Clarke
“You almost missed last call,” Colton hissed as I slid back into place beside him. My heart hammered against my ribs, pulse racing from the sprint. I needed a minute to regulate my breathing, but I didn’t have one.
“Sorry,” I breathed, nudging Apollo forward as we cantered into the stadium. “I lost track of time.”
A lie—I had been painfully aware of the time. I just hadn’t wanted to leave Avalon.
My hat? With one hand on the reins, I patted my head with the other. Nothing.
Right. I’d left it with Avalon—or rather, on Avalon—and had been too distracted to take it back.
“Sorry,” I muttered. Colton groaned but didn’t push it further, slipping into his show face.
I’d tried to mimic that expression as a kid—brows low, jaw set, mouth a firm line. When I’d asked him why he did it, he told me it was so no one could see him crack if he ever came in last.
Losing, to him, was a flaw. An imperfection. And showing emotion about it was even worse.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him cry over anything. Maybe he had when he was younger, but Dad had drilled that mindset into him so early that I barely remembered a version of Colton who wasn’t steel-spined.
I had my own show face—softer, more approachable. I needed it for fans, for interviews, for the image I’d built. The other side of me— the one who cried easily, who lost her temper without warning—that Clarke King stayed hidden. Safer that way. For everyone.
Chet Thatcher led the procession into the arena, his auburn mare cantering proudly beneath him. Behind him came Lionel Harris, then two more cowboys, then Colton—and finally me.
Always last. Every year. My scores were better than most of the men, but a few judges still thought I didn’t belong. It didn’t bother me much, but it pissed Colton off enough that he insisted on riding in the back with me.
Texas’ best bull rider bringing up the rear with his little sister— it always caused a stir. Secretly, I was grateful for the company, even if he did lecture me half the time.
“I’m just looking out for you,” he’d say. And he meant it. But it still felt like babysitting.
I kept my eyes on the Texas flag waving above Chet’s head as we rode our pre-show lap. The tradition was older than my grandparents—a slow loop around the arena, a figure-eight around the barrels, then one final pass.
Arabella Finch sang Travelin’ Soldier over the speakers, a key off pitch. I tried not to laugh when she butchered the chorus, but one sharp look from Colton told me I’d failed.
I sighed. Show face. Now.
Forty-five minutes later, sweat dripped down my temples and my heart thudded unevenly. I peeled off my leather gloves, running clammy fingers down my thighs.
Last ride of the night. The one that would decide everything. Only Colton and I were still in the running.
His time: 15.68 seconds.
Mine: 16.72.
A full 1.04 seconds behind him.
If I wanted to win—which was unlikely—I would have to give this last run everything I had.
Colton approached, Andromeda’s coat glistening with sweat. He bent low, whispering praises into her ear, stroking her shoulder. Whatever he said pleased her — she snorted and shook her head proudly.
“Have fun trying to beat that,” he jeered, smug. “This’ll make my…” he paused, counting on his fingers. “Seventh Founder’s Day win in a row.”
I rolled my eyes as he and Andromeda strutted past, laughter shaking his shoulders. “Don’t pay attention to him, Apollo,” I murmured, patting my horse’s neck. “We can do this.”
We had to. I had to.
God, I wished I were riding Artemis. I’d raced her for five straight years, always creeping up to second place — second only to Colton. She knew me better than anyone. Sometimes it felt like she anticipated my cues before I even gave them.
With her, I might’ve had a real shot. But I didn’t have Artemis. I had Apollo—eager, strong, still learning—and I had myself.
I guided him back to the starting line and closed my eyes, grounding myself. I focused on the horse beneath me, on the way his muscles tensed with excitement. I inhaled deeply, letting the roar of the crowd fade into nothing.
On the exhale, I put on my show face. When I was a child, first learning to barrel race, my father told me that horses could sense every emotion our bodies carried. They felt our fear before our brains even had time to tell our limbs to react.
So, if Apollo could feel my anxiety, then surely, he could feel my determination too. My desperation. My need to win. My pride.
If he knew I was proud of him, would that make him try harder? Would he run faster than he ever had in practice?
I opened my eyes and smoothed a hand down his warm neck. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve been angry around you. None of this is your fault. I just… miss her. Okay?”
Apollo blinked slowly. That had to mean he heard me—right? If he could understand my cues, he could understand this too.
At least, that’s what I needed to believe.
“We’re in this together,” I murmured. “Just you and me.”
The golden horse whinnied and tossed his head, and a smile broke across my face. We could do this.
My name echoed over the speakers—and Apollo surged forward the moment the marker dropped.