Page 36 of Lassoed Love

Harrison chimes in, “C’mon, Xav. What is it with you two? You’ve always had some vendetta against her.”More like she’s had one against me.

I brush it off with a wave of my hand. “Nothing, leave it.” I’m not about to delve into the complexities of my feelings, especially with these two.Feelings?I’d trust these blokes with my life, but they both just have too big of a mouth to share shit like this with them… for now, I guess.

Of course Harrison doesn’t understand the idea of ‘Leave it.’He grins mischievously and nudges me. “Maybe you’ll be the cowboy to sweep her off her feet!” He laughs at his own joke, and Michael and I just sit there.

I roll my eyes. “You don’t shut up, do you?”

This earns a chuckle out of Michael and he chimes in without looking up from his phone, “Tell me about it,” he deadpans.

Harrison sticks the finger up at both of us, and I can’t help but chuckle at that.

The dusty air hangs thick around the rodeo arena as the contenders are called one by one. I make my way towards the iron pen fences, the horses lined up behind the bucking chutes, each contender ascending the platform stairs to saddle themselves onto their assigned bronc. I’ve been around these rodeos enough to understand the drill. Growing up on a farm, I’ve attended my fair share, even practised at home, though never driven enough to participate.

Three riders have already taken their chances, leaving me as the third in line. Four more are waiting behind me. The goal is simple: ride for eight seconds with one hand on the reins, avoiding any contact with the horse or oneself using the free hand. Both feet must stay in the stirrups, and the spurs must touch the point of the shoulder when the horse's feet touch the ground on the first jump. So far, three riders have gone, the last one falling just shy of the 8 seconds at 7.3 seconds. Tough break.

Harrison and Michael stand beside me on the platform, exchanging banter to ease the tension. “You got this, Xav!” Harrison shouts, a grin on his face. Michael just gives a supportive nod. The challenge awaits, and as I prepare for my turn, my focus sharpens on the task at hand.

The commentator’s voice echoes over the speaker, the upbeat music blaring in the background, “And our next contender, ladies and gents, is our very own local farmer, Xavier Mitchell!” The crowderupts in cheers, the sound reverberating through the arena, people chanting my name. It’s a symphony of excitement, a cacophony of voices blending into a unified roar of support.

Harrison and Michael are shouting and hollering from the fence, their words getting lost in the sea of noise. “Go get ‘em, Xav!" Harrison yells, and Michael adds a boisterous, “Make it look easy, mate!”

I look down at the black-coloured bronc beneath me, taking a deep breath and exhaling through my mouth. The men surrounding me engage in conversation, making sure everyone is ready to go. I carefully seat myself on the bronc, noticing this one is a bit more agitated than the ones I’d seen earlier.Fan-fucking-tastic.

The process of roughstock events is a meticulous dance, a series of steps choreographed to ensure both rider and bronc are ready for the electrifying eight seconds that follow. I feel the familiar sensation of being seated onto the horse, the firm grip on the rein, and the tension in the air as the rodeo men meticulously check all the ropes and flank straps, securing everything in place.

I exchange nods with the rodeo men, their experienced eyes assessing the readiness of the horse and rider. I give the cowboy nod for the man at the gate to see, signalling that I’m prepared for the ride. The hum of the loud buzzer looms into the atmosphere, a moment charged with anticipation. Time seems to stretch as the seconds tick by, the crowd's roar and the thumping of my own heart merging into a rhythmic soundtrack.

Then, in an instant, the gate swings open, and the action unfolds in slow motion. The bronc explodes out of the chute, a flurry ofhooves and flying dirt. I grip the rein with determination, my body moving in harmony with the powerful movements of the horse beneath me. The world blurs, and for those eight seconds, nothing else matters.

It’s just me and the relentless dance between man and beast.

16

Hilltop Creek Rodeo is buzzing with energy, a sea of people converging for a night of thrilling events. I take a deep breath, my heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and nervousness. David had been prompt, arriving at my place exactly at 6:30 pm.

The sight of him waiting at my door sent goosebumps down my arms, and for a moment, I was glad I spent a good twenty minutes or so deciding what to wear—which consisted of seeking Claire’s guidance via FaceTime—who did not shut up the whole time about me finally going on a date—and so I eventually settled on a white ruffle dress with short puffed sleeves. The dress paired perfectly with a blue denim jacket and my trusty brown western boots.This is not a date!

My hair, left in loose curls down my back, felt effortless, and I had clipped it up, half up and half down, with loose tendrils framing my face. Makeup was kept light and minimal—Claire’s mantra of “enhance, don’t cover up.” I wasn't one to spend hours in front of the mirror, and tonight was no exception. I'm glad I gathered the courage to pull this look off.This is new for me.I am not even entirelysure where this newfound confidence has come from?

I glance over at David, who now has my hand in his as we enter the showground—a smile playing on his lips. He seems awfully cheerful, this one. The men I’ve encountered recently are usually not so chipper—well… more likeonly one.

The showgrounds are alive with activity, the crowd bustling with excitement. I take a moment to appreciate the lively atmosphere, a far cry from the quiet moments spent at home or in contemplation. Tonight feels different, a step outside my comfort zone, and I'm ready to embrace the experience, even if my heart is doing a little two-step of its own. David still has his hand in mine as he guides me over to the small makeshift wooden bar surrounded by eskies, filled with assorted drinks.

He looks at me with a smile and asks, “What can I grab ya?” But before I can answer, he seems to answer his own question, deciding for me, “Something girly, aye? Fruity?”

Seriously?An involuntary irritation prickles within me. I’ve never been a fan of people making decisions for me, especially when it comes to drinks—or anything, for that matter. I’m not one for girly concoctions—give me something robust, like a bourbon and coke or a smooth whiskey.

A hint of irritation creeps into my voice as I respond, “Actually, I was thinking maybe a whiskey and coke.” I throw in a small smile, silently urging him to catch on.

“Oh, really? Maybe we’ll save the hard liquor for later on,” he says, winking.Uh, okay.The irritation lingers, but I shake it off, opting tokeep things polite. David scurries off to the bar to fetch our drinks.

His response raises a silent alarm in my mind. I can’t help but wonder what he might be insinuating. Is he suggesting something more than just drinks and conversation? Because that’s all this little meetup is—drinks, conversations, and some rodeo fun,right?The uncertainty nags at me, and my mind starts spiralling into overthinking mode—why does my mind suddenly drift to Xavier?Huh.

Maybe it’s the mention of whiskey, reminding me of that unexpected kiss we shared during a spur of the moment.He wouldn’t be here, would he?The idea sends tingles down my spine.Why do I care anyway?There’s literally nothing going on—I don’t want there to be. Do I?

He kissed me out of nowhere, and that’s it? I don’t even have his number, nor does he have mine—no other effort has been made on his part or mine. And why would he—or better yet, why would I? I push those thoughts aside, reminding myself to stay in the moment. I’m here with David; I shouldn’t be thinking of Xavier Mitchell. Argh. It annoys me now, thinking about how he just left. Why it annoys me, I don’t know. But damn him for kissing me like that and just leaving.

David returns, holding two clear plastic cups filled with an orange and red concoction. “Vodka Sunrises,” he announces as he hands me one. I take a sip, and the potency of it catches me off guard, the orange juice leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. My eyes widen, and my lip curls in distaste. How people enjoy the taste of vodka is just beyond me. It’s just not for me.

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