Page 1 of Wild Horses

CHAPTER ONE

laramie

Waco, Texas

October

Expectation and excitement pebble across my skin as I breathe in. Leather. Saddle oil. Dust. Horsehair. The roar of the crowd. There’s nothing in the world like the high of a rodeo.

A looped video of me tipping my hat and winking at the camera plays on the oversized screen while my name, ranking, and prior round times flash beneath my face. The packed arena hums with the buzz of the final-day crowd. Applause rains down, feeding the little goblin inside me who hungers for greatness, praise, and thrills.

“Laramie.” The warm timbre of my dad’s voice draws my attention. Squeezing my foot where it rests in the stirrup, he says, “You’re up, kiddo. Run it clean,” before disappearing into the crowd of rodeo hands.

Kit Larson is a man of few words, but he’s never let me down. He can’t make it to all my races now that I travel close to two-thirds of the year, but if I’m within a few hours, he’s here.I don’t have to see him to know he’s going to his seat so he can film my ride. It’s the same thing he’s done at every race he’s been to since I was nine and decided being on the back of the fastest horse I could find was how I wanted to spend my life.

Comforted by the idea of him watching me, I shake out my shoulders, uncoiling the taut muscles. Despite almost two decades in the saddle, my nerves still flutter, and my stomach rolls. But I’ve learned to keep my hands steady and a smile on my face.

Like she owns the place, Xpresso struts into the alley. We wait near the gate handler, and I inhale once more. The familiar scents saturate my system. I count to five; then I exhale.

The chaos around me fades to black. No more knot in my gut. No more pulse ringing in my ears. No more applause. It’s just me and the thousand pounds of animal between my thighs.

X is by far the best horse I’ve ever owned or ridden. She’s been mine since she was a foal, and we’ve spent the last six years working toward this. Putting our time in, eating dirt, racing at rinky-dink local rodeos with no purse. Working circuit after circuit. Clawing our way up the rankings. Grinding as she grew into her talent, and I learned to read her like a book. Last year we were so close, seventeenth overall. Two spots away from the big show.

We were both disappointed. People are skeptical about what horses perceive, but X knew. She knew how close we came and how devastated I was when we were mere points from the top.

But that’s okay. I pat her long neck as though she might read my thoughts and think I doubt her. I don’t. This is our year. The season has been a dream. And winning tonight will clinch it—the proverbial feather in my ten-gallon hat.

X’s ears flick, and she lets out a whinny. Anticipation burns through us both, so I lean forward, my voice calm. “I’m itching to go, too, but easy, girl. It’s almost time.” Tightening my grip on the saddle horn and the reins, X waits on my cue, her body—and mine—primed and ready to explode into motion.

Five.

My mind sharpens to a razor’s edge.

Four.

The cloverleaf pattern is a brand in my brain. Three barrels stand between me and everything I’ve ever wanted.

Three.

I envision every turn, every stride X and I have to make to shave precious fractions of a second off the clock.

Two.

Sub-sixteen seals the deal.

One.

We can do it.

Go!

As one, we surge forward, bursting from the alley into the arena at a full gallop. Time doesn’t cease to exist—it’s all that matters—and we run on pure instinct. X and I deliver a masterclass in the delicate dance of speed and control. We race toward the first barrel as if our lives depend on it; less than half a minute seals our fate.

Just like my mental run-through, we’re flawless. No stutters, no pauses. X’s hooves thunder over the packed clay and loam, and together, we hug the turns like a Formula One driver let loose on an empty road.

As we round out the last barrel and shoot toward the straightaway, I can taste it. The buckle, the purse, the points. It’s ours.

Rising in the saddle, I urge X on. “We’ve got this girl.” Her mane and my long dark hair tangle together, our heartsbeating in tandem, lungs gulping in air. We’re two animals, one mind, Xpresso and I.

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