Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Fear and Fire
Riley
The second night feels different, an edge running under everything before we even make it through the gates. Before the noise settles in and the lights hit and the crowd pulls us forward the way it did yesterday.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Hadley doesn’t see it. She’s already tugging on my hand, bouncing on her toes the second we step onto the grounds like she’s been waiting all day for this. Like yesterday wasn’t enough to burn through whatever energy she has stored up.
“Mom, hurry,” she says, already pulling me toward the arena. “We’re gonna miss it.”
“We’re not going to miss it,” I answer, even though I let her pull me forward anyway, adjusting my pace to match hers.
The lights cut hard through the dark tonight, sharper than they should be. The music is louder, the announcer’s voice carrying over everything with practiced ease. The crowd feels bigger, tighter, like word got out and more people showed up to see it.
I don’t say that out loud.
I don’t even fully let myself think it.
But the second we find a spot near the rail, my eyes go to the chutes without meaning them to, searching before I can stop myself.
And there he is.
Jace stands off to the side, talking to his brothers, posture loose but focused in a way I didn’t understand yesterday.
Now I do. I’ve seen it before, I know exactly what happens when that gate opens and everything goes from controlled to unpredictable in a single second. It just hits different when it’s him out there.
And I hate that I know it.
“Is he riding again?” Hadley asks, already leaning forward, her small hands gripping the rail like she belongs there.
“I don’t know,” I answer, even though my attention stays locked on him. "I'm sure he is since this is a two night event. I think they will all ride again and find out who is the best rider."
He looks different tonight, less at ease and more aware, like he’s tracking everything around him, from the chutes to the crew to the edge of the arena, instead of just focusing on the ride.
It sets something off in my chest.
Because that doesn’t look like a man getting ready to ride.
That looks like a man expecting something.
I tighten my grip on Hadley’s shoulder without realizing it, grounding both of us at the same time as the announcer calls out the first rider. The crowd reacts, energy building, but I barely register it.
My focus stays on him, on the way he steps closer to the chute, then pauses, saying something to one of the handlers that makes the man shift, nod, and move faster than he was before.
I felt it yesterday.
I feel it stronger now.
“Mom,” Hadley says again, softer this time, like she’s picking up on something even if she doesn’t understand it. “Why does it feel different?”
I glance down at her, surprised by the question, by the way her excitement has dimmed just enough to leave room for something else.
“You tell me,” I say, because I want to hear what she feels without putting words in her mouth.
She shrugs, eyes going back to the arena. “I don’t know. It just does.”
"Yeah. It does."
I lift my gaze again, scanning the crowd this time, the edges, the spaces between people the same way I did yesterday when something didn’t sit right. It takes a second longer than I expect, but then I find it.
The truck.
Parked farther back again, almost hidden in the dark beyond the lights, angled toward the exit like it’s ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
My stomach tightens.
Because now it’s not a coincidence.
Now it’s a pattern.
And whatever’s happening out there in that arena…it’s tied to it.
I look back to Jace, my pulse picking up as he glances toward the same direction for just a fraction of a second before turning back to the chute like nothing happened.
He saw it. He knows it’s there.
Which means whatever this is…he’s already in the middle of it.
The longer I stand there, the harder it is to convince myself that I’m imagining it.
Yesterday, I told myself it was nerves, that watching him ride again after all this time had twisted something in my head and made everything feel sharper than it needed to be.
I told myself it was just the danger of it, the way the arena looks different when someone you care about is the one climbing into the chute.
Tonight, that explanation doesn’t hold.
Because it’s not just him.
It’s everything.
The crew moves differently, not sloppy, not obvious, but faster in some places and slower in others. Like something disrupted the rhythm and they’re still trying to find it again. One handler checks a latch twice before stepping back.
His eyes flicking toward the side of the arena like he’s waiting for someone to say something. Another adjusts a rope and then glances over his shoulder, not at the rider, but at the same stretch of darkness where the truck sits.
I notice all of it.
I wish I didn’t.
“Mom, look,” Hadley says, pointing as the next rider climbs into position, her voice bright again as the moment pulls her back in. “This one’s gonna stay on.”
