Chapter Twenty-Four
The metal bleachers offer a blistering burn even with jeans on as I sit down.
Last night, Wyatt told me he had fun and would like to take me out again soon.
He offered to drive me all the way home, but I asked Mom to pick me up at the bottom instead.
I told her just about everything – mostly how infuriated and confused I am with Cash.
I told her about the two cherries he put in my lavender lemonade, and how he explained his sponsorship deal.
She simply told me to trust my heart. I’m pretty sure she likes Cash and didn’t want to say something to sway me.
I told Lani every detail. Wyatt kissing me, what Cash said to me in the closet, and how he looked when he saw Wyatt and me together. How, even though Wyatt kissed me, twice, it was when Cash squeezed my hand that felt the most intimate.
“Do you definitely believe him? That he and Kaylee are not really together?” Lani asked carefully.
“Because they just posted about how you can meet them together at the rodeo at their sponsor’s booth.
And, Dahlia? There’s another one of them kissing and making a heart near the camera with their hands. ”
My stomach twisted at that, and more doubt swirled.
If their relationship is actually over like he says, why was Kaylee so angry when she saw me getting into Cash’s truck?
And, even if it is an act, does that change anything?
Why should I be made to sit around in his waiting room? “I guess I don’t know what to believe.”
“Will you go out with Wyatt again?”
“Probably?” I said.
Now I’m here in the stands, waiting. No one knows I came to watch Cash ride – not my mom or Emery, not Lani, and definitely not Cash.
They all think I’m at the Young Producers competition, which starts in an hour, but everything’s already set up.
I won’t know until after the judging today how the public tasting went yesterday. They’re keeping it all under wraps.
Cash’s event starts after the barrel racing.
I watch, but don’t watch, as I rehearse my pitch for the competition in my mind.
The first rider comes blazing into the arena.
They whip round the first two barrels, the horse leaning so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t slip.
At the third barrel, the woman’s toe catches and the barrel teeters but doesn’t fall.
Finally, they run at breakneck speed out of the arena.
The riders keep coming, one after the other, and with such a quick turnaround it’s almost as if they are doing a relay.
But my mind isn’t here. All of a sudden, I’m remembering the dream I had in the hospital.
The images of me on the white horse are easy to slip back into.
I feel the bronc rein in my hand, my feet pushed deep in the stirrups, the sweat seeping down my back.
My head is suddenly heavy, like I’ve stood up too fast.
Steer wrestling is the next event. Boasting large men galloping next to a running steer and throwing themselves off their horse to grab the animal by the horns.
There’s nothing like jumping on an animal that can gore you.
I shake my head, thinking that the image of me on a bucking bronc feels just as wild. But Dottie and Daisy did it.
I squint when I see Cash’s unmistakable green and blue chaps behind the bucking chutes. I hop down from the bleachers and weave my way through folks holding popcorn bags, beer and cotton candy. As I get to the lowest row, I accidentally step on a finger that moves out in front of my foot.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, looking down, and I put a hand over my mouth when I see who it belongs to.
The girl glares up from under her black cowgirl hat. It has a red, sparkly hat band, matching the anger behind her eyes. Under it, her thick, perfectly straight blonde hair hangs all the way down to her waist. Of course, it’s Kaylee.
“Watch where you’re goin’,” she spits, clearly recognizing me.
I say sorry again, but she just turns back to the guy sitting next to her, who looks completely mesmerized. It’s no surprise; she’s stunning and talented. On my way round the corner of the bleachers, I glance back at them once more, and Kaylee eyes me darkly from under the brim of her hat.
Shaking off her cold stare, I weave round the outside of the stands and peer through a sea of cowboys, cowgirls, rodeo clowns and horses.
The announcer’s voice blares through the loudspeaker on the pole above me, giving us some details on the first rider and their bronc.
I jump up and down to try to see over everyone, but then the sea of people parts just enough as they jam themselves against the rails of the arena.
Cash is standing in the void, stretching his neck and rubbing his knuckles.
He must be nervous. I know how much this means to him.
There’s so much pressure on him to perform, not only to clinch a spot in the finals, but to keep his sponsor.
Lani’s voice in my head tells me I shouldn’t care, but I can’t deny it: I do.
