4. Nash
Chapter 4
Nash
T he roar of the crowd surged from the main rodeo arena, the kind of noise that made your pulse quicken whether you were a competitor or just an observer, an undercurrent of energy rippling through the air.
I hadn’t planned to wander toward the barrel racing arena, but the distant cheers called to me with an unshakable pull, tugging at my feet despite myself. I walked rapidly through the vendors’ tents, the rich, greasy smell of hot dogs and sweet beaver tails filling the air, mingling with the dust rising from the worn dirt ground beneath my Ariats, which were getting caked in a fine layer of dirt and grime.
I had just finished our rehearsal for tonight’s set, running through warm-ups and rehearsing our well-known successes. Easton had tapped me on the shoulder before leaving the stage, going God knows where—far from me, definitely. I couldn’t muster the courage to follow him, even if I had wanted to. There were so many things I wanted to say, though I wasn’t sure what I was trying to convey. Was it an apology? Or the quiet urge to tell him that maybe, just maybe, he needed to go on without me?
Yesterday, our jam session had faltered—both of us wrapped up in our thoughts, lost, frustrated. The weight of needing to regain our fans’ trust hung over us like a storm cloud, threatening to break at any moment. Red Dirt was happening at the end of the summer, and it felt like we were dangling by a thin thread, watching the opportunity slip away if we didn’t move fast.
The barrel racing ring came into view, its white metal fencing gleaming sharply under the floodlights, standing out against the evening sky. Riders lined up along the fence, their horses restlessly pawing at the dirt, eager for the start. Near the corner of the arena, standing with arms crossed and her dark braid hanging over her shoulder, was someone I recognized—Dawn’s friend, the one who’d abandoned her to me last week at the bar.
“Evening,” I said as I approached, careful not to startle her.
She turned, her deep brown eyes narrowing slightly as her gaze settled on me before recognition softened her features. “Sir,” she said, more as a statement than a greeting. “What brings you over here?”
“Curiosity, mostly,” I admitted, leaning casually against the fence, matching her posture by placing a foot on the lower bar. “Figured I’d see what all the commotion was about. Is Dawn riding tonight?”
The woman nodded, glancing toward the arena. “She’s up in a minute.”
“Nash.” I extended my hand toward her, trying to break the formality.
“Willow,” she replied, not breaking her gaze from the arena, nor acknowledging my handshake.
I followed her eyes, my attention drawn across the field to Dawn. There she was, adjusting her horse’s saddle with quick, efficient movements, every action filled with the focused determination that turned her into someone you couldn’t ignore. The determination was all-consuming—something that made you forget to breathe for a moment.
“She looks ready,” I said softly.
Willow didn’t respond immediately. She shifted her weight on the fence, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the cold metal. “She always looks ready,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Before I could ask what she meant, the announcer’s voice crackled over the speakers, cutting through the tension in the air like a sharp knife. Dawn’s name echoed, met by a swell of cheers from the crowd as she mounted her horse and rode to the starting line.
Willow leaned forward, her entire focus now fixed on the arena, her body taut with the same anticipation filling the air. I stayed quiet, watching Dawn position herself and her horse, the stillness around her electrified with the heavy weight of expectation. Her pale jeans highlighted her powerful muscles, while the light reflected off her champion buckle, making it gleam in the harsh spotlights.
The buzzer sounded. And they were off—a blur of muscle, speed, and the kind of precision that took your breath away.
But something was off. The first barrel—her horse hesitated, the split-second of hesitation throwing the rhythm off, their timing just a fraction too slow. By the time they rounded the second turn, it was clear: Dawn was struggling to recover, her body fighting to regain momentum as the second barrel toppled to the dirt.
“Oh no! She’s knocked over the second barrel! That’ll be a five-second penalty, and those can be tough to overcome in a sport like this. But look at her, staying focused—that’s the mark of a true competitor!” the commentator’s voice cracked through the stadium.
I watched her, noting the sharp change in her expression, the quick flash of frustration burning through before it was masked by an almost primal determination. She didn’t have to look back; the penalty had already marked its presence in the air, lingering like a second shadow, visible to everyone but her. The seconds dragged on, each one stretching like they were slipping away from her, but she kept pushing forward, each stride more fierce than the last, unwilling to let the mistake define her performance.
I could see it in her—the tight line of her jaw, the controlled tension in her shoulders, the need to push through this, to finish with strength even when her time was already slipping away from her.
When she crossed the finish line, the time on the board told the story: Not fast enough.
Willow let out a low, frustrated sigh, her head dropping between her arms. “Damn it,” she murmured under her breath.
“What happened?” I asked, hoping for some clarity.
Willow shook her head, her voice heavy with frustration. “She needed this win. The prize money would’ve helped with the ranch. She’s been working so hard, but nothing’s been going right lately.”
I glanced toward the arena, where Dawn was dismounting, her face hard to read, but there was no sign of celebration, not even a flicker of the triumph she was known for. Instead, she gently stroked her horse’s neck, barely acknowledging the murmurs of disappointment from the stands.
Willow stepped away from the fence, her voice almost distant as she muttered, “I need to check on her.”
I hesitated for a second, then followed at a distance, keeping my pace slow as Willow headed toward the paddocks. A part of me couldn’t help but want to make sure Dawn was alright after everything—a strange impulse, considering I barely knew her.
When we reached the stall, Dawn was already inside, standing beside her horse and tracing soothing circles along its flank with her hand.
“Hey,” Willow’s voice was gentler now, a quiet murmur in the noise of the world outside.
Dawn glanced up, her expression a fragile mix of exhaustion and something harder, a veil of forced calm. “She tried her best,” she said, nodding toward her horse. “I can’t ask for more than that.”
Willow’s hand lightly touched Dawn’s arm. “I know. But I also know how much this meant to you.”
Dawn’s shoulders sagged, as if the weight of the world had settled on them, just a little heavier now. “It’s just one more thing, you know? The tractor breaking down, the barn repairs, the lodging for the residents… I thought maybe if I won tonight, I could catch a break.”
“You will,” Willow said, her voice firm like a promise. “You’re one of the best out there. This was just a bad night.”
Dawn gave a weak smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned back to her horse, her forehead gently resting against its neck. “I don’t know how much more I can take, Will. The ranch feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, and no matter how hard I work, it’s never enough.”
My chest tightened at the soft despair in her voice. I stayed back, hidden in the shadows, but her words struck me with more force than I had expected. Dawn wasn’t just a champion having a rough night. She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, never letting it slip, even in the moments we shared together.
Willow continued to rub her back in small, reassuring circles. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. And you’re not alone. We’re here. We’ll get through this.”
Dawn didn’t respond immediately. She just nodded, her hand remaining on her horse as silence settled in around them, thick with emotions left unsaid.
I shifted my weight, the need to step forward gnawing at me. But something kept me in place, like a thread keeping me rooted in the moment. Maybe it was the rawness of what I had just witnessed, or the fact that I barely knew her.
So I stayed where I was, listening to the quiet murmur of the night, distant echoes of the first band’s set floating from across the grounds.
For the first time in a long time, I felt the urge to do something—not for myself, not for the band. But something stirred inside me, a deep instinct that wanted to help. But I also knew Dawn didn’t need someone to add to the storm in her life. What she needed was someone who would help her weather the storm she was already fighting.
As I slowly made my way back toward the music tent, an idea sparked into existence—a plan that could maybe help us both, if I played my cards right.