Chapter 31
Thirty-One
NO ONE IS EVER IN CONTROL.
WYATT
Pendleton is a nightmare that started as a dream.
Three days showing Kinsley the real deal—arena dirt, rank bulls, and the guys who’ve got your back behind the chutes, no matter what.
She didn't just tolerate it. She laughed at Jake's dumb jokes over eggs and coffee, hollered herself hoarse when I made the buzzer on a spinner that'd sent two guys to the hospital that week, and fit right in with the whole scene.
Like she'd made up her mind to be all in, nerves and all.
We even started talking Vegas over steak—actual plans.
Everything was lining up the way it should.
Then there was blood in the dirt.
And the arena went silent.
The ambulance lights burn behind my eyelids—red and blue strobing through the hospital entrance, reflecting off glass doors and white walls like some kind of emergency disco.
Kinsley's hand in mine is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind completely.
Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly, and when I glance over at her, those blue eyes are wide with the kind of worry that makes me wonder what I’m doing to her.
The paramedics' voices echo in my head: "Multiple injuries... possible internal bleeding... need surgery immediately..."
"He's going to be fine," they said.
She just squeezes my hand tighter as we move down the sterile corridor that smells like disinfectant and fear. The fluorescent bulbs buzz overhead like they're trying to drown out the sound of my heart hammering against my ribs.
I look up at the ceiling—white tiles with a brown stain shaped like Texas. For a split second, the world tilts. The smell of antiseptic. The sound of machines beeping.
Three hours ago, Jake was joking about the buckle bunnies in the stands, complaining about the concession stand hot dogs, ribbing me about how Kinsley was making me soft. Now people use phrases like, "He's lucky to be alive."
Lucky. Right.
The waiting room is full of cowboys and cowgirls from the circuit who heard what happened and showed up because that's what you do.
Madison sits in the corner; mascara streaked down her cheeks.
A few of the bull riders lean against the vending machines, their hats pulled low, talking in voices too quiet to hear.
Nobody looks at us directly. They nod, tip their hats to Kinsley, make space on the plastic chairs. But I can feel them watching, cataloging, thinking the same thing I am: it could've been anyone.
It could have been me.
"Morrison family?" A nurse in blue scrubs appears, clipboard in hand, and we all turn toward her like she's holding the keys to salvation.
Before I can speak for Jake, Madison stands up. "I'm his sister," she says without missing a beat. "Our parents are flying in from Montana." The nurse nods, clearly buying the lie. Madison's got the right kind of raw-eyed worry for it to be believable.
"He's stable. Doctor will be out to talk to you in a few minutes."
The collective exhale in that room sounds like wind through wheat fields.
I sink into one of the plastic chairs, pulling Kinsley down on my lap. My hands are shaking, and I clench them into fists to make it stop.
"Talk to me," Kinsley says quietly, her voice cutting through the fog in my head.
"About what?"
"Whatever's making your hands shake." She covers my fists with her palms and pulls them close to her stomach. The warmth of her touch is an anchor. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Maybe I have. The ghost of every cowboy who didn't make it home, every family that got the call in the middle of the night, every woman who watched the man she loved disappear into an ambulance.
"Jake's been my traveling partner for three years," I say, staring at the motivational poster on the opposite wall—some nonsense about perseverance with a picture of a mountain climber. "We split gas, hotel rooms, food. He's the closest thing I've got to a brother."
"And now?"
"Now he's looking at possible surgery, recovery time, and maybe therapy, who knows?
" I run my hands through my hair, feeling every mile we've traveled together, every joke we've shared, every time he's had my back when things got rough.
"Three seconds, Kinsley. Three seconds was all the difference between him walking out of that arena and this. "
She's quiet for a long moment, watching my face with those eyes that see too much.
"It won't happen to me," I say, because that's what you're supposed to say, what everyone expects to hear. "I'm always careful."
Kinsley pulls her hands back from mine. "You can't promise that."
"Sure I can. I know what I'm doing out there."
"You might know what you’re doing but you’re not in control." Her voice carries an edge I've never heard before. “No one is ever in control.” She gives a slight shake to her head. "You think your experience means anything to a bull that's having a bad day?"
