Chapter 21
Twenty-One
BECAUSE GETTING STOMPED BY ANGRY LIVESTOCK IS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE CAREER CHOICE.
KINSLEY
Last night's good night kiss burns through my memory as I stand at the entrance to the VIP section of the rodeo, and try to catalog the chaos inside of me into something manageable.
That man has skills he is completely aware of—ones he mercilessly uses to melt my defenses and turn me into a puddle of cowboy-loving goo.
The Jackson Hole Rodeo arena breathes like a living thing—a couple thousand voices rising, ready for the action to begin. The air tastes of dust and kettle corn, laced with the bite of mountain cold air.
I know this world—the arena dirt, the announcer's cadence, the way barrel horses move like liquid lightning around their pattern.
I've spent countless nights in stands like these. I’ve been the rider myself and know what happens on the other side of that gate.
What I don't know is how to be the woman in the stands, watching someone she—.
Do not finish that thought! I don’t anything Wyatt.
"You must be Kinsley." A woman wearing designer western jeans and a bright smile approaches. "I'm Linda Morrison—Jake's mom."
I smile. “Hi, I met your son yesterday and your sister-in-law Janet last night.” I accept her welcoming hug.
She grins. “Jake has nothing but good things to say about you.”
“He’s a good guy,” I reply and I mean it.
“He gets that from my side of the family.” She pauses for emphasis. “Riding broncs comes from his dad’s side. Come on over here, there’s some people I want to introduce you to.”
I'm swept into a circle of women—an instant insider into this select group. A few faces are familiar thanks to my social media feed. I keep glancing toward the arena wondering if they’re ever going to get to the rough stock and dreading it at the same time.
"First time watching Wyatt ride?" asks a brunette in expensive boots.
“Yes and no.” I laugh trying to loosen my nerves. “I saw him ride in Cheyenne, but that was before…” I trail off not sure how to explain why this feels like the first time. “Sorry, I must sound crazy.”
“Not to someone who's been there.” She gives me a knowing look. “I'm June Rawlins—my husband rides saddle bronc. The fear never gets easier, but you learn to breathe through it."
I want to tell her I've watched plenty of bull riders before, that I understand the sport and the risks and the way eight seconds can rewrite everything. But I don’t because my palms are sweating, and my chest feels like there’s a boulder laying right in the middle of it. “Thanks.”
When did I start caring this much about someone else's eight seconds?
June smiles and scoots over. “Have a seat.”
I settle next to the fence and Linda sits between me and June.
She seems to know that I’m on edge and need a little buffer though she makes sure to include me in the conversation.
The ladies share the news—who’s hip is acting up, who's having trouble with his timing, who just started dating, who signed a new sponsor, who has a ring on their finger, and who didn’t show up this week.
The music shifts from Laney Wilson to Metallica. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer raises his voice three notches. “It’s time to buckle up because these cowboys are here to ride some of the roughest, toughest horses and bulls in the West.”
The sun’s gone down and the arena lights blare. Pickup men ride in, and the officials take their places.
I twist my fingers in my lap—a nervous habit I only do before I ride.
"The key is to remember they're stronger than they look," Linda says, patting my hands. I loosen my grip. "These boys have been getting thrown around since they could walk. It's what they do." She flips her long hair over her shoulder.
Right. Because getting stomped by angry livestock is a perfectly reasonable career choice.
"But it’s—" I start, then catch myself before admitting how the thought of Wyatt climbing onto something wild makes me want to march down there and drag him away from the chutes.
"Scary as sin," Linda agrees with a knowing smile.
June leans across her. She's been nursing a giant soda all evening, and I can't help but think that I could use some carbonated comfort right about now. "I saw the pictures of you and Wyatt from last night online. You looked gorgeous."
“Thank you. That’s so sweet of you to say.” I give her a weak smile and tell myself to get it together. I’m acting like I’ve never seen a roughie ride before.
The announcer's voice booms across the arena, signaling the start of saddle bronc riding, and my stomach drops like I'm about to give a presentation to Congress without notes.
"Kinsley."
I hear Wyatt's voice, and the world steadies. He's at the rail that separates the stands from the competitor area, already strapped into his protective vest. The easy smile from this morning has been replaced by something more focused.
I stand up and the women shift to let me by.
"You good?" he asks, reaching out to take my hand.
