37. Arizona
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Arizona
I give up on sleep before the alarm goes off because every time I close my eyes, I end up back at the same tangled thoughts.
The knot in my stomach keeps tightening until I throw back the covers, pull on my jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and my boots, then slip out of the house to walk off this mood as much as I can.
I pass the coffee pot without stopping. Whatever’s been bothering me since yesterday won’t disappear with caffeine.
The rodeo grounds come into view as dawn begins to break, pale light creeping over the empty parking lots and silent grandstands while the stadium lights still burn against a sky that hasn’t fully decided to wake.
The championship doesn’t begin until tonight, leaving the grounds in that strange space between yesterday and the chaos still waiting to arrive.
My boots echo across the pavement as I head toward the arena, every step sounding louder than it should. I keep expecting someone to appear around the next corner, a groundskeeper unlocking gates or a stock contractor making an early start.
But the place sits unnaturally still, wrapped in a silence that settles heavier with every yard I cover.
I don’t trust myself to stop walking. The feeling that dragged me out of bed refuses to let go, and I can’t shake the certainty that something is wrong.
I trail my hand along the outside fence as I walk. Maybe I’m chasing a feeling more than anything else, but that’s gotten me this far.
Travis has stayed one step ahead of everyone for weeks. If he’s arrogant enough to come back, he’s also arrogant enough to think nobody’s looking.
I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find. Maybe loose wire or footprints. Maybe proof I’ve officially lost my mind.
I crouch beside the post and run my fingers over the exposed metal. Fresh curls of steel lie scattered across the dirt below it, bright enough to tell me they haven’t been sitting here long.
Maintenance crews have been working around the grounds all week, so one scraped brace doesn’t prove anything, but I reach beneath the rail anyway and test the nearest bolt.
It turns beneath my hand.
I tighten my grip and twist again, hoping it’s nothing more than a loose fitting, yet the nut spins with hardly any resistance.
A prickle crawls up the back of my neck.
My stomach tightens as I reach for the next brace.
The bolt turns beneath my fingers with barely any resistance, and the one after that does the same.
By the time the fourth one loosens just as easily, I quit telling myself the maintenance crew missed a few bolts because this is no accident.
Whoever did this worked their way along the fence with patience, loosening each support enough to hold its place until the right amount of force hit it.
I straighten and look the length of the arena, following the damaged section from one brace to the next while the picture falls into place.
Tonight, contestants will crowd these rails waiting for their rides. Pickup men will race alongside the bulls, photographers will squeeze into every opening they can find, and the grandstands will fill with families hours before the championship begins.
One bull crashing into this section would tear the weakened supports apart, sending the fencing into the crowd while loose livestock burst through the opening and hundreds of people fought to get clear.
My stomach drops as I follow the damaged section along the fence, and the picture forms before I can stop it.
Tonight these grandstands will be packed with families, kids perched on the rails trying to see over the crowd, pickup riders chasing loose stock, horses charging through the arena, and one hard hit against this weakened stretch will send the fencing crashing into hundreds of people.
Panic claws through me as I imagine the screaming, the dust, the animals breaking free, and bodies scrambling to escape.
This has gone way beyond sabotage. Travis is basically planning a massacre.
I push to my feet, already reaching for my phone as I head toward the parking lot. I have to find Red before anyone else walks through those gates.
“I figured it’d take a little longer before somebody found it.”
The words stop me before I can pull out my phone. I turn and find Travis Mercer standing beside the service gate with his hands tucked into the pockets of a faded canvas jacket.
Everything around him feels alive, horses snorting, generators humming, people getting ready for another rodeo, and somehow he stands in the middle of it looking completely empty.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me. If anything, he looks satisfied.
“You’ve been watching this place?” I ask, keeping my phone at my side while I judge the distance between us and the open parking lot beyond him.
“Long enough.”
His eyes never leave mine.
“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” I tell him. “The sheriff already has enough evidence to put you away.”
A corner of his mouth lifts, though there’s no humor behind it. “That doesn’t matter.”
My mouth goes dry. He isn’t talking like someone trying to get away. He’s talking like someone who already decided how today ends.
“You came back to finish what you started.”
“I came back because Red should’ve paid for what he did.”
I hold his stare. “You mean the accident.”
His mouth twists. “You still call it that.”
I shake my head. “You did that yourself.”
His shoulders stiffen. “I was the best bronc rider on that circuit. Sponsors wanted me. Every rodeo wanted my name on the posters. Then one ride took everything.”
“You climbed onto that horse after drinking.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’d had a couple.”
“The officials told you not to ride.”
“Everybody keeps feeding me that line,” he says, a bitter laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. “You all cling to it because it’s easier than admitting what really happened.”
His stare locks onto mine. “They chose him.” He jabs a finger toward the arena. “Red got the ride, the sponsors, the sympathy, the whole damn future, and I got left behind because nobody cared enough to stop me.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
“They all chose him,” he says. “They crowded around Red while I was lying in the dirt.”
“They were trying to save your life.”
“They were protecting him.”
I step back a little. “Red blamed himself for years.”
Another bitter laugh escapes him. “Good.”
“He carried guilt that never belonged to him.”
“It belonged to both of us.”
“It belonged to the man who ignored every warning because he thought he knew better.”
His eyes burn into mine. “You’ve never watched your whole life disappear.”
“I’ve watched people destroy their own.”
He shakes his head. “I watched Red keep winning. He built a ranch. Built a name. Built a life. They all looked at him,” he continues, and his gaze never wavers from mine.
“They were loading me into the ambulance, and all anybody cared about was whether Red Bronson was all right.” A cold smile pulls at his mouth before fading. “Tell me that isn’t twisted.”
I hold his stare. “People were trying to save both of you.”
He gives a small shake of his head. “You still don’t get it. Nobody remembers the cowboy who lost everything.” His eyes drift toward the arena. “They remember the legend.”
“There’ll be kids out there,” I say, the words coming harder than I intend. “Sadie’s going to be here.”
His expression shifts so quickly I almost think I imagined it, but whatever passes across his face is gone before I can make sense of it.
“Then Red should’ve thought about that before he ruined my life.”
I keep my feet planted, even though every part of me wants to run. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“You’ll hurt people who never had anything to do with your accident.”
“I’ll take away the life he spent twenty years building.”
“And then what?”
His gaze settles on mine. “Then he’ll understand.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a socket wrench, rolling it through his fingers before nodding toward the fence.
“This is all it took. I came out here every night with a toolbox in the truck. Nobody questions a maintenance worker carrying tools.”
I glance at the loosened bolts before looking back at him. “You’ve been planning this for weeks.”
“I’ve been planning it for years.”
I search his face for any sign he’ll back away, but every answer I need is already standing in front of me.
Talking isn’t changing his mind.
It’s only buying time until somebody realizes I’m missing.