Page 6 of Fall With Me (Sugarland Creek)

Eyes on the prize, Ellie.

And that prize is winning first place.

I inhale the humid summer air mixed with dirt and leather. The smell combination is one I’m used to and brings a warmth of memories to the surface each time.

There’s nothing better than being at a rodeo. It feels like home.

The crowd cheers for Marcia Grayson, who just ran the barrels at probably the fastest speed I’ve ever seen her race, but when her time is announced, I smile to myself.

It’s good enough for first place but not enough to beat me.

I started barrel racing when I was thirteen. It’s all I’ve focused on for the past six years.

Between attending clinics and consistently training, I’ve established a good technique for what works for us. AlthoughI’m not always on my A game, I’m competitive and arrogant enough to believe I’ll win regardless.

It’s nearly dark out, so the arena is beaming with bright stadium lights. Although the sun’s gone down, sweat drips down my back as the nerves take over. This rodeo is at a county fair an hour outside of my hometown, and although it’s a non-pro event, I’m still just as driven to win. Any prize money I win goes toward Ranger’s lifetime earnings and with it being close to home, it wasn’t a big deal to make the trip. Since the riders are a mix of non-pro and pro barrel racers, I get to run against men and women I don’t usually compete against.

The race time ranges depend on how big the arena is and how fast the riders are. Tonight, they’ve been between sixteen and seventeen seconds. Well, not including the couple of riders who knocked down barrels and got five-second penalties added on.

The time to beat is Marcia’s at sixteen point one one two seconds.

As I sit on Ranger, he whines and stomps in place, waiting for our turn. He’s as eager as I am to get in there.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Ranger’s more competitive than me.

But my voice is enough to calm him.

“Hang tight, buddy.” I lean down from the saddle and rub his neck, then speak softly near his ear, “We got this. Just like we always do.”

He’s the gelding quarter horse I’ve had since I was sixteen and runs all my races with me. We’ve spent hundreds of hours practicing together, and I trust him with my life.

Now at nineteen, I may not have a social or dating life, but I have Ranger.

I love dressing up in all pink for these events, and even though he’s a male, he’s decorated the same. It gives our duosome personality flair. Sparkly pink cowboy hat, pink cowboy boots under my jeans, and a bright pink collared button-up shirt that matches his pink saddle pad, breast collar, leg wraps, and bridle set. He’s my boy who wears pink with pride.

“Good luck,” Easton says when I exit the waiting pen.

“We don’t need it, but thanks!” I wave as I guide Ranger toward the alleyway where the music and cheering grow louder.

Ranger’s flowing with adrenaline and when he hears the emcee speak, he does little sideways tippy taps as we wait for the gate to open. I always hype him up before we run down to get him ready and to double-check my balance.

“You ready for this, Ranger?” I ask, and his ears tilt toward me as he waits for my command. “Let’s show ’em whatcha got.”

The moment I give him a quick kick, he runs full speed down the alleyway. Ranger’s gaze is locked on the first barrel the moment he sees it.

“Like a glue stick!” I remind him, then smile proudly at how good he does staying in the pocket to avoid knocking over the barrel and manages to twist around it without losing too much speed. “Thatta boy.”

My words come out between short-labored breaths, but he hears every word.

When my body shifts in the saddle, my boot slips out of the stirrup, and the side of my foot nudges the second barrel on the turn. My tight grip on the saddle horn releases, quickly grabbing the edge of the barrel and keeping it upright as I keep a firm hold on the reins.

“Whew, that was close,” I say before Ranger takes off like a rocket to the third one and completes the cloverleaf pattern.

“Yes,hustle home!” I lean forward, hovering closer to his mane and keeping my hold on the reins as he sprints back to the alleyway.

I refuse to use a whip on him mostly because I don’t need to. We have a deep connection, so he knows what to do just from my body language and the tone of my voice. He reads my cues well enough and knows what I need him to do without a crop.

He’s my soul horse, and I’d be lost if anything ever happened to him.

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