Chapter 1
Amarillo, Texas
Present Day
The photographer has good hands and dangerous eyes, and I notice both before I notice she's aiming a camera at my face.
I'm behind the chutes at the Amarillo event, prepping Satan's Gambit—a mean son of a bitch who's thrown every rider who's tried him in the past three months.
My rope's coiled on the rail, rosin bag ready, and I'm running through the mental checklist that's kept me alive for over a decade of professional bull riding.
Check the rope. Check the bell. Check the—
Click. Click. Click.
Camera shutter. Close. Too close.
I turn my head and there she is. Five-six, maybe five-seven, auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a photographer's vest with a dozen pockets and a camera that costs more than most riders make in a month.
She's got the lens aimed at me like she's documenting evidence, not taking promotional shots.
"You're not supposed to be back here," I say.
She lowers the camera. Amber-brown eyes meet mine without flinching. "Press credentials get me anywhere the action is."
"Action's in the arena. This is the workspace."
"This is where the real story happens." She raises the camera again. Click. "Before the eight seconds. When you're still just a man instead of a spectacle."
I grab my rope bag and move to the next chute over, putting space between us. She follows.
"I can have you removed," I tell her.
"You could." She keeps shooting. "But then you'd miss the chance to tell me why you're riding Satan's Gambit when everyone knows he's unrideable."
"Because he isn't."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." I turn to face her full-on, using my height to intimidate. Most people step back when I do this. She doesn't. "Who are you?"
"Rainey Weathers. Freelance photographer. I've been covering the Southwest Circuit for three years."
"Rainey Weathers." I almost smile. "Your parents do that on purpose?"
"My dad was a little tipsy when he filled out the birth certificate. By the time my mom noticed, it was already filed." She shrugs like she's told the story a hundred times. "Could've been worse. He wanted to name me Stormy."
Three years. I've seen her at events, always behind her camera, always shooting from angles nobody else considers.
Never paid her much attention until right now, when she's standing in my workspace with a lens aimed at my face like she's building a case file.
Three years is long enough to have been here when Tyler died.
Long enough to have photographed things she might not realize were important.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"An interview. About Tyler Brennan's death."
My hands stop moving on the rope bag. "Tyler's death was ruled an accident."
"I know what it was ruled." She lowers the camera, and for the first time I see something other than professional detachment in her expression. Something sharp. "I also know you don't believe that."
"You don't know a damn thing about what I believe."
"I know you've been asking questions. Talking to stock contractors.
Spending time around the bulls after events when most riders are at the bar or the motel.
" She tilts her head, studying me. "I know you ride like you've got a death wish, and I know Tyler Brennan was your friend.
So, either you're self-destructing out of guilt, or you're looking for something. "
Smart. Too smart. And paying too much attention.
"Background for your article?"
"Something like that."
"Here's your quote: Tyler Brennan was one of the best riders on this circuit. His death was a tragedy. We all miss him." I pick up my rope bag. "That cover it?"
"Not even close."
The announcer's voice booms over the speakers, calling my name for the ride. I've got maybe two minutes before I need to be settled on Satan's Gambit.
Rainey Weathers doesn't move out of my way. She stands there looking at me like she's waiting for something, and the irritating thing is I can't tell what game she's playing. Journalist looking for a sensational story? Someone who actually gives a damn about Tyler? Or something else entirely?
"I don't have time for this," I say.
"Make time. After your ride."
"I might be dead after my ride."
"Then I'll photograph your funeral." She steps aside, finally giving me space to get to the chute. "But if you survive, we talk."
I don't answer. Just move past her toward Satan's Gambit, who's already in the chute and looking for something to destroy. The bull's black as midnight, close to two thousand pounds, and meaner than anything else running the circuit this season. Three months, ten attempts, zero successful rides.
I settle onto his back, work my gloved hand into the rope, and feel the familiar rush that comes right before the chute opens. This is the only time I feel clear anymore. The only time the anger and guilt and questions shut up long enough for me to just exist in the moment.
Eight seconds. That's all I need. Eight seconds where nothing matters except staying on and not dying.
The gateman looks at me. I nod.
The chute opens.
Satan's Gambit launches like he's got a personal vendetta against gravity. Straight up, twisting midair, coming down hard enough to rattle my teeth. I adjust my weight, keep my left arm up, and ride the first three seconds on pure muscle memory.
The bull spins left. I counter. He kicks high, trying to throw me forward. I lean back, stay centered over my hand. Four seconds. Five.
