Chapter 34
thirty-four
. . .
SIENNA
A sharp elbow jabbed my ribs.
“Sorry,” Wren muttered, not sounding sorry at all. Her silver rings dug into my thigh as she practically vibrated beside me. “I can’t sit still. My heart’s about to explode.”
“He’s next!” Colt shouted.
A plastic cup bumped my shoulder, sending a splash of cold Coors Light across my jeans.
“Next out of Chute 6, we’ve got Brock Wilder drawing Cursed Crow. Wyoming cowboy, Wyoming horse—let’s see what they’ve got!”
The roar of thousands of people crashed over us like thunder, vibrating through the concrete under my boots.
I shot to my feet and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Let’s go, Brock!”
“Hold on a second,” the announcer’s voice boomed back over the PA system, cutting through the heavy bass of the stadium music. “What is he doing down there?”
I whipped my head toward the Jumbotron. There he was, seated deep in the yellow chute, the bright lights glaring off his dark hair. He was wrapping a thick strip of fabric over his eyes, knotting it behind his head like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We’ve seen some crazy things in this arena, but folks, I gotta tell ya—this next cowboy is fixin’ to ride his bronc completely blindfolded!”
The crowd roared. All the air left my lungs.
“Is he out of his goddamn mind?” Colt said.
On the giant screen, the lights caught the fabric: dark, midnight-blue silk. The one he used to tie me up last night.
Wren shot to her feet too. “I can’t believe my eyes. Sienna, did you know he was gonna do this?”
I couldn’t answer. My throat had closed completely. I just shook my head, unable to look away.
Brock’s face filled the screen—the sharp line of his jaw, clean-shaven, that calm set of his mouth. His lips moved in a silent prayer as he settled onto the bronc's back.
So this was what he was preparing for yesterday, not to blindfold me.
He’d made it sound like foreplay. Like a game just for us.
I wanted to kill him and straddle him at the same time.
Heat flooded my face and between my thighs. I’d been so blissfully distracted by his mouth and that low, rough drawl that I’d begged him to tie me up last night. I never imagined he’d use the same silk on himself in front of thousands of people.
A smirk flashed across his mouth, like he somehow knew exactly what I was thinking.
He gave the gateman a nod.
The metal gate cracked open. Cursed Crow exploded out in a blur of black muscle, mane whipping wildly.
Brock stayed glued to the horse's back, one arm held high. The silk knotted tightly over his eyes turned every violent spin into something almost graceful.
The blindfold should have made him helpless. It didn’t. He just looked fearless, like he and that horse understood something the rest of us couldn’t.
A rush of heat flooded my cheeks despite the fear. I pressed my thighs together hard and gripped the armrests, nails digging into the plastic. Please don’t let him get hurt.
Hold on. Just hold on.
The eight-second buzzer screamed. I could finally breathe.
He reached up to rip the silk from his face, but the horse dropped its shoulder into one last violent plunge. Brock was launched into the air and slammed hard into the packed dirt.
“No!” I gasped.
The sound was swallowed by the roaring crowd.
He lay motionless in the dust for two agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he planted a hand in the ground and pushed himself up onto his boots. I sagged against Wren, my knees turning to liquid.
Brock scooped his cowboy hat off the ground. He pressed his forearm tight against his ribs, chest heaving, and hoisted the hat high.
“Eighty-eight point five!” the announcer bellowed.
I didn’t wait for anything else. I shoved past Colt and flew down the concrete stairs, boots slipping on spilled beer. The air down in the arena was thick with the smell of wet dirt and horse.
A security guard in a yellow polo stepped in front of the tunnel entrance.
“Miss, you can’t—”
“I’m his manager!” I lied, heart hammering. “Please, I need to get back there.”
The guard hesitated. In that split second, I spotted Brock leaning heavily against the panels behind the chutes. I slipped past the guard and rushed toward him.
Brock was trying to brush dust off his jeans, favoring his right side and gripping his ribs. The wild rag was now tied around his neck, the fabric hanging loose against his chest.
I marched straight up to him and slammed both hands into his chest. He grunted, stumbling back a half-step.
“You absolute idiot!” My fists bunched in the dusty fabric of his shirt as I hit his chest again. “You could have broken your neck! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
He didn’t flinch. He just stood there and took it, looking down at me with those infuriatingly calm eyes.
