38. Holden
HOLDEN
The arena smells of dirt, beer, sweat, and livestock. Exactly the same as every other one I’ve ever been in.
Music pounds through the speakers, pulsing in my chest as riders crowd around the chutes, adjusting gloves and vests. Bulls slam against metal gates behind them, rattling steel and setting the whole line vibrating.
Heads turn when I walk past. Not all of them, but enough.
“McBride.” Tyler Jensen, one of the riders I came up through the ranks with, leans against the rails, grinning beneath the brim of his hat. “Thought that ranch of yours swallowed you whole.”
“Almost did.” I shift my jaw, working the tension loose.
Laughing, he claps me once on the shoulder. “You coaching tonight?”
“Just observing for now.”
“Sounds boring as hell.”
My lips twitch. “Probably is.”
He snorts and heads back toward the riders while I continue along the fence line.
Everything here is familiar. The noise. The dust. The restless energy buzzing through the arena. For years, this place felt more like home than anywhere else.
Now it mostly just feels loud.
My shoulder aches faintly as I lean against the rails near the chutes. Though maybe it’s just in my head—a reminder of what’s gone.
One of the younger riders glances over as he tightens his bull rope. His eyes widen before he nudges the guy beside him and mutters something. Over the noise, I catch only fragments.
Two-time champion.
No way.
Thought he retired.
When they realize I’m watching, they look away.
Rick makes his way over, headset hooked around his neck and coffee cup in hand. “There you are. Thought maybe you’d bolted already.”
My laugh doesn’t hold much humor. “Tempting.”
He introduced me to the sponsors of the rider development program yesterday so we could get a feel for each other. I’ve dealt with enough sponsors in my time to know how to play the corporate game, though I can’t say I’ve missed it.
He studies me, a crease between his brows. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.” I keep my eyes fixed on the chutes.
“Bullshit.”
Pretty much.
He passes me the cup he was carrying anyway. “Couple people asking if you’re riding tonight.”
“Good way to kill the insurance policy.” I take a sip of the coffee, and my mind conjures an image of Sage and the smile she’d give me whenever I handed her a cup.
“That shoulder still bothering you?” Rick leans on the rail next to me.
I flex it absently beneath my jacket. “Only when I breathe.”
He gives a short laugh, but his expression stays sharp. He knows me well enough to hear what I’m not saying.
Across the arena, several women near the rail are watching us. One of them flashes a bright smile and waves. I tip my hat in acknowledgment, and even from here, I can hear the resulting giggles.
“Still got it.” He smirks. “How much do you want to wager that at least one of them has your poster on her wall?”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
He focuses on something past me and jerks his chin. I turn, finding a kid in a black vest and brand-new hat approaching, holding his rope like it might bite him.
“Mr. McBride?”
I straighten. “Holden.”
He nods too fast. “Right. Holden. I was hoping maybe you could look at my wrap before I go up.”
I hand off my now-empty coffee cup to Rick and take the kid’s rope, running it through my hands. Too stiff. Too clean. He probably bought it last week and practiced on a fence post.
“What bull?” I ask him.
“Gravedigger.”
I scan the stock list. “He comes out left, then drops hard on the second jump. If your hand’s too far forward, he’ll pull you over his shoulder.”
The kid swallows. “Right.”
I squint down at him. “Are you nervous?”
He shakes his head vigorously. “No, sir.”
I hold his gaze, waiting him out.
After a moment, he exhales. “Yeah.”
“Good.” I nod. “Means you’re not stupid.”
That gets half a smile out of him.
I adjust the rope, show him where to set his hand, then make him do it twice himself. His fingers shake the first time. Less the second.
I remember those nerves. Trying like hell not to let anyone see them.
“You really rode Black Casket in Houston?” he blurts out.
My lips quirk. “Not something I’ll forget anytime soon.”
His eyes go round. “You scored ninety-two.”
And got stepped on after.
I give the rope back, then grip his shoulder. “Don’t ride my old scores. Ride the bull under you.”
He nods, quieter now. “Yes, sir.”
As he walks off, a feeling spreads through me. Not exactly peace, but something close to usefulness.
Then the first chute gate slams open and I turn to watch.
The bull explodes into the arena, all muscle and rage beneath the lights. Dirt sprays high. The rider’s free arm snaps up, and the crowd roars as his body whips with the motion.
My fingers tighten around the rail, and I count without meaning to. One. Two. Three.
The bull twists left, drops its shoulder, and the rider corrects half a beat late.
Four. Five.
He loses his seat at six and hits the dirt hard. Rodeo bullfighters move fast, drawing the animal away while the crowd groans. The rider’s climbing to his feet before the medics reach him.
Adrenaline flashes through me. For one long second, muscle memory kicks in and my fingers twitch like I’m reaching for a rope. Then my shoulder throbs again. Whether it’s physical or in my head, it’s enough to remind me I’m done.
