Chapter Three
The flight attendant’s voice is too chipper for this hour of the morning.
“Good morning, folks. Welcome aboard. We’ll be taking off shortly for Jackson Hole—”
I tune her out. I’ve already got my hat pulled low over my eyes, trying to block out the world around me.
The hum of the plane’s engines; the taste of the stale, recycled air; the bite of the seat belt cutting across my lap—it all feels like a jail cell.
Punishment for a life lived on the edge.
One full of overindulgence and wastefulness.
And maybe it is. But it sure has been fun.
My agent, Shawn, is sitting beside me in the aisle seat, laptop open, fingers flying like he’s drafting some exciting and lucrative corporate takeover instead of wrecking my life one sponsorship deal at a time.
“Ry,” he says, glancing up from the screen, “you want coffee? They’re serving before takeoff.”
I grunt. “No.”
All coffee is going to do is keep me awake. I don’t want that. I want to drown myself and enjoy the peace of unconsciousness.
“I’ll take a whiskey neat though.”
He sighs, that long-suffering exhale he does when I’m being “difficult.” His word, not mine.
“You don’t have to act like a petulant child, you know,” he says. “I’m not trying to penalize you. I’m keeping your career alive.”
“My career was doing just fine before you and the suits decided to ground me.”
Shawn shuts the laptop with a soft click and turns in his seat to face me.
He’s wearing a charcoal-gray blazer over a plain black tee—casual enough to pretend he’s not just another corporate suit, but still slick enough to remind me he is.
“You’re not grounded, Ry. You’re just being smart. There’s a difference.”
I pull my hat lower, muttering, “Smart. That’s just a pretty word for retired.”
He chuckles once, humorless. “Retired guys don’t get paid seven figures to wear Wranglers and Resistol hats.”
The reminder burns like a shot of Jack Daniel’s down my throat. I know what’s on the table. I also know exactly what I’m losing.
I’m a bull rider. Been one since I was old enough to hang on to a steer in my daddy’s practice pen.
I’ve ridden through rain, mud, broken ribs, torn ligaments, and more concussions than I can count.
The danger—that’s the thrill of it. You climb in the chute and nod your head, and for eight seconds, the world stops spinning.
Everything that matters—every-damn-thing—is under you and inside that arena.
And they want to take that away from me.
“You done giving me the PR version?” I ask, still not looking at him.
Shawn leans back. “I’m giving you the truth. Your medical team cleared you for limited activity, but no more bulls. You took your fifth concussion in two seasons. Fifth, Ry. You remember what the doc said?”
“Yeah. He said don’t hit my head again.”
“He said one more could cause significant brain injury. You could face paralysis, nerve damage, even a serious spinal injury. Or worse, it could kill your stubborn ass. And even though you cause me more grief than any of my other clients, I’d like to keep you on this side of the dirt for as long as possible. ”
Those are things that every bull rider faces. We all know that we’re looking down the barrel of a gun every time we straddle our next opponent. There’s nothing new about my current situation, apart from the fact that I now have a team of people who are invested in keeping me profitable.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. My jaw aches.
“Then I guess I’d better ride smarter.”
Shawn laughs under his breath. “You can’t outsmart gravity or the fury of an angry bull, cowboy.”
I finally look at him. “I can sure as hell try.”
The flight attendant delivers our drinks as the rest of the passengers make their way onto the aircraft. I swallow mine in two gulps.
Once everyone is aboard, the announcement is made to put away all electronics, and Shawn finally closes his computer and settles into his seat.
The plane starts taxiing, engines rising to a low roar. My stomach knots the way it does before a ride, only this time there’s no chute gate, no adrenaline high waiting on the other side. No purse or gold buckle. Just a trip to the middle of nowhere.
“Remind me again, why Wyoming?” I ask. “There’re trainers everywhere from Fort Worth to Calgary.”
“Because the trainer in Wyoming comes highly recommended by one of our own,” Shawn says. “And Wildhaven is off the beaten path. Far away from the distractions of home and the Pbr Challenger Series.”
I snort. “Sounds like fun.”
Shawn ignores that. “The last thing you need right now is for anything to draw your focus away from the training,” he says.
“I researched the place online. Wildhaven Storm Ranch. Eleven thousand acres of beautiful, wide-open land, just north of Jackson Hole. Nice horse operation. Albert Storm owns it. You’ve probably seen some of their horses at Pbr charity events.
They breed and train for ranch work and the rodeo. ”
“Sounds like a great retirement home for broken cowboys,” I grumble.
“Then you’ll fit right in.”
That earns him a glare.
I lean my head back against the seat, eyes half closed. “You ever been to Jackson Hole?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Years ago. Gorgeous place. Nice downtown area. Expensive as hell. You’ll like it.”
“I won’t.”
He smirks. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“Don’t have to. I know the type. It’s a joke. A gimmick. A place where people visit and sip lattes in their freshly purchased, overpriced cowboy boots ’cause it looks country.”