“I hope so,” I answer, but my attention doesn’t settle the way hers does.
Instead, it keeps shifting.
Back to Jace.
Back to the crew.
Back to that truck.
The rider nods, the gate prepares to open, and for a second everything aligns the way it’s supposed to, the noise rising, the anticipation building, the whole arena leaning into that single moment.
But even then, I can’t shake the feeling that something underneath it isn’t right.
It’s subtle.
Too subtle for most people to notice.
But I’m not most people right now. I’m watching too closely.
The gate opens and the ride explodes into motion, the bull twisting hard, the rider holding on just long enough for the crowd to react before the moment shifts again. It’s clean. Controlled. Exactly what it should be.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because it tells me whatever went wrong before…wasn’t an accident.
It was chosen.
My fingers tighten slightly on Hadley’s shoulder again, and this time I feel it, the tension sitting under my skin instead of fading.
“Ouch! Mom?” she says, glancing up at me.
“I’m right here, I'm sorry.” I tell her, forcing a small smile I don’t quite feel.
She studies me for a second longer than she should have to, like she’s trying to decide if she believes me, then turns back to the arena.
I don’t miss the way she stays a little closer this time.
That settles something in me and unsettles something else all at once.
Because if she can feel it…then I’m not wrong.
My gaze shifts again, this time more deliberately, scanning the outer edges of the arena instead of letting my eyes drift there by accident. The truck is still there.
And now I know I’m not the only one who sees it.
Jace’s attention flicks that way again, quick, controlled, like he’s checking something he doesn’t want anyone else to notice. He says something to one of his brothers, something short, and the shift in their posture is immediate, subtle but there.
They know.
Whatever is happening…
He’s not just in the middle of it.
He’s already dealing with it.
And that realization settles heavy in my chest, because it means this isn’t just about a dangerous ride or a bad night at a rodeo.
It’s something bigger.
Something deliberate.
And whether I like it or not…
We’re already pulled into it.
The announcer calls his name, and the sound hits the crowd differently, like a current running through them all at once.
I feel it along the rail where Hadley’s hands are wrapped tight. I feel it in the way bodies lean forward, attention narrowing to the chutes where he’s already moving.
Jace doesn’t hesitate.
If anything, he looks more certain, like whatever he saw or figured out a minute ago only sharpened his focus instead of pulling him back.
He says something quick to one of his brothers, a look passes between them that I don’t fully understand. I recognize it anyway, and then he steps into position like this is exactly where he intends to be.
My stomach tightens.
Because if he knows something’s off, if he’s already in the middle of it the way I think he is, then stepping into that chute isn’t just risky.
It’s a choice.
“Mom, it’s him, It's my Dad,” Hadley says, her voice bright again, all of that earlier uncertainty pushed aside by the excitement of seeing him climb up.
“I see him,” I answer, even though my eyes haven’t left him once.
He swings up onto the rail and settles over the bull with a kind of controlled precision that doesn’t look rushed or reckless. It looks practiced, deliberate, like he’s accounting for something no one else out here can see.
His free hand rests easy, his grip set tight, his posture balanced in a way that should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
Because I know what can go wrong now.
And I know he knows it too.
The handler reaches for the gate. For a second everything slows in that way it always does right before the release, the noise of the crowd pulling back just enough to make room for the moment that matters.
The gate snaps open.
The bull launches hard, twisting out of the chute with a force that jerks my focus even tighter, but Jace stays with it, his body moving with the motion instead of fighting it. The rhythm locks in almost immediately, his timing clean, his weight centered in a way that tells me he’s not reacting.
He’s anticipating.
The bull spins, kicks, changes direction, and for a split second my heart stutters, waiting for that hitch, that delay, that wrong beat I’m braced for now.
It doesn’t come.
Eight seconds stretches long enough that I feel every one of them, and when the buzzer finally cuts through the noise, the release hits like a shock through my system.
He clears the bull clean, hitting the ground on his feet and moving out of the way in one smooth motion that makes the crowd surge back to life around us.