Four | Harlow
The porch swing sways as a fresh morning breeze washes across my skin, warmer than it should be for late November.
The white fences surrounding our property extend to where the seasonal creek bed meets the towering red rock cliffs and mountains of Ember Ridge.
Cattle wander the fields, the occasional whinny and contented nicker from our horses adding to the serene atmosphere.
Most women my age would be itching to escape their family, but I’ve never had that inclination, at least until now. It’s special to still live in my childhood home, resting at the base of the ridge our town is named after.
It’s beautiful.
Peaceful.
Yet, I’d love nothing more than to get out and get a taste of freedom—have a place that feels like mine.
I’m twenty-three. I know I’m not that old, but living independently gives you a new sense of individuality. Plus, it’s not like I can bring a hookup here if I want. Not that I have had any of those.
I can imagine my parents are probably getting tired of me by now. I mean, they did fully take care of me for four months after Lil’ Loco pounced on my tibia.
Okay, pounced maybe isn’t the right word, considering a 1,600-pound bull shattered my leg and took me out of my first professional season as a bull rider.
And I was in the top twenty that year, consistently scoring at every event.
I could move out—live off the savings I collected from the events I placed in the top five or won.
With this profession, getting paid isn’t always a given.
After my accident, I lost all my sponsors.
A few smaller ones have reached out after seeing that I’ve made it back into the league, but they are nothing compared to the Ariat sponsorship I had a few years ago.
But hey, I’m in no position to be picky.
Being a professional bull rider doesn’t pay well unless you win events, have huge sponsorships, or have a top placement every weekend.
Jax Bowman, a rider my age from Texas, took home the win in Tucson a few days ago and forty thousand dollars, as well as points, moving him into the number one position since it was the first event of the season.
Colson Payne finished third, but I’m trying not to think about him, since I think he was one of the reasons I had trouble focusing.
No. Scratch that.
He is a part of the problem.
I ended the weekend with zero points toward the world standings after failing to stay on.
Both rounds.
As with each event throughout the season, at the World Finals, all forty riders still compete, but only the top twenty with the best scores collected over the season advance to the championship round. The world champion is determined by the rider with the most total points for the season.
Which is why each ride I must be on my A game.
In both rounds on Saturday and Sunday, it was as if my body was enslaved to its own internal timer. It would give up when the three-second mark hit, despite my mentality doing everything in its power to keep me mounted on the bull’s back.
I told my therapist about it at my appointment yesterday. She told me I needed to understand that my fear and trauma don’t define me—that I need to face my fear with courage.
I thought I did.
In practice, I’m a force to be reckoned with. In the minor league, I rode my ass off even when we were in dark stadiums full of fans. However, the second I get on a bull and realize I’m in an arena competing at the professional level, the images come flooding back.
My cries of agony hushing the crowd.
My screams echoing in a space so silent you wouldn’t realize there are thousands of people watching.
My tears flowing down my face like drops of lava searing me to the bone.
My lungs struggling to inflate and deflate the way they are supposed to.
The visions are vivid and alive, completely knocking me off balance and making me forget I’m riding a beast as capable of trampling me into the ground as Lil’ Loco did.
Losing my focus while I’m riding makes me even more vulnerable. It’s dangerous.
I can’t let that memory consume me when I’m determined to replace it with new ones. Thanksgiving is a few days from now, right before this next event.
I know I have so much to be grateful for.
My recovery.
My goals that are still well within reach, thanks to the doctors and therapists who have stuck by my side every step of the way.
My supportive family, who have never given up on me despite my choice to keep riding.
I know healing trauma takes time. And as much as I wish I could snap my fingers and be back to normal, I have to take it one day at a time.
One ride at a time.
My legs are kicked out across the porch swing bench, my left boot-cut pant leg rolled up to expose the lower half of my leg. I stretch out, using my pointer finger to trace the long outline of the scar on my shin, just below my knee.
The scar tissue is firm, the red and pink pigmentation standing out in stark contrast against my Arizona tan, which has been gradually fading since summer ended.
The crunch of tires on gravel has my head snapping upward as a truck barrels down the driveway, a plume of dust trailing in its wake that floats up against the clear blue sky.
Aaron’s white Ford, pulling a long trailer, passes under the arch with our family brand burned into the wood.
He pulls into the driveway, puts it in park, and hops out, plopping his cowboy hat on his head.
I roll my pant leg back down and stand, grabbing my hat off the table beside the bench. I place it on and walk toward him.
My excitement isn’t contained. “Who did you bring me today?”
Aaron wanders around the side of the trailer, the palm of his hand striking the side a few times. “This here is Hoodrat and Drama Queen.”
