Page 158 of Burn the Wild

“What?” Dakota cranes through the crowd.

“Oh fuck.” Ford groans. Fallon wears a cowboy hat.

“Is wearing a cowboy hat that bad?” I ask Ford.

He smears a hand down his face. “It ain’t good.”

We all lean forward, watching Fallon get into position in the chute.

In the thousand glittering lights of the outdoor arena, even though she’s not here for beauty, Fallon stuns in simple cream and brown attire. Ribbons dangle from her vest. Her thick caramel braid tucked under her hat. Limbs tense, she’s fierce and coltish in the twilight.

In her face I see the same restless search I once felt. Who am I? What do I want? One thing is clear: she craves the spotlight. Nothing wrong with that. I used to love it, too.

But not anymore.

And that’s when I realize I know what I want. I might not be New Reese, but I’m good enough. Right here. Happy. Alive. And that’s everything.

Ford’s arm tightens around me. “You okay?”

I kiss him softly. “I’m perfect.”

Then the announcer’s voice echoes around the arena. “From our very own Resurrection, Montana, our hometown girl, our woman bull rider, Fallon McGraw!”

The horn sounds and the chute flies open. Bull and beast come roaring out. Fallon’s poised, right arm raised, left hand gripping the braided rope handle. I know nothing about bull riding, but she looks wild and free.

Like she could do it every damn day for the rest of her life.

That’s love.

That’s lunacy.

It’s exactly how I feel about Ford and this life of mine.

The bull thrashes Fallon, but she hangs on. Eight seconds feels like eight years.

I’m wincing, covering my eyes, while watching through my fingers.

The crowd lets out a deafening roar of excitement as the buzzer rings, signaling she made it the full eight seconds.

“Oh my god!” Dakota screams. She launches out of her seat. “She did it.”

Fallon hits the ground—hard—and then pops up to standing, dusting herself off. If she’s in any pain, she hides it like a pro.

“Holy hell!” the announcer screams. “Fallon McGraw has just made history in the fine state of Montana, folks!”

A beaming Fallon steps into the spotlight, tears off her Stetson, and tosses it into the air.

I’ve never seen her look this happy. The weight she’s carried this summer is gone—if only for a second.

In the crowd, I spy Wyatt hanging on the rails, a Cheshire cat grin spreading across his face. Relief, pride in his eyes.

Media swarms Fallon as she exits the ring.

The tension eases, and we settle back to watch more bull riders. Cole Weston takes the lead, draws a massive bull. An hour drifts by, then it’s time for Wyatt—bareback bronc riding to close the rodeo.

In the chute, Wyatt glances around the arena. Beside me, Ford’s body stiffens. Around me, all the brothers have gone on alert.

I glance at Ruby, who shakes her head, just as confused as me.

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