Chapter 6
six
. . .
SIENNA
The drive to Cody took three hours. Even with the windows rolled all the way down, the hot wind blasting through the cab didn’t help. The sun was baking the road ahead like a frying pan.
Brock had cleaned the worst of yesterday’s mud out of the truck, but it was still damp. We had to throw some old bedsheets over the seats so we wouldn’t ruin our clothes. I’d offered to take my rental Subaru instead—clean and air-conditioned—but he’d shut that idea down right away.
So there we were, sweating on faded floral sheets.
The first part of the trip had been gorgeous. Thick green pine forests rolled by, and the cab smelled fresh and sweet, but the second we came down out of the mountains, everything changed.
It was like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly it was just dry brown hills, mile after mile of fence posts, and a pale, washed-out sky. A country station played quietly in the background, but the signal was spotty. It kept cutting out to static.
Brock’s cowboy hat sat on the console between us like a wall. It was bright white with crisp stitching along the brim, and it looked newer than the one he usually wore.
“You’ve been tapping your foot for ten minutes,” he said. “You know you can read, right?”
I looked over at him. His arm was stretched across the wheel, forearm veined and tanned from the sun. His mouth twitched with how long he'd been sitting on that.
"Huh?"
“Your book.” He nodded toward the bag in my lap. “I saw it in there. You don’t have to stare at scrub brush for the next hour.”
My face went hot. That cover, and that smug grin he’d given me after he saw it.
"I'm fine," I said. "I like scrub brush."
He glanced at me, the corner of his mouth already curving. “You’re still jumpy from last time.”
“I’m not jumpy.”
“What was the guy wearing again? A skirt?”
“It was a kilt,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
He let out a short breath through his nose. “Right.”
“We’re changing the subject.”
“I’m just making conversation, Starlin’.”
“No, you’re being nosy.” I shifted in my seat to face him. “If you want to make conversation, we can talk about the podcast.”
That wiped the smirk right off his face. “What podcast?”
“Western Grit. They cover the circuit. They reached out and asked for you.”
“No,” he said flatly.
“You haven’t even heard the pitch.”
“Don’t need to.”
I waited. A mile of fence posts rolled by. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on the road.
“They want you on before Cheyenne,” I said. “The host is a former roper. I’d prep you, you’d have final say on everything, and I’d be there the whole time.”
“Why should I?”
“Because the statement video worked. Engagement is up, and the sponsors have calmed down, but that only buys you so much time. People need to hear you talk like a real person.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“At talking like a person?”
“At talking to strangers.”
“You’ve been talking to me for a week.”
“You’re not a stranger.” He said it fast, almost like it slipped out, then his jaw tightened. “You’re a pain in the ass. Different category.”
“Danny Ventura is the host. He usually asks about how you’re feeling going into big events, what the circuit’s been like lately. Stuff like that. It’s only thirty minutes.”
“And if he brings up the bar fight?”
“We pivot to your season. You just have to sit there and be yourself.” I paused. “Preferably the version that doesn’t tell the host to go to hell.”
He didn’t say anything else, just kept driving. The radio crackled through another burst of static while I let the silence stretch. I'd learned by now that pushing Brock too hard never worked; you had to give him room to come to you halfway.
“You really like being in charge, don’t you?”
“I like doing my job,” I replied.
“No.” He glanced over at me. “You like telling a man what to do and watching him do it.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The truck suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. He just kept driving, that grin back on his face.
“You know,” I said, “that mouth of yours gets a lot of use for a guy who claims he doesn’t like talking.”
“I like using it just fine… when it’s worth it.”
I turned and stared out the window, refusing to look at him. The road stretched out ahead while the radio static finally turned into a song I didn’t know. For about thirty seconds, neither of us said a word.
“I’ll do the podcast,” he said.
I turned back quickly. “Really?”
“Someone’s gotta keep me from telling the host to go to hell.” He shrugged. “Might as well be you.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
After that, the conversation died. Neither of us tried to restart it.
The radio faded in and out as we rolled down the long, empty highway. Then the traffic started picking up: horse trailers, dirty pickups, and rodeo signs everywhere. By the time we rolled into Cody, it felt like the whole state was heading to the same place.
I heard the fairgrounds before I saw them.
Music and a booming PA voice floated through the afternoon air, still too far away to make out the words.
Then the rodeo came into view. People in boots and cowboy hats moved between trailers, calling out to each other.