“I know.” His voice was low and rough. “And I’m sorry.”
My rant died in my throat. For a second, I just stared at the dirt smeared across his jaw and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The anger drained out of me, leaving me dizzy.
I grabbed the ends of the blue silk and yanked his head down, kissing him hard.
The kiss was rough, deep, and tasted faintly of dust. His hands dropped to my hips, crushing me against him.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard. He kept a hand on my back as he guided me back toward the tunnel. The security guard was still standing there, shooting me a venomous glare for blowing past him. I ducked behind Brock’s broad shoulder, not sorry at all.
As we reached the concrete walkway near the first row of seats, a small crowd of people surged toward us, trying to reach Brock.
The first one to step out was the last person I expected to see.
Dawson.
My shoulders tensed. I still remembered his nasty taunts back in Cheyenne.
But tonight he didn’t look cocky at all, but worn out, like he’d had a long, rough week.
He tipped the brim of his hat to Brock. “Hell of a ride, man.”
Brock stopped. He kept me tucked tight against his side, his posture stiffening.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice flat.
An awkward silence stretched between them as the roar of the rodeo carried on behind us.
“Sorry about your old man,” Brock added quietly.
Dawson held his gaze for a long second, then gave a slow nod. “Appreciate it.”
He tipped his hat again and walked off.
I stared after him, stunned. Before I could even process the exchange, a whirlwind of denim and turquoise slammed into us. Wren and Colt had finally made it through the crowd.
Colt grabbed Brock by the shoulder with a wild grin. “You psychopath!”
Wren half-hugged him, half-smacked his arm.
“I hate you so much right now,” she said, her voice thick.
Brock let out a low chuckle and pulled both of them in tighter. “Love you too,” he muttered.
I stepped back, letting his family swamp him. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving me shaky and exhausted.
We still needed to have a serious conversation, but for now, it could wait.
We spent the rest of the night watching the remaining rounds from the stands. When the final scores came in, Brock’s 88.5 held up. He placed fifth.
Later that night, as I watched the neon glow of the hotel lights through the curtains, the chaos of the arena finally seemed a world away.
Brock sat on the edge of the mattress in just his jeans. A massive purple bruise was blooming across his ribs. I was still mad at him, but I couldn’t just leave him sitting there like that.
I sat beside him, carefully massaging cold arnica cream into the skin. He didn't make a sound, letting me work in silence.
After a long stretch of quiet, he finally spoke. He told me about the call with Dave Henderson. The ultimatum. Place in the top five tonight, or Outlaw would drop him.
Swallowing hard, I kept rubbing arnica into his skin as I processed his words. The sharp herbal scent filled the space between us.
When I finished, I wiped my hands on a towel and met his eyes. “I wish you would’ve told me, or at least given me a heads-up.”
Brock rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I was worried you’d try to stop me.”
He was right. I also knew exactly why he’d done it. He had gambled his own safety to keep Wild Sage afloat.
"Yeah," I said. "But that's not your call to make alone anymore. If we're doing this, we're partners. You have to let me in—the good and the bad."
He was quiet for a moment.
“Alright. No more secrets, I promise.” Then he added, softer, “But I have something else to confess.”
My stomach dropped.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He hesitated. “When we get back to the ranch… I’m paying off the rest of your sister’s college tuition.”
I froze. The towel slipped from my fingers. For a long moment, I just stared at him, heart pounding.
“Brock, that’s a huge amount of money,” I said, voice tight. “I’ve been carrying this by myself for years. You can’t just—”
He caught my hands gently, thumbs brushing over my knuckles. “I know, but I wanted to take that weight off you.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the edge of the mattress. I’d fought tooth and nail to handle this on my own.
“I’ll pay you back,” I said quietly.
“No. You don’t owe me anything, Starlin’. You built Wild Sage for us. This season, you’ve held my ranch, and me, together.”
I stared at him, throat tight. The instinct to argue flared, a knee-jerk urge to prove I didn't need saving.
“In the hot springs,” he continued. “You told me I didn’t have to carry it all on my own anymore. Let me do the same for you. Let me help.”
Looking at him—battered and dead tired, yet still holding me up—something inside me finally gave way.
This was Brock. He was letting me in, all the way. If I kept pushing him away every time he reached for me, what kind of partner was I?