The words hit harder than I expected, maybe because there's truth in them that I don't want to acknowledge.
"Jake's one of the best bareback riders in the world," she continues, standing up like she needs space to get the words out—or space from me, I don't know. "If it can happen to him, it can happen to anyone.” Kinsley pauses as she inhales, her eyes brimming with emotion. “Including you."
I'm on my feet, matching her energy. "So, what, you want me to quit?" The anger in my voice surprises me, but I can't seem to stop it from boiling over. "Life's risky, Kinsley. Driving to the grocery store is risky."
"Don't you dare." Her cheeks flush with the kind of passion that makes her more beautiful and more terrifying all at once. "Don't you dare stand there and act like what just happened to Jake is the same as a fender bender."
She's right, and that makes me angrier than the fear that's been clawing at my chest since I watched my best friend get stomped on and not walk out of the arena.
"So, what are you saying? Is this too much for you?" The questions taste bitter, but I need to know. Need to see if she's going to cut and run when things get hard.
Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she might actually walk out. "Do you think I'm that weak?"
"I'm asking if you're backing out because if so, it better be now."
"You're an idiot." The words come out flat, final, like she's stating a scientific fact. "You think I flew all the way to Oregon the week before my biggest professional move because I can't handle watching the man I'm falling for do what he loves?"
I come up short. The man she's falling for?
"I can handle this, Wyatt." Her voice drops to something quieter but no less fierce. "I can handle watching you ride, handle the risk, handle all of it. The question is—can you?"
My brain sputters at the question. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She gestures toward my hands, which are still shaking. "This is the reality of what you do. Every time you climb on a bull, the shadow of this possibility hangs over us. Me, your mom, everyone.” She searches my face. “You didn’t know, did you?”
I shake my head. “No idea. But I don’t know how to stop.”
“I’m not asking you to stop.”
Kinsley sits back down, close enough that I can smell her perfume over the hospital's antiseptic sting. "Because that's who you are," she says simply. She reaches for my hands again, and this time I don't clench them into fists. "If you quit rodeo, you'll lose yourself.”
The doctor appears before I can respond—a tired-looking woman in surgical scrubs who surveys the room full of cowboys with the kind of patient professionalism that says she's done this before.
"Mr. Morrison is stable," she announces, and the tension in the room dissolves like sugar in rain. "Surgery went well. We repaired the internal bleeding, and while he's got some down time, he should make a full recovery."
Madison starts crying—the kind of tears that come after you've been holding your breath for hours. I stare at her—wondering what's really going on. A woman doesn't cry like that over a guy she isn't invested in.
Before I can process what's happening, she wipes her eyes and asks, "When can I see him?"
The doctor glances at her clipboard. "Sister?”
Madison nods.
“Immediate family can see him once he's settled in recovery. Why don't you follow me." The doctor's smile is kind but tired. "He's lucky. A few inches higher, and we'd be having a very different conversation."
Lucky. There's that word again.
As the crowd starts to disperse—promises to check on him tomorrow, the usual rituals of rodeo brotherhood—Kinsley and I find ourselves alone in the hallway outside the waiting room.
"You okay?" she asks, studying my face in the harsh fluorescent light.
"No." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "I don't want to lose you because I'm too stubborn to quit doing something that might get me killed."
She steps closer, blue eyes alive with glints of gold. "Then don't be stubborn. Be smart."
"What's the difference?"
"Smart means you figure out what you're really fighting for. If you're riding bulls, it had better be for the right reasons."
I lean back against the wall, feeling the weight of everything that's happened today settling into my bones.
Kinsley puts her hands on my chest and looks up at me. "And just so you know, I'm not going anywhere while you figure it out.” A soft smile plays across her lips. ”You're worth the risk."
For the first time since Jake hit the dirt, I can breathe again.
Tomorrow I'll climb on another bull. Maybe I'll ride him, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll walk out of that arena on my own two feet, maybe I'll end up laid up like Jake.
Either way, tomorrow's coming.
The question is whether I'm climbing on that bull because I'm chasing something worth having or just running from something I'm too scared to face.