Then Satan does something I'm not expecting. He plants his front hooves and throws his back end straight up, bucking vertical, and I lose my balance. My hand slips in the rope. I'm going over his head, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I hit the ground shoulder-first. Pain explodes down my arm and ribs. The bullfighters are moving, pulling Satan's attention, but the bull's already lost interest in me. He trots toward the exit gate like he's bored.
I roll to my feet, testing my shoulder. Hurts like hell but nothing's broken. Blood's running down my face from somewhere, probably my eyebrow split open again, and I can already feel the bruises forming along my ribs.
The crowd's making noise, that sympathetic groan they make when a ride goes bad.
I grab my hat from the dirt, walk out of the arena, and immediately spot Rainey Weathers standing by the rail with her camera trained on me like a scope.
She got the whole thing. Every second of me getting my ass handed to me by a bull that just proved why nobody's ridden him successfully. Yet.
I walk past her without stopping, heading for the medical tent. The event medic tries to get me to sit down, but I wave him off. It's just a cut. I've had worse.
"Let me at least look at it," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on my floor."
Fair point. I sit on the exam table and let him clean the gash above my eye. Three butterfly bandages later, I'm technically patched up, even though I can feel the adrenaline wearing off and every impact from that ride starting to register.
When I step out of the medical tent, Rainey's waiting.
"That was stupid," she says.
"Didn't ask for your opinion."
"Satan's Gambit has thrown every rider who's tried him. What made you think you'd be different?"
"Optimism." I start walking toward the stock pens. She falls into step beside me. "Interview's over."
"We haven't started yet."
"Then it was the shortest interview in history."
She moves in front of me, blocking my path. Up close, I notice details I missed before. Freckles across her nose. Calluses on her hands from years of hauling camera equipment. The way she plants her feet like she's used to standing her ground.
"Tyler Brennan was asking questions two days before he died," she says quietly.
"Questions about prize money and where it goes.
Questions about stock contractors and who's getting paid what.
I photographed him having a very intense conversation with someone behind the stock pens the night before his final ride. "
I stop. Now she has my attention. "Who was he talking to?"
"I don't know. I was shooting the bulls, and they were in the background. I didn't think anything of it at the time." She pauses. "But I kept the photos."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because Tyler deserved better than being written off as an accident. And because I think you're the only person on this circuit who actually gives a damn about finding out what really happened." Her eyes search mine. "Am I wrong?"
No. She's not wrong.
"I want to see those photos," I say.
"Then we have a deal. You talk to me, I show you what I have."
"That's blackmail."
"That's journalism." She crosses her arms. "Do we have a deal or not?"
I should walk away. Should tell her to take her photos to the authorities and let them handle it. Should focus on riding and earning points and staying alive long enough to finish the season.
But Tyler tried to tell me something before he died. Tried to warn me about something he'd found out. And if this photographer has evidence, even accidentally, then she's the best lead I've got.
"Tomorrow morning," I say. "Eight AM. Where are you staying?"
"I live in my van. It's parked in the lot behind the west entrance."
"Of course you do." I start to walk past her, then stop. "One rule. You don't publish anything about this. About Tyler, about whatever we find, nothing. Not until we know what we're looking at."
"I'm a photographer, not an investigative reporter."
"I don't care what you call yourself. I'm not having Tyler's death turned into sensational journalism while the people who killed him walk free."
She considers this. "If I agree to that, I want something in return."
"You're getting a front-row seat to me finding out who killed my friend. That's what you get."
"I want the whole story. When this is over, when we figure out what happened to Tyler, I want exclusive rights to document it all."
"This isn't about your career."
"And it's not just about your guilt." She doesn't back down.
"I've been on this circuit for three years.
I've photographed every event, every rider, every behind-the-scenes moment.
If there's a pattern, if there's evidence hidden in thousands of photos, I'm the only one who can find it.
So yes, this is partially about my career. It's also about doing the right thing."
I study her face, looking for the angle, the lie, the manipulation. But all I see is someone who's angry in the same way I am. Angry that Tyler's death got brushed under the rug. Angry that nobody seems to care enough to ask questions.
"Fine," I say. "Tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
I walk away before I can change my mind. Before I can think too hard about whether trusting a journalist I just met is the stupidest decision I've made in a week full of stupid decisions.
Behind me, I hear the camera shutter. Click. Click. Click.
She's still photographing. Still documenting. Still seeing more than I want anyone to see.
Tomorrow morning, I'm either going to get my first real break in Tyler's case, or I'm going to confirm that I'm chasing ghosts and conspiracy theories born from guilt and grief.
Either way, at least I'll know. I just hope Tyler's warning was worth dying for.