Nearby, two older men, hats pulled low over weathered faces, eye me. They lower their voices as they turn back, but not enough.
“Hell of a rider before that shoulder got him.”
“Thought he became a drunk after that.”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck at the reminder. That damn photo’s still haunting me.
“Hey.” Rick nudges my shoulder. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
Another lie.
The next rider lasts the full eight. The buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts. I wait for the hunger to hit—the urge to be the one the crowd cheers for.
I mostly just feel tired.
The kid I helped earlier goes three rides later. Gravedigger comes out hard left as expected, then drops on the second jump. The kid almost loses it, but he shifts back just enough to hang on.
Eight seconds. Barely.
The crowd cheers as he scrambles off and nearly falls flat on his ass from relief.
I chuckle before I can stop myself.
Rick cocks a brow. “There he is.”
I ignore him. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten he was here.
But the laugh leaves a rawness in its wake.
For a minute, I almost felt normal. Then I remember that Sage isn’t here, her camera lifted to her face.
She isn’t going to pester me with bright-eyed questions about how this all works.
When I climb into bed later, my sheets won’t smell like her.
I shove away from the fence. “I’m gonna walk.”
Rick’s brows draw together, but he doesn’t stop me.
The hallway behind the chutes is all concrete, cigarette smoke, boot scuffs, and old posters curling at the edges.
Riders sit on benches, taping wrists and icing ribs.
Someone laughs too loud near the vending machines.
A kid pukes into a trash can, then wipes his mouth and heads back toward the chutes like nothing happened.
This world hasn’t changed. I have.
By the time the event wraps up, my ears are ringing from arena noise. Riders have begun to head toward the parking lot when Tyler catches me near the exit tunnel.
“We’re heading over to Redline,” he says. “You coming?”
I want to say no, but hell, I need to get back to some kind of normal. So I shrug. “Sure.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m leaning against the bar at a place that looks just like every rodeo bar in America. Neon beer signs. Country music too loud to talk over properly. Pool tables crowded with riders still half-dressed from competition.
“McBride,” the bartender says with a grin. “Been a while.”
I dip my chin. “Yeah.”
“Are you still drinking whiskey, or are you making better choices these days?”
I work up what I hope is a friendly smile. “Beer’s fine.”
Tyler and a few other guys take over one of the tables near the back, but I stay at the bar, watching the crowd move around me.
Halfway through my beer, a brunette slides onto the empty stool beside me. “Holden, right?”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s mid-twenties. Pretty. The kind of woman rodeo bars are full of.
“Depends.”
She laughs softly. “That usually means yes.”
I nod toward the dance floor. “Pretty sure there are easier ways to meet guys in here.”
“Probably.” She rests an elbow on the bar. “But none of them have won two world titles.”
I stare straight ahead and take another sip of my beer.
She keeps talking. Something about Tulsa, and about watching me ride when she was younger.
I catch maybe half of it.
Because suddenly all I can picture is Sage standing next to me in that stall, with dirt on her face and her whole body lit up as Trouble wobbled to his feet for the first time.
Blowing out a breath, I scrub my hand down my face.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks.
“Fine.”
I seem to be saying that a lot lately.
She studies me for a beat, then smiles slightly. “Have you got somebody back home?”
The question catches me off guard, making me laugh under my breath.
Home.
Wild Ember flashes through my head. My family. Sage. Not the arena, or this dive bar, or the motel I’m going back to as soon as I’ve finished this beer. Maybe the realization should feel good, but mostly it just hurts.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
She nods slowly like she understands more than I intended to share.
“Well,” she says, sliding off the stool, “whoever she is, she’s got you looking miserable.”
Before I can answer, she disappears into the crowd.
Across the room, Tyler laughs loudly over a pool game as other riders crowd around a table arguing about scores and stock draws. The scene is familiar, easy. It’s the kind of night I used to slip into without thinking.
Now all I want is quiet.
I drain the last of my beer and leave.
My motel’s close, so I head back on foot, letting the fresh air clear some of the noise from my head.
The room smells like stale air conditioning and industrial cleaner. My duffel bag sits unopened on the second bed.
I should shower, then look over tomorrow’s schedule before I crash. Instead, I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at my phone. No messages from Sage.
Not that I expected one, but it still feels like a kick to the ribs.
Before I can think better of it, I open my photos.
I scroll to one I took a few weeks ago. She’s at the kitchen table, a pile of our old family photos in front of her, hair falling across one cheek as she laughs at whatever Taryn is telling her.
Memories loop endlessly, each one sharper than the last. Before I’m too raw, I lock the phone and toss it onto the bed beside me.
This is the right decision.
Sage deserves to follow her dreams. The ranch needs money more than it needs me, whether Sterling will admit it or not. And staying at Wild Ember, watching her leave, would’ve destroyed me worse than any bull ever did.
I drag a hand over my face and lean back against the headboard.
Tomorrow, I’ll get up and do the job.
Keep moving.
That’s always been the easy part.