing food around her plate while complaining she was losing her only ally in a house full of cavemen.
I’d laughed. Brock hadn’t. He’d just kept cutting his steak into smaller and smaller pieces, his eyes fixed on his plate.
I took a gulp of cold water and capped the bottle, my chest tight. A month ago I’d been counting down the days until I could go home. Now I was trying not to count the hours.
The stadium announcer’s voice rolled across the stands. “We’re wrapping up the bronc riding with some of the best in the business! Keep that energy high, folks!”
This rodeo was louder than all the others we’d been to combined—thousands of voices, stomping boots, and country music blasting overhead. The stands were a wall of denim and cowboy hats, and the air smelled like popcorn, beer, and livestock, the whole place vibrating around me.
Brock stood a few feet away, leaning against the steel rails of Chute 3.
He rubbed a fine powder into his leather glove, his hand moving in steady passes.
The motion made the muscles in his forearms bunch and flex, veins standing out against his tanned skin.
Everything about him looked built for this.
“You gettin’ what you need?” he asked, voice low.
"I am."
I held my phone steady, filming the behind-the-scenes footage. It had taken twenty minutes of arguing with a gate official and Brock flashing his contestant badge to get me back here. I wasn’t about to waste it.
"You nervous?" I asked.
"No."
"You’ve been very quiet."
He pulled the glove tighter, flexing his fingers. "I’m always quiet before a ride."
“Is that a superstition?”
“It’s just how I work.” He glanced sideways at me. “Keeps my head clear.”
I lowered my phone. "Does talking to me mess with it?"
“Not yet.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile I’d get right now.
The smell of roasted peanuts drifted through the dusty alley, and my stomach let out a loud, embarrassing rumble. I hadn’t eaten since a granola bar and an apple at one o’clock. Down the alley, the bulls for the final event slammed against the holding pens, iron gates rattling with every hit.
I took a step closer to Brock’s chute. Dozens of animals shifted and snorted all around us, kicking up dust in spaces that felt way too small to hold them.
“Well, shit. They actually let you in the draw.”
I looked over.
Another bronc rider ambled toward us, his leather chaps swishing over his jeans as he took a bite from a massive, greasy corn dog.
My hunger vanished. Eating a deep-fried corn dog ten minutes before climbing on a bucking horse seemed like a terrible idea.
Brock didn’t move from the rails. “Dawson.”
Dawson grinned around the corn dog. “Heard you left Cody before the scores even posted. What happened?”
The muscle in Brock’s jaw started jumping. His hands went still on the rag. “Long drive.”
“Sure.” Dawson tore off another bite. His eyes slid over to me, dropped slowly to my top, then dragged back up with a smirk. “Who’s this?”
“None of your business,” Brock said.
“Brought your buckle bunny to Cheyenne. Bold move.” He tipped his hat at me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Say another word about her,” Brock warned, pushing off the rail.
I’d spent a month learning Brock’s body language. I knew exactly what that squared-up stance meant. I stepped in front of him before he could do something that would cost him his contract.
“I’m Sienna,” I said. “I’m his PR manager.”
Dawson blinked, then barked out a laugh. “For a bronc rider? That’s cute.” He looked at Brock. “What, she follows you around making sure you don’t punch anybody?”
“Among other things,” I said coolly. “And since we’re chatting, here’s some free advice.”
His grin wobbled.
“Trying to talk trash with a corn dog in your mouth doesn’t make you look tough. It makes you a brand liability.” I glanced at the single embroidered logo on his collar. “There's a reason Brock's sponsors pay more than McCoy's Auto Parts.”
Dawson looked down at his shirt, then back at me. He chewed the last bite of the corn dog and forced a short laugh.
"Whatever." He pointed the stick at Brock. "Try not to get hung up like you did in Sioux Falls."
"You worry about your own ride," Brock said.
