2 #2
“You ain’t a man,” he snaps. “You’re a fool-headed girl who won’t listen.”
His disappointment socks me in the gut. My fingers curl to fists.
“Vic—”
His face is hard. “You want to gamble your life, go right ahead. I ain’t gonna stop you. Training was to make you better, not slow you up. If you don’t get that, I don’t know where we go from here.” He stalks away before I can answer.
I exhale and look up to the sun. “Fuck.”
I wrench open the heavy wooden door and let myself into Bunkhouse B. A shower and sweatpants should be on my mind, but all I can do is fume. I still can’t shake Vic’s words. His disappointment. He thinks I’m reckless. Hell, I am reckless.
My heart hammers in frustration. I adore Vic, am grateful to him, but he’s just another person who thinks I can’t do this.
The bunkhouse is no frills, rustic. Only what a man—or woman—needs to get along.
A barebones space with bay windows and a large porch overlooking miles of canyon wilderness.
The kitchen and the bedroom only have a thin partition separating them.
Completing the space are four large bunk beds.
Along the wall, a handful of awards and newspaper articles celebrating Vic’s past students.
I scowl at the photo of Cole Weston—Vic’s prodigy and my nemesis.
The last time I saw him was at the Rough Rider rodeo in Resurrection.
He called me little girl . Since then, he’s become the object of my vengeful obsession.
With every breath in my body, I vow to score higher than him at our next event.
I’ll never let my boot off that arrogant man’s neck.
Just off the bedroom is the bathroom. I enter, stepping into atrocious neon lighting. Across the vanity, sunscreen, makeup, migraine medication. I pick up a pill bottle and roll it between my palms.
The night Aiden kidnapped me and Dakota, he had hit me. Hard. First with a gun and then a fist. Just trauma wasn’t enough; he also left me with a nasty concussion. For a long while, I was saddled with dizziness and motion sickness. It could have ended my career. Could have stopped me.
But it didn’t.
I haven’t needed medication since I’ve been here.
My gaze drifts.
Taped to the mirror are glossy advertisements and news articles. All featuring me.
I stare hard at the images of myself. I’m not stupid.
It’s obvious why Pappy gambled on me. I hear the announcer when they say pretty Fallon McGraw .
But I keep my back straight and my shoulders stiff.
I grit my teeth, and I ride. I didn’t come to be pretty.
I came to do a job in man’s world and make money.
I skim the tips of my fingers over the edges of the advertisements, a smile tugging at the edges of my lips.
The endorsement deals and sponsorships came fast, especially after I placed in Resurrection’s Roughstock Rodeo.
The prize was a measly three grand, but I made more from shilling boots and bedazzled blue jeans.
And Pappy—shit, he probably made twice that.
The five seconds of fame were worth it. I’ve been able to pay for Lovely’s surgery and help my father with his past-due cancer bills.
My eyes snag on a glossy image of me in a Stetson. I wonder for a brief second if my mother’s seen any of it. If she cares. If she even remembers who I am anymore.
A brick lands in my throat. Damn it. No. She doesn’t get my tears. She left and didn’t look back, and that’s how it stays.
Shaking my head, I turn on the faucet and lower my mouth to drink. Straightening, I slip my phone from my back pocket, place it on the counter. I tug off my sweaty tank top and toss it onto the floor.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
My hands, my gaze, move to my stomach. To the long scar snarled over my ribcage and stomach. Almost reverently, I trace a finger over it like it’s a road map to something I haven’t yet found. Hope? Peace?
I snort.
These days, the only peace I have is on the back of a bull. Chasing it eight seconds at a time at a thousand miles per hour.
It’s all I can do. Run myself so ragged during the day I don’t have time to dream at night. Dreams mean Aiden and his hands on my body and the way I had enjoyed them. The blackening of my vision. Blood on my shirt and Dakota’s scream in my ears. And Wyatt and his—
Inhaling sharply, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Not him. Not him.
If a bull stomped on me, would it matter? Would death finally find me?
Death .
That dark shadow nipping at my boots.
When I was ten years old, a fortune teller at the county fair told me I had nine lives, and I’ve been chasing that high, that dark omen, ever since.
