Chapter 9
Three Days Later
Kyla gripped the rail so hard she left sweat on the steel. The Big Timber lights flickered awake against a Montana dusk that pressed the world to a slow simmer. Her boots left square prints in grit the color of old bone.
Around her, a family debated fry bread, and somebody coughed in the general crush, but she focused on the tension in her own hands, the iron press of her knuckles, the heat crawling up her sleeves.
Wind tangled loose coils of hair at her neck. She blinked against it, mouth dry, tongue tracing a line of old lipstick she’d reapplied in the pickup on the way here, telling herself she was armored.
Out in the ring, the bronc circled slowly. Kyla measured its stride, the coil under patchy hide, the rank way it cocked its head like it knew something she didn’t. Chutes groaned and metal buckles rattled.
A pickup man’s voice rose over the commotion, pitching reassurance in a lazy drawl, but the cadence only made her jaw clench tighter. She shot a glance toward the arena, checking the side-gate for Titus’s hat.
The battered gray one, sweat-stained at the crown. She found him beside the chute, running one broad hand down the bronc’s neck, fingers spread, settling, claiming. A ritual she’d memorized the same way she’d learned to dice onions blind.
He swung up, one leg after another, boots hitting slats. A hush threaded through the stands, locals and weekenders alike, necks craning.
She tracked the rise and fall of his shoulders. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Kyla’s thumbnail pressed a gouge into her palm, grounding herself in the sharp, mean edge of waiting.
The announcer clicked on, static and nasal under the big-top lights. “Now up: Titus James Brooks, Big Timber. Riding—oh, folks, look out—Storm Warning. This horse’s got something to prove.”
Someone in the crowd gave a low whistle.
Kyla didn’t blink. Her world compressed to boots and rails and the slide of Titus’s gloved hand around that braided rope.
He rolled his neck, lifted his head, and searched the crowd.
Their eyes snagged for half a heartbeat. His glacier-cool, mouth ticking up.
The old dare.
You coming with me?
Kyla’s reply came silent.
Always.
The gate boss adjusted his vest. Leather squeaked. The bronc shivered under Titus, testing the steel. Titus dug in his spurs, heels dragging a line through packed dirt, and shifted his hips. Rope wrapped tight around his right hand, he flexed fingers twice.
Left hand rose. Now rigid, now loose, finding the line between recklessness and technique. Her gaze skipped over him. Thighs taut, back braced, every muscle made visible beneath the rough cut of denim and sweat-dark plaid. His hat dipped forward, pushing cover across his brow.
For a second, time stretched between her inhale and the next. She let the stadium noise crash over her, a million tiny fragments that failed to touch her. The tilt of Titus’s lips when he bit down at the inside edge. The way he always did before pushing past his own pain.
The tattoo on her wrist itched beneath her sleeve, a phantom signal. If he came off wrong tonight, he could break more than his pride. Could cost the ranch. Them. Everything.
A gate latch snapped loud enough to draw a few nervous squeals. The bronc jolted sideways in the chute. The arena judge readied the flag. Kyla tensed.
Breath froze high and stubborn at the base of her throat, and her chest ached with it. She traced the edge of Titus’s arm with her eyes. Every tendon visible. He jerked his chin at the boss, once. One shot, no rehearsal.
The gates flung wide.
Brute motion slammed Titus and the bronc into the arena proper.
Leather creaking. Animal bucking like fury.
The first kick hit, and Kyla lost the shape of her own lungs.
The rail dug into her ribs. All she registered was motion, hooves, hat flying, her name somewhere under his breath.
Eight seconds and the rest of their lives riding out in dust.
She tracked every second in the lines of his body: knees locked, hips bucking, Titus forced upright then flung to the left, right, skyward. The bronc’s first twist dragged him high enough for the crowd to gasp.
Hooves dug a rut so deep Kyla heard dirt shudder. The second kick spun him, hat skittering away. Dust spat from hooves, white lines fanning out with each bounce. Titus’s free arm snapped in a harsh arc, searching for the balance rodeo demanded and physics refused.
Kyla forgot the family at her elbow, the old man hawking programs near her knees. Her lungs locked. She took air in, stingy and hard, let it scrape the back of her throat.
Eight seconds. That was all the ranch required to stay their own. Her mother never prayed and neither did Kyla, but some nights the ache for a bargain rose all the same.
