Chapter 27
twenty-seven
. . .
brOCK
The wilder bunch
Colt
VIP section secured. Your emotional support beef jerky awaits.
I sat on my heavy canvas gear bag behind the chutes, boots planted in the dirt, staring at my phone.
Making it to Saturday at Pendleton meant you’d already survived the long rounds. Only the top twelve cowboys received an invitation to return to the finals, and I’d ridden well enough on Thursday to earn my spot. Now, it was just about finishing the job.
Colt sent a selfie from the grandstands. He pulled a cross-eyed, goofy face with a bag of beef jerky raised like a damn trophy. Wren leaned in beside him, flashing a peace sign, grinning big.
But my eyes fixed on Sienna.
She was laughing so hard her eyes were squeezed shut. That bright blue tank top she had on matched the hot springs back home, and one of my felt hats sat low over her dark hair. The sun had turned her cheeks pink.
She looked damn good. That flush took me straight back to yesterday at the hotel, her face glowing just like that after we’d worn each other out, both of us breathing heavy and tangled up in the sheets.
Looking at the picture got my blood running hot, and my jeans feeling tighter than they should right before I had to climb on a bronc.
The phone buzzed again.
The wilder bunch
Wren
We’re baking our asses off out here, so make it a good ride.
We’re rooting for you.
Me
You guys stay hydrated. I’ll make it a great one.
Wyatt
Good luck. Maisie says to hold on tight so you can bring home the big heavy buckle.
Me
Tell the bug I’m bringing her a buckle home. If it’s not this one, one of the old ones.
Colt
Can I have one too?
A short laugh rumbled in my chest. I loved how they kept blowing up my phone right before a ride. It bled the nerves out of my muscles.
I locked the screen and shoved the phone deep into my bag, zipping it shut. Sienna’s picture was already burned into my head. I grabbed my rosin bag and rubbed the pine tar into my glove, letting the familiar grit ground me despite all the noise and chaos around me.
"Sticky enough to pull the paint off a truck?"
I glanced up. Tate Jenkins, a Texas kid who’d been having a hell of a rookie year, dropped his gear bag next to mine.
"Gettin’ there," I said. "You draw good today?"
"Got a roan mare from Calgary," he replied, pulling his chaps out. "She should buck. You see who ain’t on the day sheet?"
"Didn’t look."
"Dawson. Scratched this morning."
I paused, my thumb pressing deep into the leather. "Dawson? He’s been chasing points like hell, fighting to crack the Top Fifteen. Why?"
I hadn’t forgotten how Dawson talked to Sienna back in Cheyenne, or the way he’d acted like a smug bastard ever since. But pulling out of a rodeo this big meant something was wrong.
"His old man had a heart attack." Tate shook his head. "Passed away before he could even get to the airport."
The noise of the stadium faded for a second. My chest tightened.
I stared down at my glove as the old hate I carried for Dawson drained away. All that was left was a familiar, heavy ache in my gut.
I’d lost my mom. And it didn’t matter if you wore a gold buckle or hit the dirt. Grief cut everyone the exact same way.
"Damn," I muttered. "That’s a hard one."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Sucks. Anyway… good luck out there today."
"You too. Ride safe."
Tate walked off toward the stretching mats. I let out a slow breath and zipped my chaps up over my jeans.
For years I’d climbed into these chutes running on empty, riding to keep the bank away. Today felt different.
I slung my saddle over my shoulder and started toward the gates. My blood was running hot and clean. I had a ranch that was finally breathing, and a woman up in those stands who had my back.
If I rode strong today and punched my ticket to the National Finals, they would extend Sienna’s contract. I was riding to keep her back home in Wyoming, in my bed, for good.
The air behind the old wooden chutes tasted like crushed grass, hot dust, and copper. The roar of seventeen thousand fans pressed in from every side, loud enough to rattle my ribs.
Arenas are usually hard-packed dirt. You know how you'll land and how a bronc will dig in. But Pendleton was different—a massive grass football field.
Horses hate it. They slip, scramble, and buck harder to find their footing. It makes every ride here unpredictable and dangerous as hell.
I climbed the worn wooden boards of Chute 6. Below me, the 1,200-pound bay gelding named Gannon shifted uneasily, heavy muscle rolling under his dark coat. The strong smell of horse hung thick in the air.
The PA announcer’s voice rang out across the field:
“Folks, next we’ve got Brock Wilder coming out on Gannon! This mean bay has put more cowboys on the ground than most broncs twice his age.”
Gannon flicked an ear back toward the voice and blew a heavy huff through his nostrils.
