Chapter Eight
Eight
L ate the next evening, Willow’s heart raced with the distant stomp of hooves and the cheers that erupted from the arena’s core. Guilt followed her with every step for again leaving Charly and Aubrey to manage the bar, so she only tagged along for Eli’s ride and planned to return to work afterwards.
The indoor rodeo showgrounds were a bustle of activity, with cowboys and cowgirls walking around in their hats, boots and chaps; horses being led to the corrals and the rodeo arena set up with barrels, ropes and bucking chutes. Flags and banners advertised the sponsors of the event.
Willow was settled in next to Jaxon on the bleachers, leather and livestock scenting the air. The clang of metal gates echoed, merging with the announcer’s booming voice and the occasional rebel yell from a cowboy psyched for his turn.
“Got us some snacks,” Gunner announced, a grin spreading across his face as he handed her a frosty beer and a fry bread taco piled high with seasoned beef and vibrant salsa.
“Thanks,” she said, as Gunner sat down on the other side of her. She took a generous sip of the cold beer as she sat beneath large overhead heaters keeping her toasty warm. She then bit into the taco, the flavors exploding into her mouth—spicy, savory and utterly divine.
“God, this is good!” she exclaimed between mouthfuls, a laugh escaping her lips as sauce dripped onto her fingers.
“Nothin’ better than rodeo food,” Jaxon said with a full mouth. Once he swallowed, he asked, “Coming to the ride tomorrow at the ranch?”
The Sunday late afternoon rides had become a ritual lately, as was dinner after. Willow knew Charly missed living with her and Aubrey, and suspected this was Jaxon’s way of ensuring she saw them often outside of work. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good,” Jaxon replied. “It’ll be cold, so dress warm.”
“Oh, I will, believe me,” Willow said, taking another bite of her taco.
The echo of the announcer’s voice signaled the start of the Mutton Busting event, and Willow’s attention snapped toward the chute where a child, decked out in an oversized helmet and a vest padded for protection, climbed onto the back of a patient sheep.
“Is he riding it—”
She was cut off as the gate swung open and the sheep trotted into the arena, the pint-sized rider clinging on with a determination that mirrored the boldest of cowboys. A collective “aww” rippled through the stands as the little one managed a few bouncy steps before tumbling gently onto the soft dirt, greeted by cheers and encouraging applause.
“How freaking cute!” Willow gasped.
Gunner nodded. “I can’t imagine it getting much cuter than that.”
They finished the rest of their meal in silence as they watched as another eager child took their turn, laughter and claps filling the air with each ride, no matter how brief.
There was something undeniably pure about the scene, a reminder that strength came in all sizes, and every victory, big or small, deserved its moment of glory.
Willow clapped as the last of the mutton-busting tykes was scooped up in a flurry of dust and cheers. Then the arena shifted before her, the lighthearted energy ebbing away to something more visceral, more raw. Her gaze was pulled inexorably toward the chutes where the bulls were being loaded, their massive bodies casting long shadows that seemed to loom over the festivities.
“Big guys, aren’t they?” Gunner’s voice, usually so full of mirth, carried a note of respect.
Willow took in the sheer size of the bull. A coil of worry tightened inside her. She thought of Eli. Those bulls, snorting and stomping with pent-up fury, were more than just beasts—they were walking symbols of danger. “Is this...safe?”
“Far from it,” Jaxon said, dead serious.
Oh, God! Maybe this was a mistake. Sure, getting more money for the shelter was great, but not at the risk of Eli’s life.
“Remember Charger?” Gunner chimed in to Jaxon. “That bull was a legend for throwing riders off before they could even blink. They said he was unrideable.”
“Until Eli came along,” Jaxon finished with a proud tilt of his chin. “Eight seconds might as well have been an eternity, but Eli held on. He’s got this uncanny ability to read the bulls, to move with them like some sort of dance.”
As she heard their words, saw the certainty etched into their faces, a sliver of relief pierced through her apprehension. She traced the rim of her beer can with a fingertip, the aluminum cold against her skin. “So, what you’re saying is, he’s got this?” she asked.
“He’s got this,” Jaxon agreed, and Gunner gave a firm nod.
The air crackled with anticipation, the charged atmosphere of the rodeo acting as a living pulse beneath Willow’s skin. Her gaze roamed the arena hungrily, searching for Eli. “Any sign of him?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Gunner replied.
The bleachers vibrated with stomping feet and clapping hands, but all she felt was the thrumming of her own pulse.
As the announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, introducing the gutsy heroes who’d dare to mount the beasts biding their time behind the gates, Willow’s attention sharpened. She was perched on the edge of the weathered bench, her breath caught up in her throat as the first bull exploded out of the gate.
Then after a dozen rides, she spotted him— Eli .
He was a proud silhouette against the backdrop of restless bulls and bustling handlers, his worn tanned cowboy hat on his head, a black shirt and vest covering his torso with jeans and tanned chaps. His eyes were focused, locked onto the bull he was about to face—a massive bull, who kept ramming the gate, as Eli mounted the bull, nestling himself into the groove of the saddle.
