Page 2 of Wild Horses

And we’re going to win.

The open alley waits for us, the pathway to my dreams. Las Vegas. The national finals. All I have to do is reach out and take it.

My smile is beatific as we race past the finish line. I don’t need to hear the announcer to confirm what I can feel in my bones. We did it.

Despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I ease up on the reins, guiding X to one of the designated cool-down lanes and taking her from a full-out gallop to a canter, then to a trot, and finally to a walk until we enter the holding pen. I dismount, and my sassy horse tosses her head, her chestnut mane flaring around her.

“You want me to braid your hair? Reward you for your hard work?” Her ears flick, and she nudges my pocket. “Ah, I see. You want peppermints.” I snake one out and feed it to her as I loosen the cinch on the saddle.

A deep voice sounds behind me. “15.74.”

With a whoop, I whirl around and, like I’m seven, jump into my dad’s arms, bear-hugging the man who’s supported me on each step of this journey. Through broken bones, broken spirits, and broken hearts. Through anxiety and disappointment. He isn’t an emotional man, but I swear I see tears in his brown eyes.

“Proud of you, Mimi.”

I hug him tighter at the use of my childhood nickname. “Love you, Dad.”

“I wish your mom was here to see you now. She always was your biggest fan.” He chuffs. “Well, second biggest.”

Clearing his throat, my dad drops me to the ground. “Alright, enough of the mushy stuff.” He tosses me my phone. “I sent you the video of your run for you to review. Plus, you’ve got a horse to take care of.” He studies me. “I’m heading to the trailer. You celebrating?”

Grinning, I shrug. He knows me well. The Barbie pink trailer I call home when on the road is comfy but confining, and I’m way too restless after a race—after a win—to bunk down for the night.

“Maybe a little.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together and squint at him.

He kisses the top of my head. “Be safe. Be smart.”

Be safe. Be smart.It’s the same advice he’s given me since he caught me at a party—in his stolen truck. He drove the tractor into town hunting for me, which, to my fourteen-year-old self, was the most embarrassing thing he could have done. He also grounded me for a month, but after that, I told him my plans. And he’d just say, “Be safe. Be smart.”

I wish I could say I always heed his words, but more often than not, I chase sensation over security. Fast over slow. Surprise over steady.Hence, the career riding on a horse racing around barrels.I’ve given him more than a few gray hairs, but he’s my rock.

Dad hugs me once more, then tips his hat and leaves. Snagging the reins, I guide X to the event stables. “Come on, girl, let’s get you rubbed down and settled for the night. You deserve a couple of carrots. I might even have another peppermint for you.”

Looping Xpresso’s lead on a post, I make sure she has fresh straw and water, laughing when she walks in like the regal boss bitch she is. Then I take the saddle and gear off her before running my hands over her back and flanks, checking for any soreness or signs of irritation.

She swishes her tail in protest when my fingers run over a sensitive spot but otherwise stands still. She never shies awayfrom letting me know what’s bothering her, and for that I’m thankful. My well-being comes second to Xpresso’s; she does the heavy lifting, after all. While she munches on a carrot, I inspect her hooves and remove the neoprene boots wrapped around her legs. Happy with everything, I brush her down, working her muscles, praising her. I fish a peppermint from my pocket and rest my forehead on her muzzle. “You kicked ass tonight.”

Satisfied that Xpresso is good, I shut the stall door and take a deep breath. We fucking did it. They won’t post official results for a while yet, but it’s mine, ours—the National Finals Rodeo.

Letting out a loud cheer, I ignore the stares of the other riders around me. Not even the few annoyed glares coming my way can dampen this moment. Grinning like a fool, I straighten my hat, wash my hands, dust off my jeans, and make my way across the grounds. I wave to familiar faces and accept the congratulations tossed my way. A couple of the other racers I came up with from Juniors gather me in a big group hug, and I soak it in. Their support buoys my mood even more, and while we are competitive—we wouldn’t be at this level if we weren’t—their excitement for me is real.

Eventually, we split, the other ladies searching for their own ways to come down from the post-ride high. After a rodeo, there are all kinds of ways to let off steam. Sponsor parties, willing bed buddies, getting just this side of tipsy. My sponsors aren’t thehost-a-partytype—being a mid-size tack company and my dad’s stud farm—and I’m not in the mood for a quickie with any of the cowboys here. So tipsy it is.

I stop at a tent with a full cooler and a large spread of food. Snagging a beer, I let the hoppy flavor coat my tongue and wet my throat. It’s exactly what I need. I finish the drink in minutes and snag three more. I load up a plate and do an internal happydance when I find a table with room to spread out. Not that I need a lot; I’m pretty compact at five-four, but I like my space.

Music plays around me; someone’s got a speaker hooked up, blaring stereotypical bro-country. Despite that, it’s a perfect October night in Texas. The temp’s on the right side of seventy, and a smattering of stars twinkle overhead. Nothing can spoil this day.

The second and third beers go down even smoother than the first. My muscles relax with each drink, and the hearty BBQ sandwich eases the annoyance of not eating all day. I nod and wave to another barrel racer sitting at the far end of the table. She smiles before her eyes widen, and she gathers her stuff, all but running away.

Seconds later, I understand why. The weight of the table shifts as two large bodies press in, one on my left and one on my right, just as Cyrus McClain plops down across from me.Ah, not me she was running from then…

“Nice ride tonight—for a dash dolly.”

My shoulders rise to my ears at the dismissive term. Some cowboys on the circuit have a rage on for barrel racers. To them, we’re spoiled, pampered princesses, relying on our daddies or boyfriends to finance a way to play dress up on a pony. Or worse, buckle chasers looking to snag the next PRCA champion. It’s bullshit.

But it’s also expected, so Cyrus’ ugly words don’t surprise me.

Taking a long draw from beer number four, I swallow. As flat as possible, I ask, “Need something?”

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