Chapter 3
HATTIE
May
“What part of no smoking do you not understand?”
The lady pinning a team number to my back means business. She shouts at the group of guys who insist on rebelling against her rules. Wrangling the rowdy crew of athletes, livestock, and chute bosses behind the scenes as the coordinator of a small-town rodeo is not a job for the faint of heart.
The four troublemakers in question, one on horseback and the other three sitting on top of a catch pen panel, are trying not to laugh.
All but one, at least. He might smirk for a moment, but his demeanor is much more stoic and reserved than that of his friends.
I watch him from the corner of my eye to keep from turning my head and making it obvious.
For such a large man, he’s light in the saddle. Easy. Natural.
Every time I flick my gaze in his direction, I catch him curiously looking right back at me.
Our first encounter was three hours ago at the check-in table. I showed up to this local charity rodeo, in a tiny town I’d never been to, hours from home, on a whim.
Grief does not consume me with despair. It makes me dangerously impulsive.
Exhibit A: Entering a two-person event by myself and assuming I’ll rope someone into joining me at the last minute.
This guy looked like he could catch and hold me up with one hand if I happened to fall off his horse.
The way his dark eyes were already pinned on me when I turned to speak to him seemed like a sign to go for it and ask him if he’d be on my team.
I guess he didn’t like the idea, because when I asked him to do it, he simply stood there wearing a fixed expression that can only be described as severe. No reply. No movement.
I took that as a firm decline.
If he were alive, my little brother would have jumped at the chance to be my teammate.
We were sensational together in the barrel pick-up races growing up.
In part, because Dad is one of the best horse trainers in the state.
But mostly because Jay was fearless. He made me feel braver than I actually am.
The rush of gritting my teeth and leaping toward him as he rounded the barrel was unlike any other feeling in the world.
I’ve been missing him and chasing that high ever since.
Exposure therapy doesn’t work for everyone, but it’s my chosen method when it comes to processing loss.
Or in my case, multiple losses. Throwing myself into things that remind me of my mom or brother scares the hell out of me, but standing still is infinitely worse.
This is the only approach that’s kept me from falling apart lately, and it’s why I had to be here tonight.
In retrospect, asking a complete stranger to be my pick-up man probably wasn’t the right approach, especially one who’s twice the size and age of a typical contestant.
Most of the time, the pickup race teams consist of either two young kids or one child and one adult. Charity “exhibition style” rodeos like this one are less competitive, though. More fun, less orderly, and all for the cause.
I’m light enough that no one will question my participation.
On the other hand, despite his powerful horse, which looked more than capable of handling both of our weights, my reluctant stranger would have earned a few double takes if he had taken part in an event usually meant for kids. Triple takes, even.
But what other choice do I have? I don’t know anyone here, and I can’t exactly ask my little brother, can I?
My brain’s think-ahead function is on its last leg. And so, here we are.
Just as the coordinator taps my shoulder and picks up her clipboard from the table next to us, the man on his horse, who’s continuing to steal my attention despite turning me down, reaches toward his friend.
His dirty straw cowboy hat may not be in pristine condition, but it’s clear he knows how to keep it properly shaped.
I like that. The brim is slightly wider than average and casts a dark shadow over the top half of his face.
I tilt my head, wondering if it’s custom.
My tummy flips as his arm stretches to the side. The ripples of muscle in his forearm and bicep tighten as he tosses his phone to the smiley friend with dark blonde hair and dimples so deep, you could probably see them from space.
Now that my back number is on, and I’m moments away from jogging into the arena, there’s no reason for me to remain standing behind the chutes.
But I linger anyway, stepping toward the table and flipping through a stack of papers, pretending to study them.
One of the shadowy man’s friends asks a question.
Another laughs. He responds, but it’s too quiet.
I lean forward with my hand braced on the table to shamelessly eavesdrop . . .
“Hattie Jo!” The coordinator’s megaphone screeches from the start gate.
Startled, my palm slides forward until my feet are no longer square beneath me. My elbow crashes onto the table, drawing the attention of the four men. I scramble to my feet and lift my chin, hoping they only heard that and didn’t see.