The sign intrigues me. Fortune Teller. I want to ask her about my mother. Where she’s gone, why she left, and when she’ll be back. At the very least, if she can’t find my mother, maybe she can curse Sheena Wolfington,
I edge closer to the tent, push through the black curtain. A whiff of incense makes me wrinkle my nose.
A woman with high cheekbones and thick curly black hair sits at a table. A tattered black book rests in front of her.
Gingerly, I move closer, casting a glance over my shoulder for Dakota who I snuck away from in her search for the best corn dog. She’ll be pissed. Ever since Mom left two years ago, she’s been big sister bossy.
“Sit,” the woman orders. Her voice reminds me of unspooling velvet. She waits as I sit then place a dollar in the wicker basket on the center of the table.
She raises a mocking brow when I balk at the gnarled hand she extends. “Scared, girl?”
I scoff. “Never.” Reaching out, I grip her hands. The rings on her fingers are pretty. Turquoise. I want some of my own.
The tent fills with a kind of static charge. A sliver of cold runs along my spine.
“Do you have a question?”
“Yes.”
“Ask it,” she says and taps her temple. I see what she wants.
Inside my mind, I voice my question. Will my mother come back? I’ve already vowed that if it’s a no, I’m dedicating myself to a life of spite. I won’t be sad and calm like Dakota.
My wild heart wants to rage.
The woman opens her eyes. Releases my hands. “I’m sorry.”
I look down at my chipped purple nail polish, hating the heat behind my eyes. “I figured.”
I rise to leave. When I’m at the curtain of the tent, the woman says, “Wait. I have something to make up for your disappointment.”
Once again, that static charge.
This time, her eyes go gray, unseeing. “Death will be your true and constant companion your entire life. You have nine lives. And when they’re up, they’re up.”
There is something spooky in her tone, and I shiver. But instead of being scared, I feel thrilled. I have a countdown clock. It’s like a dare to beat it.
She continues. “But when you finally face death, you swing.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nine strikes and you’re out.”
I cock my head. “That’s baseball.”
She gives a wise shrug. “It’s what I see for you, girl.”
A hand on my shoulder makes me gasp. Heart hammering, I wheel around.
Dakota stands at the edge of the tent, cotton candy gripped in a fist. “There you are,” she says, angry. “You can’t just run off, Fallon.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, too giddy to tell her about what I’ve just learned. “She said I have nine lives.”
A frown. “Who did?”
“That lady right there—” I turn and feel a chill. Gone. The woman at the table with her big black book is gone.
“Anyway, that’s ridiculous,” Dakota says, tossing her glossy black hair. “No one lives forever.”
“We’ll see about that,” I mutter and follow her out into the bright sunlight.
I’ve never forgotten that day, or that woman’s words. Obsession’s the best way to put it. Obsessed with that slow tick of my clock. Obsessed with beating it.
Real or not, I have two lives left.
Aiden took the third, and ever since then, I haven’t cared if I lived or died.
My eyes snap open.
Face the truth. Face myself.
After nine months of sunshine and wide-open spaces and bruised bones, Aiden’s still here. Every night in my nightmares.
I thought I’d be happier here. I thought I had a plan that would fix everything, fix me. I thought I’d be okay.
“You are,” I tell my reflection. “You’re fucking fine.”
I whip the shower curtain aside and turn on the water. As I wait for the old pipes to heat, I pick up my phone and log on to my abandoned Instagram account. Ignoring my overflow of unwelcome DMs, I go to one particular profile.
Wyatt Montgomery.
It hasn’t been updated since he announced his retirement from the rodeo. In the caption, he thanks his brothers and the PRCA, while stating his excitement about his new venture as a trainer with Younger Rodeo School.
A bullshit statement for a bullshit job. He’s too good to quit the rodeo. I hate everything about it.
I bite my lip and stare at the photo of him saddled on Pepita as thoughts and memories rise.
The text he sent me a day after I left Resurrection. I’m pissed at you. For worrying everyone. Worrying me. I hope you’re okay. Please be okay.
The letter I left him, unanswered. Maybe I had been a fool to hope. That he’d read it and—
It doesn’t matter.
He’s a grudge I can’t get over.
He’s too good for me. I’m a dark shadow, and he’s sunshine.
He’s that silver-tongued cowboy whispering in my ear. Give me your hand and let’s do it. Let’s do this thing.
Thing.
I look down at his photo and laugh.
Right. If that’s what you want to call it.