Seven
Eric couldn’t hear his heart thundering in his ears over the roar of the crowd.
He didn’t think this old town had enough population to fill the stands, much less rattle them like an ancient gladiatorial arena.
But here they were—every cowpoke for five counties screaming for blood like Eric was a lion going for a slave with a sword.
He was halfway through the roster for the bull riding portion of the night, and not a single rider had made it longer than four seconds according to the massive neon timer hanging high above the stands.
Dirt clouds settled around him as the most recent cowboy struggled to stand, and Eric took a deep breath, nearly choking on the dust and smoke and sweat in the air.
Rachel wasn’t soon, but she wasn’t last. He’d barely had time to see the roster before he’d been saddled and rushed to the pen by a ranch hand in the tightest wranglers he’d ever seen.
It could’ve been the haze of the lights around him or the sound of the crowd pressing heavy on all sides, but Eric swore he heard the cowboy mutter something about “wishing he could ride” the “sexy bullman.”
Sure the rider was up and okay, Eric cracked his neck and returned to the pen, bracing himself for yet another strange set of legs across his back.
What had been an intimate, arousing experience with Rachel felt cheap and exploitative with these men.
There was no sense of them moving with him, no desire to understand where he might go next to stay longer.
No, these cowboys were all stiff leather and straight spines, and their rigidity was their literal downfall.
As yet another pair of boots settled in his ribs, Eric reminded himself this was temporary—that he’d promised Roger a never-before-seen show to pack the stands and he’d promised Rachel he wouldn’t make it easy on anyone, even her.
That’s why he was doing this—by his own choosing for the good of someone he felt himself falling—
“Eric!” Rachel’s freckled smile peered above the gate two pens over, one arm waving frantically above her head. “You’re doing amazing! I can’t believe how hard you threw—”
As suddenly as she’d appeared, she was yanked from view, another familiar face scowling in her place.
“Eric Manis, you get out of that pen and put on a shirt this goddamn instant.” Illeana’s face was beet red with rage, her normally stony approach to disagreement completely shattered by her trembling cheeks and hands. “I swear to God if you—”
“And now, throwing his hat in the ring against the mighty minotaur—Remington Chester!”
The gates swung wide as the screaming crowd drowned out whatever threat Illeana had been hurling at him.
Without another thought, Eric slammed into the ring, flinging himself around the perimeter as if Hades himself were at his heels.
With much the same technique as the last several riders, this one’s stiffness knocked him loose in a few seconds, his limbs flailing comically as Eric bucked him through the air toward the center of the ring.
This time, he didn’t wait to make sure the rider got up. Illeana had found them out, which meant every contestant between him and Rachel gave her time to threaten, cajole, and guilt the cowgirl out of the competition.
And Eric knew Illeana as an expert at all three.
Rider after rider flipped, flopped, flailed, and fell, one right after the other, until a familiar pair of boots finally swung around Eric’s waist in the pen.
“Alright, cowgirl?” he asked, voice low, breath coming hard and fast from the never-ending parade of tossed men in the ring.
“Alright, cowman,” she answered, settling her weight into the same position they’d practiced the last three days. He couldn’t see but felt the soft jolt in her body where they had contact that told him she’d given the signal to the emcee.
This was it. Their final few seconds before Rachel’s dream came true and the farm was secured—safe from the bank, safe from corporate greed, safe from everything but the inevitable death that hung over them all.
Eric didn’t hear the announcement, a high-pitched tone replacing all the noise around him as the gates swung wide and he took off.
“Don’t act like I’m breakable.” She’d made him promise that night, and he was determined to keep it.
He’d come to know her strength in all its forms—quiet, resilient, intangible.
He knew how durable she truly was, but more than that, he knew how crucial it was that she win this thing for real.
To show herself, Illeana, and anyone watching that she was choosing this not because she was rebellious or pig-headed.
She was choosing this life because she was made for it.
Or maybe, Eric wondered briefly between kicks and throws, sprinting one direction before feigning a sharp turn, feeling Rachel’s body twist and adapt above him, just maybe this life had been made for her.
Rachel let out a joyful whoop, and Eric caught the clock out of the corner of his eye.
Seven seconds and counting. He threw his all into it, kicking, bucking, even trying what had worked in the barn before by trying to toss her over his head.
But nothing doing—that cowgirl stayed on—and just like that, the buzzer sounded, barely hitting the air before the screaming crowd swallowed it, too.
Taking a careful cool-down lap, Eric paused to let Rachel off before the two parted ways without so much as a glance at one another—Rachel for the competitor’s trailer on the far side, Eric back to the pen for what he guessed was the final rider.
Just one more, he thought to himself, the relief and joy at Rachel’s ride refreshing him for yet another pair of unfamiliar legs wrapping around his waist. Just one more and we did it.
Eric barely had time to close the gate behind him before the next rider was flinging his legs down, swearing loudly. The man smelled of booze and chew, the latter dripping down his chin and onto Eric’s bare shoulder.
“Let’s you and me show that bitch how this is done,” the man said, giving the signal to the announcer. The gate was barely open before Eric hurled the bastard over his head, rage pushing his legs up high enough to unseat the man, drunkenness and idiocy doing the rest.
Despite the mere second it took to be over, the crowd lapped it up, laughing and screaming in the stands as the man stumbled in a wide circle, trying to get his bearings.
Eric wiped the spit from his shoulder and snorted in disgust, unbuckling the saddle and leaving it in the dirt to raucous applause from the audience.
He’d put on the show he promised. Now he had a girl to celebrate.