I’m frozen, watching him, hoping he doesn’t look up to find me staring. His straw cowboy hat blocks his view of me, and as people begin cheering he makes his way to the chutes.
The bronc rider who’s up next holds one hand high in the air and nods quickly to the gate keepers. The gate swings open with the loud screeching of metal. I can’t see, but by the reaction from the crowd, he must be holding his own.
I inch closer to the chutes, where Cash is getting his bronc ready.
He’s busy tying a piece of the horse’s mane round the top of the halter so it doesn’t slip over its ears.
Thankfully, he’s now wearing a helmet again.
There’s a grimace on his face and something seems off.
If I know anything about horses, it’s that they can sense a rider’s nerves.
Cash could make a mistake if his head’s not in the right place.
An inexplicable force nudges me his way. As confused and frustrated as I am with him, I don’t want to see him get hurt. But what can I do?
I’m a stone’s throw away when he catches me out of the corner of his eye.
“Dahlia?” He looks up with a jerk. “You came?”
I nod, unsure of myself.
With shaking hands, he leans back and holds the bronc rein at the height of his stomach.
The birthmark round his neck peeks out of his shirt as the bronc bangs against the chute.
A man who I believe is his coach holds on to Cash’s back and chest, spotting him.
There are intervals when Cash’s focus is on the bronc, but when his eyes dart back to mine, the world stands still and the seconds feel like lifetimes.
Before I know quite what I’m doing, I charge closer to the chute and stand up on the rails. Unfamiliar words come from my mouth: “Hey, put your hand higher. You won’t jerk forward as much.”
He’s as perplexed by my advice as I am, but his coach gives him a nod in agreement and says, “I’ve heard this bronc needs more rein; long average.”
Cash slides his hand up about a finger’s width, tucks his chin and nods to the gate keepers.
The bronc charges out of the chute with a jump. He bucks and tips his nose towards the dirt. Cash’s spurring action is on point. He doesn’t miss a beat, and his horse bucks hard, back feet straight up in the air.
Riveted, I climb up and sit on the top rail by his coach. There’s something about Cash that makes me root for him, no matter what is or isn’t going on between us.
The seconds tick by in slow motion. As the clock shows six seconds, Cash just barely slips to the side. The bronc turns, but Cash’s butt stays glued in the saddle. My heart sinks into my stomach, and I take a split second to glance at his coach. He sits forward nervously.
At seven point nine seconds, Cash leans back.
One of the pick-up men rides up alongside him and his bronc.
After the eight-second buzzer goes off, Cash swings an arm round the pick-up man’s waist and goes to lunge on to his horse’s rump, but he’s hung up – something on Cash’s leg or boot won’t free from the saddle.
His bronc keeps running and bucking, making it harder for him to let go.
The second pick-up man turns his horse on a dime, rushing to his side.
Their horses can do it all, the most athletic in the whole rodeo.
He snugs up to the bronc, grabs the rein, and now the horses are all in stride with one another.
The first pick-up man leans over and pulls Cash’s leg free, then loosens the bronc’s flank strap.
They canter round the arena until Cash lets go – and lands on his feet. The top half of his body pitches forward, almost sending him face-first into the dirt, but he catches himself and runs to the rails while the pick-up men guide the bronc to the alley.
In unison, the crowd, Cash and I all look up at the scoreboard – eight seconds with a score of eighty-nine out of one hundred.
His coach and I look at each other, wide-eyed, and we can’t help but high five.
The crowd stands and applauds. Cash takes his helmet off and waves it in the air, the fringe on his chaps swinging back and forth to the joyful beat of his footsteps.
He pulls himself up on to the rail effortlessly and sits between his coach and me. His knee rests against mine.
“Damn, Cash. Nicely done, man!” his coach praises him and squeezes his shoulder.
“That was awesome,” I say, and he studies my face and furrows his brow.
“The tip you gave me about the rein… It helped me hold on, and I was able to focus more on spurring. Eighty-nine – I can’t believe it. Best score I’ve ever got.” He shakes his head and grins.
“This will probably put you in the standings to compete at the state-fair finals in Pueblo,” his coach says, slapping him on the back.