He wasn’t mean. He was just good at his job, and his job was putting cowboys in the dirt. I respected him for it.
“Hey, big fella,” I murmured, leaning over the rails. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”
I peered through the wooden slats, past the judges’ tables, out to the chain-link fence where the dirt track met the grass. Sienna stood right there, both hands gripping the fence tight. She’d left Colt and Wren in the stands to get closer.
Even from forty feet away, I could see the tension humming through her body. She hated this part.
I caught her eye and gave her a single nod. She returned it.
My palms were sweating, and I wiped them off roughly on my leather chaps. I didn’t usually get too nervous, but this ride carried too much weight. I couldn’t screw it up. I couldn’t let her pack up and go back to a cold apartment and a boss who treated her like garbage.
I locked my jaw, dragged in a lungful of sharp air, and forced the nerves down, replacing them with a cold, sharp focus.
The gateman leaned into the shaking chute, keeping the latch pinned as Gannon slammed his hip against the boards. “Ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
I slid my boot down the rail and dropped into the saddle. The bay tensed beneath me but stayed steady. I shoved my boots deep into the stirrups, found the rein, and wrapped it snug around my palm.
I shifted my hips, settling my weight. A sharp pull caught in my left shoulder. I tightened my grip on the rein and turned to the gateman.
I gave the nod.
The gate flew open.
Gannon exploded from the chute, launching himself and twisting violently in the air before slamming back down. Turf and dark dirt sprayed across my chaps.
The impact rattled my teeth. He spun left fast, hind legs slipping on the slick grass. I rolled my hips, fighting to stay on as the world jerked and bucked under me.
The crowd roared like thunder.
The bronc whipped right in a plunging leap, trying to tear me loose. My shoulder screamed at the stretch. The rope burned against my palm, but I gripped it harder. I threw my weight backward, keeping time with his front feet.
The pickup men suddenly flanked me. I hadn’t even heard the buzzer over the blood pounding in my ears.
I reached out, grabbed the leather harness of the nearest pickup horse, and swung my right leg over Gannon’s back as he bucked. I let go of the rigging and dropped to the ground.
My boots slammed into the grass. My knees buckled for a second, and I stumbled, chest heaving.
I straightened up, rolled my left shoulder, and pulled in a deep, burning breath of air. The wild, electric high of the ride tore through my veins as the announcer’s voice boomed across the field.
“Eighty-nine and a half points!” the announcer bellowed. “Brock Wilder is on top of the leaderboard!”
The stadium erupted into a deafening wall of sound.
I yanked my glove off and wiped sweat from my brow with my forearm. I grabbed my hat out of the grass, knocked the green smears off the brim, and gave the screaming crowd a quick tip.
But I wasn’t watching them.
I turned straight toward the fence. Sienna was pressed against the chain-link. Colt and Wren had run down from the stands and stood right behind her, yelling their heads off.
Sienna dropped her hands and laughed, pointing frantically up at the digital scoreboard.
It wasn’t over yet. The math wasn't final, and I still had work to do before Vegas was officially locked in. But that was the best ride I’d had in weeks.
I glanced back at Sienna, that huge smile on her face, and felt something lock into place in my chest.
One step closer.
Two weeks later, I was about to lose my mind.
Rain hammered the roof of Wild Sage. Dad had a fire going in the stone fireplace for hours, and now the living room was hot as a furnace. All seven of us were crammed in there, trapped by the storm and waiting on midnight.
The PRCA season was done, and the final rodeos had wrapped. But the association wouldn't post the audited world standings until twelve.
Colt wore a path across the braided rug, boots thumping the same ten-foot stretch over and over. "If this storm knocks out the internet, I'm driving my truck straight through the nearest cell tower."
Wren was balled up in the armchair, strangling a throw pillow. "Sit down, Colt. You're making me dizzy."
"I can't sit. Too excited."
"Then pace outside. In the rain."
"Hey." Dad's voice cut through from his recliner. They both shut up. He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes on the flames. "Pacing won't change the numbers."
Wyatt sat on the floor by the fire, letting Maisie weave pink yarn through his hair. She'd been at it for twenty minutes, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth.
I leaned in the doorway between the hallway and the living room, arms crossed.
Sienna sat cross-legged on the rug, swallowed up in my gray hoodie. The hood had slipped back, her dark hair spilling out. Her laptop screen lit her face in the dim room. Every thirty seconds, her finger tapped the trackpad.
She chewed her bottom lip. The same tab had been open for the last twenty minutes.
Colt held his wrist up. "11:58. Sienna, hit it again."
"I'm hitting it. It hasn't updated."
"Hit it harder."