2
S omething about seeing a horse running free makes me think of heaven.
Bareback, barefoot, I race Lawless across the hot Arizona earth. Plumes of dust kick up. The ground shakes.
Every day, I chase them down.
These wild horses.
One thousand miles from Resurrection never felt so fucking fabulous.
“ Hyah, hyah ,” I shout, and Lawless switches her rhythm into a gallop. My grip tightens on the reins. I focus on controlling my breathing, on the rush of the wind through my hair. Grit and sand sting my eyes, fill my mouth, but I’m not phased.
The herd of wild horses scatter.
I smile at the sight of Black Betty, a blur of ink against the tan of the desert. My favorite wild horse. Every day, we play a game of speed, racing each other. No matter how fast I am, she always beats me.
Good for her. I hope she keeps running, always, and never stops.
I slow Lawless as Black Betty races to join her herd. Together, we hover at the bank of the creek and watch as the horses put on a show filled with posturing, twirls, kicks, and splashes. Some of the last wild horses in America, and I’m seeing them with my own two eyes.
Lawless chuffs.
I lean down and rest my head against her neck. “Jealous? Me, too.” My hand drifts to cover her glossy chest. Her heart hammers beneath my palm.
Horses can synchronize their heartbeats with humans. It’s not just theory; it’s fact. A bond, a grounding made from loyalty. Friendship. Love.
Lawless is my heart horse. The best I’ve ever had.
She’s been with me through it all. First broken bone. First kiss. My mother leaving. Dakota taking off when I needed her the most.
Above us, the harsh sun burns. Body slick with sweat, I straighten and adjust the red bandana around my neck. I take one last look, then with a flick of the reins, I guide us home.
Red earth. Saguaros. Sonoran hills. Lawless and I ride through it all, until, rising out of the desert like an oasis, we reach the familiar wood-hewn gates and bunkhouse of El Toro Ranch.
No green pastures, no jagged mountains at El Toro Ranch. Just red dirt, dust, and tumbleweeds. The days here move like molasses, and the air is hotter than hell. The perfect place to hide out from the world.
I slow Lawless to a canter and lazily trot through the gates.
A group of cowboys heads to their trucks. All sporting fresh limps and bruised egos. I smirk. I watched them get tossed on their asses earlier this morning. New recruits to Vic LaVoie’s bull riding school. Everyone’s in and out in under two weeks.
Me, I’m the only lifer.
Lawless snorts and stamps her feet.
“Good girl,” I soothe. She’d put a man in the ground all for the small price of a carrot.
I dismount. “Hey,” I shout. “Where you assholes going?”
Sheepdogs nip at their heels.
The cadre of cowboys turn, tripping over their own boots to impress me.
Keeno tosses me a toothless smile. “To the bar.”
Lance tilts his black Stetson. “Come with us.”
“Drinkin’ buddies,” Cooper says with a wiggle of his dark brows.
I don’t blink or acknowledge their offer.
I’m not here to make friends. They don’t need to know my business, and I sure as shit don’t want to know theirs.
Besides, the only reason they’re too friendly is to try to sleep with me.
Men only see a woman on the rodeo circuit as an invitation to get laid.
I have chores to complete. Bulls to ride. Not men to chase.
I stride forward and grab a bucket. Muscles rippled in my shoulders, my back. I wear my standard Arizona attire of cut-off shorts and a flimsy tank top.
“Everyone wants to be a cowboy until it’s time to do cowboy shit,” I grumble.
Truck doors slam, and dirt tornados over the road as the group heads into town.
After cooling down Lawless, I put out some kibble for the dogs. On my way back to the barn, I make note of a broken fence post and add that to my daily to-do list. I’m working on filling the horse trough with fresh water when a gruff voice has me turning.
“Fallon.”
Vic LaVoie emerges out of the afternoon sunlight.
Like my father, the sixty-six-year-old, silver-haired cowboy is a bull riding legend.
He was crowned the World Champion at the National Finals Rodeo, the PRCA’s Super Bowl.
Years later, he opened his riding school.
As a child, El Toro Ranch had been my holy grail.
I read article after article in Rodeo Weekly about this ranch where bull riders were raised.
Forget boys, at age sixteen, it took up every thought, every fantasy.
I was raised riding horses. They’re my blood, my life. I’m a barrel racing champ. But ever since I saw my father riding those giant bulls, I wanted to do it. Dominate just like Stede McGraw. My father is my hero. Making him proud is all I ever wanted.
Which is why, two years ago, I started riding practice bulls in secret. I fell in love with adrenaline. The wildest rush I’ve ever experienced, that kiss of death.
Now, here I am.
But only because of Vic’s good graces.