“Hoodrat and Drama Queen,” I parrot, chuckling through my smile.
I’ve always loved bull names. They are outrageous and creative, usually fitting the bull’s personality or physical traits perfectly.
“Picked them up for you from a contractor outside of Tucson on my way back home.” He drags a hand over his beard. “They’re a bunch of dicks if you ask me. It was hell loading them in here, but we have them for the next few weeks, and they aren’t going to take it easy on you.”
“Well, I won’t take it easy on them either.”
“Atta girl.”
I’m lucky that he offers to hold practice here.
He said he has a hard time working from home when his kids are running around, plus Aaron’s been best friends with my dad ever since he became my coach.
Most practice sessions for expert riders take place at a coach’s ranch, rodeo grounds, private arenas, or at home if they have the proper setup.
Luckily for me, my parents built me a practice area on our property when I decided to pursue this as a career.
I also have access to a mechanical bull I named Man Eater. I saved every penny to buy that beauty.
She’s currently set up in the barn, where I practice form and positioning to reduce the risk of injury in a controlled environment.
And yes, my mechanical bull is a she, because there are definitely no balls on that thing.
A few snorts come from inside the trailer, making the hairs on my arms vibrate with anticipation. I bounce on my toes, my eyes lighting with eagerness as the beasts thump around.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re my kid or not,” a deep, familiar voice says, laced with amusement.
My dad, Brady, emerges from around the front of the truck with his hands propped on his hips.
A glaze of sweat covers his forehead after getting his horse ready.
Like every practice, he rounds up the bulls after I ride them.
My parents may not fully support my choice to compete again after my leg broke, but he’s always here and never fails to tell me how proud he is, despite his fear of watching me get back out there after being so … broken.
I roll my eyes. “Of course, I’m your kid. You only have yourself to blame for my love of riding.”
A shallow laugh rumbles through his chest as he shakes his head. “Let your fourteen-year-old daughter ride a steer once, and she decides to hang up her ballet shoes to be a fuckin’ bull rider.”
Yeah, Mom didn’t like that. She danced all the way through college back in the day.
I may look more like her with my light hair and blue eyes, but my dad’s blood and tenacity run thick through my veins.
Mel takes after our mom in more ways than one, but my parents never gave me a brother, so I guess, in a way, I’m the son he never had.
When I was fourteen, Dad was coaching some boys at my high school for the upcoming rodeo at the Ember Ridge Fair.
Mel was home sick that day, so Dad picked me up from school and took me to watch his practice.
I grew up watching him ride, not professionally, but as a hobby when our town would have rodeos a few times a year.
I should’ve been working on homework, but instead I watched their entire practice in fascination.
Toward the end, I asked my dad if I could try.
He laughed, as did some of the guys in my class.
I asked again, firmer that time because I wasn’t fooling around.
Of course, he said no, but that didn’t stop me for long.
When one of the smaller steers was loaded into the chute, and nobody was looking, I snuck over and started climbing the fence.
Those things clank around when you climb them, so I didn’t get very far before my father scolded me.
“Why can’t I?” I asked.
“Because it’s dangerous,” he answered.
I peered up at him skeptically. “It’s because I’m a girl. Isn’t it?”
With that one comment, I broke him. His dark brows collided as if something inside him clicked.
He looked at the guys in my class, back at me, and nodded. “Alright. Just this once.”
The moment I mounted and felt the animal’s muscles tense below me, the addiction started.
Getting tossed around and trying to hang on was electrifying.
I didn’t last five seconds on the damn thing before I was bucked off, but the thrill threaded through my soul all the same, and I knew that I’d never want to unravel it.
When I rose from the dirt with a smile on my face, my dad and I both knew that once would never be enough.
At times like these, when I’m practicing or competing, I know my dad thinks about that memory just as much as I do.
“Watch those daughters of yours, Jackson,” my dad tells Aaron, glaring at me spiritedly.
Aaron blows out a breath. “Oh, I am. But Miss Harlow Hartt here is inspiring the next generation of female bull riders. I’m afraid my daughters are pretty big fans of hers.”
I fail to bite back my smile. Whenever I see his daughters, Ella and Avery, they are always eager to pick my brain about riding and dissect my most recent ride they watched.
A part of me hopes they didn’t watch the live-streamed event in Tucson, but I know they did. Their family never misses it. Falling and getting back up is the name of the game, and if they take one thing away from my failure of a ride, I hope it’s that.
Crossing one leg over the other, I curtsy jokingly before standing back up with a broad smile. Both men look at each other, rolling their eyes.
“I’d say my biggest goal in life is to inspire other female riders, but we all know that that’s only part of my dream.” I slap the side of the trailer. “What do you say we get these fellas out of here?”