I leaned forward, carefully threading my arms around his neck to avoid his ribs, and buried my face in his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“This is what I want with you—us looking out for each other. No more doing it all alone.” He chuckled. “And yeah, that goes for my stubborn ass too.”
I let out a soft laugh.
Pressing closer, I brushed a kiss against his neck. “Then I guess we’re both stuck taking care of each other from now on.”
The rest of the National Finals Rodeo passed in a chaotic neon blur of ice baths, screaming crowds, and fresh bruises on Brock.
With the pressure of Dave’s ultimatum lifted after that first ride, Brock transformed. The tight set of his jaw softened. He stopped climbing into the chutes like a man fighting for survival and started dropping onto the broncs with an easy grin—a man who finally had everything to win.
Night after night, he dominated. He won two go-rounds, adding two shiny new buckles to his gear bag, and stayed at the top of the leaderboard for the NFR Average: the title given to the most consistent rider across all ten nights.
Brock had already explained to me that the World Champion title was out of reach. He’d entered Vegas ranked fourteenth, and the earnings gap was too wide. But the other buckle? That one was still his to win.
While he did what he did best, I handled everything else.
His blindfolded ride blew up online, and Ryder wasted no time. We threw together a collab: midnight-blue wild rags embroidered with Wilder and distressed denim jackets with Wild Sage Ranch stitched across the back.
We opened pre-orders on Day 7 of the NFR. They sold out in just a few hours. We had to cap the numbers because the company handling the embroidery and shipping could only produce so many.
Going into the tenth and final round, the contrast between Night One and Night Ten couldn't have been more stark. On the first night, I'd been sick with anxiety. Tonight, the Thomas & Mack Center was pure electricity.
Wren and I were dressed the same: white hats, blue tank tops, and dark jeans. Colt leaned back with a cold Coors Light, grinning ear to ear under his Stetson, which also matched ours.
For the final night, we’d scored the best seats in the house. Front row, right along the rail near the contestant area.
“Here we go,” Wren whispered, grabbing my hand and squeezing.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena. “Up next, riding last in saddle bronc on the final night of the NFR… drawing the unpredictable white mare they call White Lightning… give it up for Brock Wilder!”
The crowd exploded, the roar shaking the stands.
Colt jumped to his feet. “That’s my brother, baby! Let’s go!”
I looked up at the Jumbotron, my heart pounding. Brock sat deep in the chute, looking worn out but completely at ease.
The gate swung open.
White Lightning exploded from the chute like a rocket, launching into the air before twisting hard. Brock stayed glued to her, his chaps flying with every kick while his body moved in perfect sync with all her chaos.
For eight heart-pounding seconds, he wasn't just riding—he was flying.
The buzzer sounded through the stadium.
Brock held on for one more beat, then grabbed the pickup man's arm and slid smoothly off the bucking mare. He landed clean, his boots hitting the dirt hard. Chest heaving and covered in dust, he straightened and tipped his hat.
Wren and I grabbed each other in a tight hug, both of us yelling as the crowd thundered around us. Colt stood beside us with his arms stretched wide.
“Hey! Where’s my hug?”
Wren looked at him, pretending to think about it for half a second before launching herself at him. She hit him with such force he stumbled back a step, nearly knocking over his beer.
“You asked for a big-time ride, and you got one! Eighty-nine points on the board. And that right there is your NFR Average Champion!”
The three of us screamed with the rest of the arena, our voices lost in the deafening cheers.
“Folks, that wraps up saddle bronc here on the final night. Up next, we’ve got tie-down roping!”
Officials swarmed Brock with congratulations, but he barely paused. Instead of heading for the tunnel with everyone else, he turned and started walking straight across the arena toward our section in the stands. Security parted as he approached the rail.
He stopped directly below us and reached both arms up.
I didn’t hesitate. I leaned over and his hands closed around my waist. For a heartbeat, I was weightless as he lifted me clean over the rail and lowered me onto the dirt. The moment my boots touched the ground, he crushed me to his chest.
“Brock—”
He didn’t let me finish. He cupped the back of my neck and kissed me, right there in front of thousands of roaring fans.
“We did it, Starlin’.”
I smiled and cupped his jaw. “You were incredible.”
That worn-out grin I loved tugged at his mouth, his blue eyes still shining. “Told you I had it handled. Now let’s go home.”