"Perfect," I lie, then find myself telling the truth. "Terrified, but perfect."
His grin could power the arena lights. "Good. Fear means you care."
Oh, I care. That's the problem. I try to smile for him but it’s pathetic.
"Hey." His hand covers mine completely. "I'm coming back to you. That's a promise."
The sincerity in his voice quiets the chaos inside me.
"Go," I whisper, though everything in me wants to hold him here where it's safe. "Show them how it's done."
He leans closer, excitement shining in his eyes, his breath warm on my cheek. "Watch me."
Then he's gone, disappearing into the maze of chutes and preparation rituals, leaving me to make my way back to my seat. I feel someone watching me and turn to look over the crowd. RodeoBrittney’s glaring daggers at me from general admission seats.
I offer her a smile, which she doesn’t return, and I can’t help but think she’s anything but happy about what she just saw. I look away. Whatever. When I’m back in my seat, curiosity about this woman gets the better of me and I look her over out of the corner of my eye.
Wait—is that? I stare. I have that graphic tee. I—hang on. I blink in shock. I have that same outfit. I pull out my phone and scroll back to my post with Jessica at the rodeo in Cheyenne. She’s wearing exactly the same outfit right down to the Casanova embroidered snip toe knee high boots.
I quickly put together that the photos of me and Wyatt from last night must have tipped RodeoBrittney off that we’re dating. But stalking me and then copying my outfit? That’s, “crazy,” I say out loud.
“What’s that?” Linda leans over. The buzzer sounds and the pickup guys close in on Colton. June’s cheering for her husband. It was a good ride.
“Nothing.” I turn off my phone. Wyatt was right—his fans are nuts. I can’t believe she’d show up here looking like me.
“Ride, baby! Ride!” yells a woman at the far end of our group. I turn back to the arena to see her man fly off the horse and belly flop in the dirt. I cringe but he’s up and scrambling out of the way.
That was the last bronc rider. We went through saddle bronc so fast I missed it.
Since bull riding’s the last event, the conversation around me turns to practical matters like travel logistics and meeting at the local bar later.
I try to follow along, but my brain keeps short-circuiting every time someone mentions Midnight Express.
The announcer starts rattling off upcoming rides, and with each name, my body gets tighter and it’s harder to breathe.
"Midnight Express sent three riders to the hospital this season," someone says behind us, and I whip around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
"Three?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
Linda pats my knee with the kind of maternal comfort that should be reassuring but absolutely isn't. "Wyatt knows all this. He studies the bulls' patterns. That's why he's ranked so high."
Three more riders until Wyatt. Two more. One more.
Why is time moving differently? It’s like it’s shifting under my boots and I’m scrambling to stay on top.
I have absolutely no idea how to handle that level of emotional investment and I’m going to blame this all on Wyatt. Bringing me here to watch him ride a bull has pushed me into a space where I have to face feelings I’ve been expertly ignoring.
The rider before him gets thrown after five seconds, and the crowd groans in sympathy. I watch the cowboy pick himself up, dust off his hat, and wave to acknowledge the applause for his effort. He's limping slightly but walking under his own power.
Breathe, Kinsley.
He promised to come back to me, and Wyatt Halloway seems like the kind of man who keeps his promises.
Please, God, let him be the kind of man who keeps his promises.
"Next up, from Gritstone, Colorado, riding Midnight Express—Wyatt Halloway!” the announcer's voice booms across the arena, and my heart drops straight into my boots.
The crowd erupts, and I realize that people know his name. People expect him to do something spectacular.
No pressure or anything.
The chute gate appears on the big screen, and there he is—calm as if he's sitting on a porch swing instead of atop a literally murderous animal.
Midnight Express is everything the name suggests: black as midnight, built like a freight train, and currently trying his best to demolish the metal chute around him.
Beneath the helmet, Wyatt’s face fills the screen as he adjusts his grip. I suck in a breath. He nods.
The chute gate flies open, and Midnight Express explodes into the arena with the kind of violence that makes the laws of physics seem like gentle suggestions.
Oh God, oh please, oh God—I'm praying nonsense and it's the most honest prayer of my life.
Wyatt rides the first buck, his free arm moving in time while his riding hand stays locked in position. The bull spins hard left, and for a heartbeat they look like they're dancing—some deadly waltz between man and beast that's terrifying.