Page 3 of Wild Horses

“Can’t a friend offer congratulations?”

“A friend, yes. You? No. What do you really want?” The words come out harsh, but Cyrus McClain isnota friend. He’s a misogynistic asshole. A creep. A loud drunk. A bully. A decent bronc buster. But a friend? No.

“Don’t be like that.” He clinks the lip of his bottle to mine. “Congrats on making it to Vegas, Lucky.”

Lucky. Lucky Laramie Larson. Some announcer called me that years ago, and it stuck. I’ve spent every race since proving to the rodeo community luck has nothing to do with it. With a saccharine sweet smile, I say, “Not luck. Just talent. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

The man to my right chuckles until Cyrus shoots him a withering glare before saying, “Your horse does all the work, and you get all the glory. I’d like to see you stay on a bronc for longer than three seconds.”

“Don’t be mad you didn’t make the leaderboard, McClain.” This time, both men pinning me in cover their mouths to stifle their laughs.

Cyrus narrows his eyes. “You barrel bunnies walk around here like your shit don’t stink. Like you’re too good for guys like us.”

By guys like us, do you mean incels?It takes great restraint, but I manage to swallow that thought.

I elbow the cowboys on either side of me, forcing some space between us as I stack my trash. I’m ready to be the bigger person and leave this conversation and the unwelcome company.

But then Cyrus goes and says four words I can’t ignore. “You don’t belong here.”

The same inner voice that has me chasing thrills also serves as a pair of double devils on my shoulders when pushed too far. They’ve guided me at breakneck speeds down rocky cliffs. Literal and figurative. They were there in first grade when Brett Hoffman pulled my hair, and I knocked out his front tooth. Again, in junior high, when Shelby Johnson told everyone I stuffed my bra, so I flashed the room to prove I didn’t. And for sure when my only long term boyfriend cheatedon me, and I left his clothes on his front lawn, along with a not-so-subtlefuck youspray painted on his garage.

And those little devils are lighting a fire in me again. “Is that a challenge?”

“Oh, the bunny’s got teeth.” The swarthy cowboy to my left sneers.

Cyrus chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Naw, no challenge. Because there’s no way you can hang. You’re a typical arena princess. Hauling around that pink trailer in the pickup your daddy paid for. Riding on a ten-k pony, also paid for by your dad.” He sniffs. “You’re nothing but tits, ass, hair, and luck, Larson.”

For the briefest moment, another voice breaks through—a quieter, calmer one.

Be safe. Be smart.

“Sorry, Dad,” I mutter before downing the rest of my long neck and shoving up from the table, not caring when I knee goon two—Cyrus didn’t bother introducing his companions to me, and I didn’t bother to care—in the side. “I paid for X and that truck my own goddamn self. And even if he had paid for them, it wouldn’t stop me from outlasting you. But then I imagine you’re used to being outlasted in multiple areas of your life.”

“How about you put that smart mouth to use, choking on my?—”

I cut him off as he grabs his crotch. “I prefer foot longs to cocktail weenies, asshole. Now, are we doing this or not?”

Anger flashes on Cyrus’ face as his buddies laugh. He shoots them a look that quiets them before raking his eyes over me from head to toe. His lecherous leer makes my Wranglers feel like a negligee. With a cruel smile, he says, “Let’s see how lucky you are.”

Five minutes later, I hoist myself over the gate that looksout onto an empty practice arena. It’s small, with packed dirt rather than the clay and loam mixture of the indoor facility. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch if I fall, but I’m not backing down.

Goon two leads a stallion to the chute. The animal is agitated and annoyed. I don’t blame him. I’d be grumpy if someone snatched me from the stock pen and brought me here.

Goon one tosses a saddle on the horse, who immediately bucks, fighting to toss it off.Shit. I ease closer to the chute, the raw power radiating off the stallion prickling over my skin. Am I really doing this? I’ve been around horses my entire life, but this is nothing like my usual ride.

Fueled by righteous indignation and beer number four, I steel my spine and mount up. The bronc snorts, stomps, and shudders, tossing his head. Doing my damnedest not to put too much tension on the flank strap, I tighten my grip and exhale.

The gate opens, and the horse explodes like a cannonball fired at an enemy ship. He’s pure untamed energy, a frenzy of muscles and hooves. The initial burst jars the bones in my body, and I almost lose it right there. Each twist, kick, and buck requires every ounce of my strength to hang on. The reins are less than worthless even as the leather bites into my palm. My thighs scream as I use them to clench around the horse’s sides.

An eternity passes until Goon One says, “I’ll be damned—that’s three.”

Jubilant in my victory, I throw Cyrus a cocky smirk. And in that split second, that blink of an eye, my trajectory shifts. Something in my shoulder pulls, and a sudden, searing snap bursts in my muscles. My grip falters, the rein slipping as my arm goes numb and useless at my side.

Whatever small modicum of control I have over my body and the horse is gone, and the ground rises up to meet me.From the dirt, I watch the bronc’s dappled hindquarters race away while I struggle to draw air into my screaming lungs. As the world blurs around me, the sound of boots pounding toward me briefly cuts the haze, but then another wave of pain radiates outward from my right shoulder and down my arm. My wrist aches and my fingers tingle. I try to make a fist, try to keep my dream from slipping through my fingers, but I can’t.

What the hell have I done?

CHAPTER TWO

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