Shawn chuckles. “You’re not wrong. But Wildhaven isn’t like that. It’s working land. Real horses. Real cowboys.”
“Real waste of my time,” I mutter.
The seat-belt sign dings, and the plane jolts upward. My stomach drops as we climb into the dark, early morning Texas sky. Ten minutes later, Shawn’s already back on his laptop, drafting emails, crunching numbers, and running my life from thirty thousand feet.
I stare out the window. City lights fade beneath us, swallowed by clouds. Somewhere down there is the arena in Houston where I got thrown last month—by a bull named Knight’s Vengeance. Fitting name. I had known the moment I drew his name that there was going to be a reckoning.
I can still see his massive shoulder roll when the gate opened, feel the sudden torque of power between my thighs, and the way my hand slipped the instant he snapped left out of the chute. I lasted six seconds. Hit the dirt so hard that I couldn’t remember my own damn name for another two days.
They told me I’d asked for my momma ten times, like some little kid, and she and my dad drove all night from Tulsa to get to me.
The doctors said I was lucky. They told me my brain needed rest. Said “one more like that, and you might not wake up.”
My parents were beside themselves. And my sponsors—those corporate bastards—saw dollar signs slipping away. So, they all called Shawn. And Shawn called my management. And now, here I am, flying to Wyoming, accompanied by my agent like some drugged-out rehab project.
“Ry,” Shawn says suddenly. “Listen to me for a second, okay? Just hear me out.”
I exhale through my nose, but don’t say anything.
“You could have another six, maybe seven years in this sport if you pivot now. Bronc riding’s still tough, but it’s not the same kind of head trauma.
You’re good enough, athletic enough, to make the transition.
Hell, you could dominate it. There’s a ton of crossover appeal.
You’re already a fan favorite—America’s cowboy, the comeback kid.
You win a couple of bronc titles? You extend the brand, keep the sponsors happy, and stay in the game.
You do nothing? You’re done. You understand? ”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I understand you’re trying to sell me something.”
He shakes his head. “I’m trying to save you something. Your future.”
“My future’s in the arena,” I say. “On a bull.”
He closes the laptop again, sighs like he’s carrying my stubbornness around his neck like a chain.
“Ry, you’re twenty-eight. You’ve had more concussions than most NFL linebackers get in their whole careers.
You can’t keep pretending it’s not catching up to you.
Your reflexes have slowed down. Your timing has been off. You know that as well as I do.”
I look away. Because he’s right. I do know it. Last season, I was half a second slower out of the gate. My balance was off just enough that I could feel it. And that’s all it takes—half a second, one bad landing.
Fuck.
“I’d rather die on a bull than live the rest of my life wondering if I quit too soon. If I chose the coward’s way out.”
“Yeah?” he says softly. “What if you don’t die? What if you end up paralyzed? You think you could live with that?”
I don’t answer. Because that’s the only thing that scares me more than quitting. Being a burden for the rest of my miserable life.
He lets the silence hang between us for a minute, then says, “You’ve got endorsements waiting, Ry.
The hat deal alone is worth three million over two years.
You have the possible Bull Rope Whiskey collab with Dry Canyon Distilling company.
Your own brand. They want you to partner with them and be the face of the whiskey.
And a saddle company wants your input on a custom bronc rig. You walk away now, you lose all of it.”
I give a low laugh. “So, it’s about money.”
“It’s about you. It’s always been about you. Money’s just the only language you seem to listen to besides the glory of gold buckles.”
The flight attendant comes by with more coffee, and Shawn orders two. I take mine black, bitter, and scalding. It fits my mood perfectly.
We lapse into silence for a while. The cabin lights dim. Most passengers are asleep. The sky outside starts to lighten, streaks of pink and gold breaking through the clouds as we cross into Wyoming airspace.
I can see the Tetons now, jagged and white-capped against the horizon. They’re beautiful—I’ll admit that. Wild, dangerous, unyielding. The kind of place that might understand a man like me.
Maybe.
“Look,” Shawn says, quieter now. “You don’t have to like this, Ry.
You just have to show up. Work with the trainer.
Prove to everyone—including yourself—that you can do this.
If you still hate it after the summer, we’ll talk.
Figure out what to do next. But if you walk away now, without even trying, you’ll be walking away from everything you’ve built. ”
I stare out at those mountains and wonder if maybe that’s exactly what I need to do—walk away with my head held high.
But I don’t say it. Because I’m not ready to walk off into the sunset. Not yet.
Instead, I mutter, “Fine. I’ll give it the summer.”
Shawn exhales in relief. “Good. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”
“Don’t expect you to.”
The plane begins its descent, bumping through turbulence. The captain comes on, talking about clear skies and mild temperatures, like that matters. My gut tightens, the way it always does before I land in a new place—same as before a ride. Only this time, I’m not sure what to expect.
When the wheels hit the runway, the jolt snaps through my spine, and I swear it feels like a bolt of lightning, signaling the start of a storm.
Welcome to fucking Wyoming.