Before walking away in the most casual manner I can manage, my eyes can’t help but shift their focus to him once more. It’s subtle, but I notice the grimace on his face. Cool. First, he ignores me when I ask him to do me a solid and enter the race. Now, I’m giving him second-hand embarrassment.
Bend and snap, unsuccessful.
This is not the heated reaction I was promised.
I shake my head, chastising myself for even caring about getting a reaction from him just because he has big arms and thick brown hair that’s a little too long and . . .
I roll my eyes to stop my inner rambling.
My hat is off-center after losing my balance.
I straighten it and pull it down until I’m confident it won’t go flying off my head in the race.
Then again, I doubt it will be at risk of falling off at all.
No one will be coming to get me. My participation will consist of thirty seconds on the barrel, if that, and a no-time score.
Regardless, I’m going out there. It’s important to me.
The coordinator calls my name again through the megaphone.
On my way to the start gate, I scan the small crowd of people behind the chutes in a last-ditch effort to recruit someone with a quick horse and strong shoulders.
My stupid curiosity knows no bounds, because instead of finding someone to step in, all I accomplish is looking back at the guy and his three friends.
The moment I do, he tightens his jaw and looks up as if something suddenly interests him in the sky beyond the tall floodlights.
I purse my lips and narrow my eyes as I snap my focus back to the gate. The coordinator waves her clipboard in the air, signaling me to keep going.
The stands aren’t full, but they’re crowded and loud enough to make the applause sound encouraging. I hurry my way to the barrel. When I reach it, I grip the metal edges and pull myself up.
Muscle memory is a crazy thing. I haven’t done this since I was a teenager. I’m twenty-four now, but turning around and bracing my hands on my bent knees feels as automatic as it did back then.
The announcer says something, but the speaker crackles. All the noise around me sounds blurry and muffled. It doesn’t matter, I’m too focused on the warmth spreading slowly through my chest anyway.
Nostalgia floods in as I breathe in the familiar smell of the red dirt arena. My eyes gloss over at the way the dust floats between the beams of light that illuminate the rodeo grounds. I wait for someone who will never come, but it still makes me feel closer to him than I have in months.
Music plays, and the crowd’s energy picks up.
And yet, it all fades away as Jay’s smiling face and awkward laugh crash through my mind, clear and bright.
I hang my head with my eyes closed, begging the vivid images to stay.
I’d do this a million more times if it meant never letting them dim with every passing day until there’s nothing left of him for me to hold onto.
While most people run from the pain, I sprint toward it. The more it burns, and the more it hurts, the more connected to him I feel. Despite the unshed tears pooling in my eyes, I smile.
I did what I came here to do, and I’m not self-indulgent by nature. There are more events to come, so rather than holding up the show much longer, I let out a deep sigh and begin lowering myself off the barrel.
Just as I’m about to jump off, the crowd erupts. My head snaps up, and before I see him, I feel the thunderous pounding of his horse’s hooves as he bursts toward me. In a flash, I stand up straight. There’s no time to think. As soon as he leans forward and pulls his reins to the left, my arms open.
To the outside world, it must seem as if only seconds have passed.
But as I reach for his shoulders and spring from the barrel, everything slows.
I feel suspended in the air as dirt flies behind his horse’s precise pivot.
There’s no logical explanation for how time disappears.
Every breath, every movement seems to happen in slow motion.
The adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream makes my heart thud so intensely that I close my eyes.
A monumental, and potentially dangerous, mistake.
Except even while squeezing my eyes shut, and with the sudden shift back to what feels like real time, I crash onto the back of the saddle. Without even thinking, my arms wrap fiercely around his neck.
There’s no yelling or flapping of the stirrups to speed up his horse. Shadow man is still and silent and . . . reaching back to grip my thigh with his right hand.
The awareness of what just happened hits me as soon as the horse cuts back to a stop in the alleyway behind the chutes. And yet, I don’t unlatch myself from the mountain of sturdy muscle. He doesn’t remove his hand. I don’t open my eyes.