“Look, there he is,” she said, pointing to him.
“Hell yes,” Gunner breathed out. “Let’s do this!”
“Eight seconds, that’s all he has to do,” Jaxon said.
Willow didn’t respond; her gaze was fixed on Eli, on the way he rolled his shoulders back, exuding confidence and strength. He wrapped the rope around his palm, securing himself to the beast below.
“Be safe,” she whispered under her breath. “Come on, Eli,” she murmured again, her fingers gripping the cold beer can.
Then the gate swung open.
Ride for her , Eli thought as the bull beneath him slammed his horn into the gate. It wasn’t about proving anything to the crowd or to the ghosts of his rodeo days—it was about helping Willow with her cause, and feeling like he was doing something right by his sister too.
Every muscle was coiled and ready as the gate slowly opened after he gave a nod.
The bull’s hooves dug into the dirt. Eli gripped the beast beneath him, as he was molding himself into an extension of the animal’s untamed power. The air was thick with dust and expectation.
There was no room for error, no space for second guesses. He was here, in this moment, where skill and spirit met, and nothing else mattered.
With a jolt that threatened to splinter bone, the world became a blur of motion. Muscles long forgotten clenched instinctively, synchronizing with the bull’s rhythm in a deadly dance.
Eight seconds, just eight seconds , he chanted inwardly, the time stretching into an eternity, with each and every buck.
The crowd erupted, their cheers slicing through him, a roaring wave of sound that crashed over him. The bull twisted, turned and thrashed, hell-bent on dislodging him, but Eli held on.
For Willow.
For the shelter .
For Miranda.
As the buzzer sounded when his eight seconds were up, he dismounted landing on his back, but the rodeo clowns were there, protecting him as he jumped onto the gate and away from the bull determined to spear him with a horn. He raised his arm in gratitude, absorbing the cheers around him.
But he didn’t want their applause. He only craved one person’s accolade.
He looked out into the sea of people, instantly finding Willow, like a moth to a flame. She was on her feet, cheering for him, as were Gunner and Jaxon. Her eyes met his, and in the span of a heartbeat, the noise faded, the world receded and he was damn glad she was there. He tipped his cowboy hat at her and her sweet smile stopped him in his tracks. When she looked at him like that, time froze.
When the roaring of the crowd snapped him back to the present, he strode behind the gates, passing by cowboys congratulating him on his ride.
Now it was a waiting game on the last two riders.
Leaning against one of the empty pens, he inhaled deeply, the aromas of sawdust, animal sweat and sizzling meats from the food stands mingling in a scent that spoke to some primal part of him.
“Never thought we’d see Eli ‘The Storm’ Cole back here,” a gruff voice called out, slicing through the buzz of the crowd.
Eli turned to find a burly man with a weathered face and a wide-brimmed hat, shadows dancing across his features. “Clay,” Eli acknowledged with a nod. “It’s good to see you, man.” Clay had been his trainer growing up. His mentor.
Clay slapped Eli on the shoulder. “Likewise. You miss the bulls or the glory?”
“Neither,” Eli said, shaking the man’s hand. “Came for a good cause. Trying to raise money for the women’s shelter.”
“Good on you, son,” Clay said with a warm smile. “What a way to honor Miranda.”
Eli nodded agreement. Clay had been there for Eli through the best moments of Eli’s life and the absolute worst. He’d been the one to pick Eli off the ground when he’d received the call about Miranda’s murder and had driven him home.
As the cheering continued with the next ride, they talked briefly, swapping stories about rides gone by and the thrill of an eight-second victory.
“All right, looks like things are wrapping up here. I’ll let you get to it,” Clay finally said, tipping his hat. “Don’t be a stranger, Eli. This rodeo’s always got a place for you.”
“Thanks, Clay,” Eli replied, clapping the older man on the back before making his way toward the gate.
With every step, more faces from his past emerged. There was Doc Banks, who once stitched up a gash on Eli’s arm after a particularly nasty fall; and Lila, the barrel racer whose laugh could be heard even above the roaring crowd.
He was Eli “The Storm” Cole, shaped by the very dirt beneath his feet, forged in the adrenaline and the applause. And if he was being honest, he missed this place.
Suddenly the crowd roared even louder this time, and cowboys swarmed Eli pushing him back out into the arena as he was declared the champion.
Cheering came at him from all sides, and he felt instant relief that he wouldn’t let Willow down. He waved in gratitude at the crowd, spotting Willow waving her hands in celebration.
Damn, he liked that. Her there, supporting him.
The organizer approached with an envelope. “Hell of a ride, Cole!”
“Thanks, Frank.” Eli took the envelope.
With a sudden surge of pride for what this would do for the shelter, and in his sister’s honor, Eli yanked off his cowboy hat, the one speckled with dust and memories, and hurled it skyward.
The crowd went wild, the sound ricocheting around him.
When his hat landed in the dirt, he grabbed it from the ground, dusted it off as his chest heaved as the last echoes of applause faded away. His gaze, drawn as by a magnet, found its way to the bleachers again, where Willow stood, a huge smile on her face.
And that was worth way more to him than any bull he could outlast.