Dawson tossed the stick in the dirt and walked off, muttering. I stood there, pulse racing, enjoying the rush more than I should. Then reality hit. I was supposed to de-escalate, not throw gas on the fire.
Brock was staring at me, arms crossed, failing to hide a smile. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
“Just don’t give me a reason to. And seriously, who eats deep-fried meat before a ride?”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t know, but dinner’s on me tonight. Anywhere you want.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the offer. "You don’t have to."
“You didn’t have to step in like that. Let me say thanks.”
“I’m holding you to it, then.” I glanced back toward where Dawson had gone. “What does ‘hung up’ mean, exactly?”
“Boot gets stuck in the stirrup. Can’t get free.” He paused, eyes going distant. “Happened to me last year. Took three guys to cut me loose.”
My stomach tightened. That was the last thing I needed to picture right now.
Brock stepped up onto the rails of Chute 3, boots braced on either side, looking down at Pistol Annie. The gray mare shifted and stamped beneath him.
I shoved the image aside and lifted my phone. “Let’s not talk about you getting dragged before your ride. Give me ten seconds for the feed.”
He glanced at the camera. “What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever’s going through your mind.”
He was quiet for a second. He squared his shoulders, tipped the brim of his hat into place, and looked straight into the lens.
“Brother said I’d ride her to the whistle, then land flat on my ass. Sister said I’d stick the dismount like a pro.” He paused. “Guess we’ll find out which one knows me better.”
I stopped recording, unable to hide my grin. “That’s perfect. A little cocky, a little humble... it’s you.”
He grunted and turned back to the chute.
I saved the clip, my thumb hovering over the share button. The caption was already forming in my head. Behind the chutes at Cheyenne... One of the last videos I'd post for him.
“Can I stay here?” I asked. “Until you ride?”
His hands stilled on the rigging, but he didn't look back. “Thought you'd be sick of me by now.”
"I just want to make sure you don't do anything stupid in case Dawson comes back."
The corner of his mouth lifted. “He won't. But suit yourself.”
I scanned the stands for Wren and Colt, but it was just a blinding sea of denim under the lights. Down here, the air felt thicker—nervous horses, hot dust, and that earthy rodeo smell.
The gate beside us burst open.
The bronc exploded into the arena, twisting and kicking. The rider lasted maybe three seconds before he was launched, hitting the dirt flat on his back as his hat sailed off. The crowd groaned, then applauded when he climbed to his feet and limped away.
The announcer's voice boomed through the arena. “Tough luck there, but let's give him a hand for a good effort.”
My stomach knotted. Brock was next.
I stepped closer to his chute. He looked down at me.
“Hey,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the noise. “Good luck.”
For a second, the hard focus in his eyes softened. “See you in eight seconds.”
“Coming out of Chute 3… he's got one more ride tonight on the tough mare Pistol Annie! Three-time Cheyenne champion, give it up loud for Brock Wilder!”
Brock stood on the rails, pulling his leather glove tight, the Velcro ripping sharply. He reached for the braided rein—
BANG.
Not the gate. Behind me. Metal buckled violently down the alley.
“Back gate!” someone screamed. “Loose bull!”
I spun around. A massive black bull crashed through the broken panel, horns swinging as it charged down the narrow alley.
The chute beside me flew open.
A horse launched out, nostrils flared, eyes rolling white with panic. It reared, a thousand pounds of muscle and thrashing hooves blotting out the lights.
Then it came down.
Right where I stood.
Brock's boots clanged against the rail.
He slammed into me, one arm locking around my waist, the other hand shielding the back of my head as he pulled my face into his chest.
The horse struck him.
A deep grunt ripped from Brock as the impact drove us both into the dirt. His full weight crashed over me, his belt buckle digging painfully into my stomach.
I couldn't breathe.
The crowd screamed, but the sound blurred into a distant roar. All I saw was skin. All I felt was the rise and fall of his breathing, the burning heat of his body, and the hollow of his throat pressed against my lips.