Page 43 of Down in Flames

Almost.

“You’re up, Keller,” a cowboy announced, ripping him out of his thoughts.

He glanced around the arena. The weather was lousy for a rodeo. Rain pounded so fast and loud on the aluminum roof that it sounded like the roar of the ocean. The humidity mixed with sawdust and manure into an acrid stew that burned West's nostrils with every breath, and each exhale hung in front of his face like a mist.

The crowd was quiet, mostly bored rural families looking for some Friday night excitement beneath the stadium lights. Gone were the summer rodeos laced with sunscreen and caramel corn. Old folks were tucked together with lap blankets, and children were stuffed into woolen hats and jackets. Even the buckle bunnies had shed their crop tops and daisy dukes for plaid and tight-fitting denim.

West's heart was pumping so fast he didn't feel the cold, not even in his threadbare T-shirt and jeans. His lucky hat was still at the bottom of a swampy pit on the Triple M, so he twisted his trucker cap around backward and swung a leg over the chute.

A roan stallion with a buzzcut mane pranced below, calm and ready, an old hand who'd been raised for shows since he was just a colt.

"Starting off in chute number three today, the one-hand-hold wild man's contest of a lifetime! Give it up for Kade Keller and our first-class bucking bronco Fuuuury Roooaaad!" The announcer's voice was like a roll of thunder, washing over the arena.

West ignored the words as he braced himself on a gate and eased down into the chute. The heat of the stallion was familiar and reassuring, seeping through his jeans like they were somehow sharing strength.

He wouldn't need to sabotage himself today, not when he was already riding at a handicap with his injured shoulder. He snugged his hand in the rigging, wedging his knuckles into the handle until the leather of his glove creaked.

"Remember, folks, the louder you cheer, the better they ride!"

Not West. The arena could have been empty, and he'd still ride. No hit he took could compare to everything his father and brothers had been through their whole lives. He'd watched from the outside as they came home with bruises and broken bones, filthy and wrung out like limp rags from endless, back breaking work, and all they'd ever asked of him was that he stay alive. He'd gotten real good at that, and all it had cost him was every scrap of pride.

He'd hoped with time that the tide was turning, but he knew now that would never be anything but a pipe dream. Even Michael, a man who was clueless about his past, couldn't quite bring himself to treat him like an equal. The way he'd stormed to the rescue the other day proved that he didn't think West could handle himself. Worse, he didn't trust West to keep Abby safe. Maybe he was right. Sutter outweighed him by nearly seventy pounds, he figured. He probably would have mopped the floor with him. But it stung something fierce that Michael and Eli had felt like they needed to save him.

He'd lived his whole damn life like one of his mother's geegaws, set up on a shelf somewhere collecting dust. He didn't want to hurt anybody, but he couldn't go on living like that forever. If Michael ever found out that he'd been born with HLHS, that would be the end of any hint of equality between them.

He loved how fiercely Michael wanted to protect the people around him, but it was that need of his that would turn him into West's strictest warden once he knew the truth. West hated lying to him, but he'd settle for it if that was the only way to keep him.

"Remember, half the score goes to the horse and half to the cowboy! How hard they kick, how high they jump, and how much control our boys show during the ride!"

If this was the only place in West's life where he had any control at all, so be it.

He took a deep breath and settled back, lifting his creaky arm and tucking the heels of his boots over the stallion's shoulders to stay within the mark out rules. It gave the advantage to the horse on his first jump out of the gate, but that was the only advantage this bronc was going to get. West was stone-cold ready to take this ride apart, one buck at a time, until he killed that nagging doubt in the back of his mind.

He gave a nod, and they pulled the gate.

The stallion came out of the chute like a rocket launch, and for once, West didn’t even have to sabotage himself. He was off-center from the start, and hanging on with his bad arm was hell. All the athletic tape in the world couldn’t withstand that amount of torque. In less than a second, he knew that he was going to eat dirt. But he didn’t. Instead, Fury Road stumbled, jack-knifing sideways and flinging him off his back. He sailed like a frisbee into a metal post. He struck with a hollow thunk and dropped to the ground with a groan.

An audible gasp went through the crowd.

West lay there, winded, but he didn’t know for how long. Time had stopped. His ears were ringing. He thought he might be in pain, but he couldn’t be sure. All he felt was adrenalin, surging like a heartbeat in each of his joints.

“You okay, kid?” Hank Pruitt was working as a pickup rider today. He reined in beside West, knocking his hat back to get a good look at him.

“He’s a killer,” West groaned, clutching his arm as he crawled to his feet. Sweat rolled down his face, but he couldn’t even lift a sleeve to wipe it away. His heart was tripping in his chest, too fast, like the frantic flapping of a bird’s wings. But he was already flying.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t even stayed on long enough to earn a score.

“Listen, Keller.” The cowboy slung one arm over the swell of his saddle, leaning down and dropping his voice to a confidential low. “You’re one tough kid. Ain’t nobody can say otherwise. But I’ve been watching you for a while now, and you’ve got the worst luck I ever saw.”

West’s ribs creaked when he laughed. “I’m not arguing.”

“No shame in it. Better ‘n you have tried and failed. Your daddy ought to have taught you that much.”

West froze. Alarm raced through him, pumping his gradually slowing pulse back into the stratosphere. His mouth went dry, and his breath picked up. Hank's steady gaze was unnerving.

West's eyes skittered around the arena. “I—er…”

He hadn't even finished tripping over his own tongue before the cowboy was laughing. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened, canyons carved from decades of weather. "You might be foolin' most everyone with that fake name of yours, but those of us who rode with your daddy know better. You've got his look."

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