When I finally made it to Gila Gulch, Arizona, I was a dusty, road-weary traveler with bad plans. I turned up at El Toro Ranch without an invitation or an appointment.
Vic evaluated me. Sucked his lip. “We don’t train girls.” With that, he turned on his boot heel and slammed the door in my face.
Furious, I slept on his porch for three nights.
When I next saw him, he handed me a cup of coffee and sat me on the chair of his casita. “I’m gonna ask what happened to you, and I expect you to have an honest answer for me.”
He wanted honesty, he got it.
“I was a barrel racer, then I got the shit kicked out of me by an abusive asshole, and now I’m feral.” I inhaled. Let it out. “All I want to do is ride bulls and forget everything else.”
“Running from your problems doesn’t do anything,” he said. “They’re just waiting for you when you get back.”
I looked him in the eye. “I would run to hell if it meant I could escape these fucking problems.”
He considered this. Tugged on the brim of his Stetson in a token gesture I’d come to learn as contemplation. Then he nodded. “You can stay. You need proper training. I can see that.”
That first week, I could barely handle Vic’s grueling schedule. His beginner bulls thrashed me. I hurt in body parts I didn’t even know existed. I sprained my collarbone and then my elbow.
But now, I have it down.
My daily routine. My paradise.
I sleep in a bunkhouse, train in a gym, and ride bulls every day. The sky is my roof. The earth is my bed.
I can’t recall exactly when bull riding started to feel like an addiction. A peace. Maybe it was after Aiden. Maybe it was when I met Vic. Either way, it makes the part of me that Aiden destroyed feel a little more whole.
It makes me feel alive, if only because I don’t wish I were dead.
Risking death and dismemberment on the back of a raging beast is good for the soul. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I prop the water bucket on my hip. “Chores are finished.”
He adjusts his tattered cowboy hat. “You text your daddy?”
“Yes, sir.” Every damn day.
I swore my father to secrecy about my whereabouts a month after I arrived. He’s never once asked me to come home. Never made me feel bad for leaving. Still, I know what I’ve missed. Guilt stirs in my stomach. Ford and Reese’s wedding. A new niece, Lainie. Another summer on Runaway Ranch.
I remind myself it’s better this way. No burdens.
Vic and I walk past the ranch gates and the tortoise enclosure. Taco and Oreo, the sheepdogs, yip around us, nipping at flies. Best foods in the world , Vic proclaimed when I asked about their names.
“Boys went out,” Vic offers, nodding at the winding dirt road that leads into Gila Gulch. “Could join.”
I kick at a rock, sending it rolling. “It would make them too happy to have company.” I smirk. “We can’t have that.”
Sun upon his back, Vic chuckles. “You trust a 1,500-pound animal more than most people.”
I tense as Aiden flashes through my mind but say nothing.
Vic stops to pull a weed from the ground. “Saw something interesting today.”
“Oh, yeah?” I arch a brow. “Is the coyote that stole your boot back?”
“Not that. This.” Vic reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a creased piece of glossy paper.
I blink when he hands it over.
Shit . It’s a write-up in Rodeo Weekly .
Damn Pappy. He told me they’d wait to run the story.
Vic’s face is impossible to read. “We said a hundred bulls, Fallon. You’re only at eighty-eight, and you know it.”
Double shit.
I promised Vic I wouldn’t compete in any major events until I had at least a hundred bulls under my belt. Although I’ve been riding bulls for the last year, in small rodeos across the country, I’ve yet to snag a place in one of the main events.
Until last month, when I was invited to participate in the Rock ’n Ride, a new competition sanctioned by the PRCA.
All I need is an eight-second ride and a respectable score, and I’d make history.
I want that shot. I want that prize money. More prize money means anywhere but Resurrection. Means I am as good as any man.
“That ride’s next week,” Vic says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I jut my chin, refusing to let him sway me. “I know it.”
“You know it, huh?” He crosses his thick arms. “Let me tell you what I know. You’re good enough as you are.” It’s what a father would say. Boring. Safe.
I swallow, press a tattooed hand to my heart. “I don’t want to be good. I want to be the best.”
He taps his temple. “Migraines.”
“I haven’t had a migraine since I got here.” I tuck my messy braid behind my shoulder. “Pappy said it’s time. Time to—”
“Pappy,” Vic scoffs in disgust. “That man doesn’t have a lick of common sense in his brain.”
“I can do it.” Guilt makes me defensive, and I dig in my heels. “You know I can.”
“That wasn’t our deal. Ain’t no way you can pull off an eight-second ride on the beasts they have in PRCA. Every year those bulls are meaner. Made to kill.”
My temper flares. “If I was a man—”