Warm air poured through the open windows, thick with the smell of dust, livestock, and fried food.
Brock pulled into the contestant lot and killed the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the arena through the windshield. His shoulders were squared.
“I need to go check in and see when I’m up,” he said. “Don’t go behind the chutes. I’ll find you later.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need the distraction.”
He grabbed his gear bag from the backseat, got out of the car, and disappeared behind a trailer.
I found the ticket office, picked up my media pass, and looped it around my neck. I headed to the rail near the announcer's booth. It was close enough to see everything, but far enough from the chutes to stick to his rules without looking like I was trying to.
I unzipped my bag and pulled out the Outlaw drink. The can was hot from sitting in the truck. I made a face, already imagining his reaction when he opened it later. Sorry, Brock.
I set it on the rail anyway.
“That stuff any good?”
I turned. A guy with a camera rig around his neck was leaning against the railing a few feet away. Sunburned arms, a pass just like mine.
“It’s not terrible,” I said.
“That’s a hell of an endorsement.” He glanced at my pass. “You with one of the riders?”
“I’m with Brock Wilder.”
“Wilder. No kidding.”
He smiled and stuck out a hand. I took it, giving him a quick shake before letting go.
“I’m Jake. I shoot most of the PRCA events out here.” His eyes dropped to my boots. “I like those, by the way.”
“Thanks. They’re brand new.”
Wren had helped me pick them out when we went shopping. These were my deep brown pair, the second of the two pairs I now owned. The other ones were still caked in mud from yesterday.
Jake’s gaze stayed on them. “They’ll look better after tonight.”
I was about to reply when Brock’s voice cut in from behind me.
“We doing this video or what?”
I turned. He was standing there holding that neon pink can. The old T-shirt was gone, swapped for a fitted blue western shirt that hugged his shoulders and chest. Sponsor patches covered the front and sleeves, and his worn tan chaps hung low on his hips.
Damn. I didn’t want to notice how good he looked in the whole bronc rider getup. I’d been doing fine not thinking about him like that.
“Shouldn’t you be behind the chutes?” I asked, sharper than I meant.
He glanced at Jake for half a second, then back at me. “I got time.”
“Okay. Let me grab my phone.”
Jake lifted his camera in a half-wave. “Good luck out there, man.” Then he grinned at me. “I’ll check on those boots later.”
I laughed. Finally, someone who approved of my shoes.
Brock narrowed his eyes at me and watched Jake walk away. “What did he want?”
“He liked my boots.”
Brock made a low sound in his throat and looked down at the can. “This thing’s been baking in the sun.”
“I know, sorry.” I held up my phone. “Just don’t make a face.”
I hit record. He cracked the can, took a long gulp, and forced something close to a smile.
“Got it,” I said.
He set the can on the rail and wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt. “That was horrible.”
“You couldn’t tell on camera. You looked great.”
He gave me a quick sideways glance, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious.
The PA crackled overhead. “Alright folks, it’s bronc ridin’ time! Let’s hear it for our next cowboy…”
His whole mood changed. The relaxed look in his eyes disappeared.
“I gotta go. I’m up soon.”
He turned to leave, and I almost pointed out that he’d just told me he had time, but I pushed the thought aside and reached out without thinking, catching his arm.
“Hey,” I said. “Good luck.”
He glanced at my hand, then slowly back up at me. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he tugged his hat lower.
“Thanks,” he grumbled. He pulled away and headed for the chutes.
I watched him cut through the crowd until the fitted blue shirt disappeared behind a horse and a group of cowboys. I leaned against the hot metal rail near the announcer’s booth, standing on my toes, trying to spot him.
The announcer’s voice rolled through the arena speakers. “Folks, we’re kicking things off with Brock Wilder aboard Black Sunday. Hang on to your hats, because this one's gonna buck!”
My eyes locked on the chutes, and I finally spotted him. Brock stood still while horses snorted and shifted around him, gates clanging nonstop.
Then the gate flew open with a sharp metallic bang.
The horse exploded out in a blur of black and dust. It bucked hard, twisting and kicking. Brock’s free arm whipped high as he fought to stay centered. Each jolt looked brutal.
I’d seen clips of him riding. None of them hit like this. The violence of it made my stomach tighten. Every time I thought he was about to eat dirt, he stuck.
The buzzer sounded.
He swung off, hit the ground running, and headed straight for the gate without a backward glance. Dust coated his shirt and chaps.