Chapter 10
ten
. . .
SIENNA
Our hearts were pounding so hard I couldn’t tell whose was whose. Shouts and banging metal filled the alley, but all I could focus on was Brock’s chest heaving against my own.
“Sienna.” His voice scraped against my ear. “You hurt?”
Dust clogged my nose and throat. My ears rang. I couldn’t answer. My lungs refused to work.
He shifted, taking some of his weight off my chest. I gasped for air.
“Sienna. Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open. His hat was gone, lost somewhere in the chaos. His blue eyes locked onto mine, darting across my face, checking my head, my neck, my shoulders.
“I—I think I’m okay.”
Something warm and wet dripped onto my collarbone.
I reached up and touched his shoulder. My fingers came back slick and red. His shirt was torn open. Under it, a wide gash split his skin, blood soaking into the fabric.
“Brock, you’re bleeding.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”
He pushed himself off me with a harsh grunt and got to his knees, swaying slightly before he reached for me. I took his hand. His calluses felt rough against my palm as he pulled me up.
The alley was pure chaos. Handlers ran everywhere. Down by the far gates, the bullfighters already had the loose bull corralled, while three men drove the panicked horse back toward the holding pens with ropes and waving panels. Someone screamed into a radio.
“Move! Let us through!”
Two medics pushed down the alley with a kit between them. One of them saw Brock’s shoulder and stopped short.
“You need to sit down.”
“I’ve got a ride.”
“You’re dripping blood.”
It flowed faster now, soaking through his torn shirt and running past his elbow into the dirt.
“Brock,” I pleaded. “Go with them. Please.”
He finally gave in. With one medic on each side, they walked him toward the medical bay behind the announcer’s tower. He looked back at me one last time before they turned the corner.
I stumbled to the metal rail and gripped it with both hands.
I leaned my full weight against it and breathed.
The dust was still settling in the alley where we’d hit the ground.
Marks scarred the dirt—the long drag where his body had covered mine, and the deep gouges where the horse’s hooves had crashed inches away.
If he hadn’t jumped when he did…
I pressed a hand to my stomach, the spot where his weight had driven into me still aching from the impact.
My heart was still hammering. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the horse’s hooves slamming into the dirt inches from his head. I kept replaying the moment he’d thrown himself over me, the way he hadn’t hesitated.
Twenty minutes later, Brock walked out of the medical tent. He wore a clean sponsor shirt and had his hat back on. He moved at his usual unhurried pace, though his left side remained stiff. A bulky bandage sat thick beneath the fabric. His riding glove was strapped tight to his right hand.
I stepped into his path. "You can't ride like that."
"I’m fine."
I grabbed his good arm before he could take another step. “Look at you! Is one ride really worth tearing your shoulder apart?”
He tried to pull away, but I held on tight. He went still, staring hard at the chutes for a long moment.
“Yeah.” His voice was flat. “It’s worth it.”
Something in the way he said it knocked the fight out of me. I understood it, even if I hated it. My grip loosened, and I let my hand fall from his arm.
“I’ll be at the rail,” I said, my voice hollow.
He met my eyes. It was the same steady, searching look he’d given me before, just slower.
“I’ll be fine,” he said quietly.
The noise of the chutes and the roaring crowd pressed in around us. There was so much I wanted to say, but none of it felt right. Not here.
“Okay,” I said instead. “I’ll be waiting.”
He gave a small nod and turned toward the gates. The handlers parted to let him through. Someone nearby muttered, “Wilder’s riding?” followed by a low ripple of conversation.
Pistol Annie was still in Chute 3, shifting impatiently.
Brock climbed the rail, swung his leg over, and lowered himself onto her back like the last thirty minutes hadn’t happened. He kept his left shoulder stiff, but his riding hand found the braided rein, and his grip was steady.
The announcer’s voice boomed overhead. “Folks, if you missed the chaos in the alley, you’re not gonna believe it. Brock Wilder took a hit from a loose horse to pull a woman out of harm’s way. He just got stitched up, and now this cowboy is climbing right back on. That is Wyoming tough!”
A fresh, deafening roar went up from the stands. My stomach twisted into knots.
“Give it up one more time for Brock Wilder!”
The gate flew open.
Pistol Annie burst out violently, her back end kicking sky-high. Brock’s body snapped backward with the first buck, and his free arm flew up.
The crowd jumped to their feet, the rhythmic stomp of twenty thousand boots vibrating through the steel railing.
“Look at him match her out of the gate!” the announcer yelled.
I locked both hands around the top rail, holding on like I could keep him in the saddle by sheer force of will.
Brock rode every violent shift like he knew it was coming before it even happened. His free hand stayed high against the sky.
The buzzer blared at eight seconds.
The mare twisted hard. He leaned into her, riding the spin until the pickup rider closed in and he swung free.
His boots hit the dirt. He staggered a half-step, caught himself, and stood alone in the center of the arena. Dust plumed around him.
Then I saw it.
Blood was already seeping through the fresh bandage on his shoulder.
The grandstands detonated. The entire arena was on its feet, screaming.
The announcer’s voice rose above the frenzy. “The judges are going high on this one, folks. Ninety-two points! Highest score of the day!”
Brock turned and walked toward the chute gate like none of it mattered.
His eyes found mine first. And something about that, about being the first thing he looked for after everything, was the thing that finally broke me.
I tried to speak, to say his name or congratulations or anything at all, but when I opened my mouth, my voice broke. I touched my cheek. My fingers came back wet, and I thought, oh.
He stopped on the other side of the fence, breathing hard, blood staining his sleeve. Then he reached through the metal bars. His calloused thumb swept the tear from my cheek, leaving a gritty streak of dust behind.
“Don’t cry, Starlin’,” he murmured. “I won.”