The bronc slammed down again. Titus’s body jackknifed, head ducking, every rib exposed for a split second. Someone in the stands cursed but Kyla kept still. She didn’t dare show any emotion.
She counted the bronc’s moves, found a pattern, lost it in a blur of legs and flanks. His glove shone dark against the rope, shoulder straining under the shirt he’d put on half-wet in the parking lot.
Her gaze caught the curve of his jaw, teeth sunk deep in the meat of his lip, a hard-bought concentration that never revealed pain, only dared anyone to suggest weakness.
A child squealed three rows back. A can shook, full of pennies and hope. Kyla wished all their wishes away, put her own in the set of her mouth and the fire in her palms. The dust stung high up her nose. She tasted every second she’d risked her own pride for this man.
The arena pressed tighter, sound squeezing at her ears.
Then nothing. Silence broke open, filled by hooves and the unsteady, clanging beat of Kyla’s heart.
Her grip didn’t slip. Nail-moons burned into her palm, sweat slick between her fingers and steel.
Her chest shook, but nobody outside would ever call it fear.
The bronc threw itself sideways. Titus reeled, back arched, almost lost the line.
A jolt ran from his waist to his skull, but he braced.
Corrected with hips. The crowd shouted his name in a rough, broken wave.
Kyla let the world shrink until it was skin, bone, the distance between wanting and having, her.
For a flash, she remembered watching him at a fairground in spring, twelve miles out. A softer, luckier ride, but still too many ways a night could end without warning. She vowed never to let him die a small-town legend on her watch.
The ride reached crescendo. Bronc crow-hopped and spun, Titus whipped forward. His grip stretched to the limit, forearm shaking, left leg nearly sliding from the flank. The animal ducked and dived, stubborn, ugly, one last try to break its rider in half.
Kyla choked down a scream, air shaking at the base of her throat, the bite of fear rising sour. Still, her posture held. Shoulders locked back, jaw firm, every inch telegraphing: try me.
Buzzer.
A jagged sound escaped her.
Not relief.
Suspense on a knife-edge.
He’d lasted the eight seconds. Kyla stood motionless, every cell buzzing with disbelief, with pride shot through and threaded with doubt. Had he paid the price, or had the bill not come due yet?
The buzzer still hung in the air when the bronc jerked one last, angry hop. Titus launched skyward. Shoulder, ribs, then hip kissing dirt in a twisted roll. For a split beat, Kyla’s pulse dropped to nothing, weightless and gut-punched as if her own body struck earth.
Arena dust drifted in slow spirals. Everything beyond that center point vanished. Her boots jammed against the bottom rail, grip breaking, every muscle too slow. Then she snapped into motion, urgency torching hesitation.
She vaulted the railing without thinking, knee knocking metal, landing heavy, skin sticky with sweat and rodeo dust. Out in the center, Titus clawed up, one knee planted, blood sheeting from his mouth.
His left arm dangled wrong. The crowd had gone jagged, part roar, part shock-stiff hush. A clown swept past, waving her off, but she muscled sideways, knuckles at hips, every line of her body radiating.
Move or get mowed down.
The distance between them narrowed fast. Faster than anyone else’s help, quicker than logic, more rapid than all the polite boundaries she’d ever taught herself to honor.
The closer she got, the clearer the world honed in.
The tremble at the line of his jaw, dirt streaking the downturned curve of his cheek, sweat dark at his collar.
He’d lost his hat. Wild tufts of dark hair lay flattened, nearly comical.
Except his eyes. Searching, hard, locked to her as if she were the only handhold left.
She crashed down beside him, shoes skidding, kneeling so close her dress rucked halfway up her thigh. Blood beaded at the edge of his split lip.
His nostrils flared.
He rasped her name, raw-edged, low enough that the grandstands only got a rumor of it. She swore, spit in her mouth, knuckles finding the line of his jaw. He wouldn’t look away.
“What hurts?” The words came chopped, barely a voice at all.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” he shot back, smile trying for reckless and landing crooked.
Bullshit.
Her thumb traced under his jaw, reading heat and pulse, the edge of bone. People called, cameras flashed. Kyla zeroed in. She searched his gaze for glassiness, watched for the subtle jerk. Broken or just bruised? Under her hands, Titus trembled, stubborn and proud, too stubborn to let weakness win.
He drew her closer, arm heavy over her lower back. In front of God, county, and every rival rancher, she pressed her mouth to his. The taste was copper and sweat and everything she’d denied wanting to stake in public.