Page 37 of Wild Horses

“Did Laramie do that when she was young?”

“Sure did.” Pride seeps from him. “Until it got too boring for her, then she was off on the back of a horse.”

It’s easy to picture a little Laramie demanding to ride a horse over a lamb. “She’s not scared of much, is she?”

Kit mulls over my words. “She puts on a brave face. Now, don’t get me wrong, my daughter would chase lightning in a tin suit if the mood struck her, but there’s plenty that scares her.”

I wait for him to go on, watching as he presses his lips into a thin line. “Mimi lost her mom when she was sixteen. That’s a hard time for a girl, hell, any kid, to lose a parent. I did my best, but her past relationships haven’t been worth writing home about.” He rubs the stubble on his jaw. “I’m not gonna sayanything else because that’s between you and her, but don’t let her daring keep you from seeing the rest of her.”

With a grunt, Kit stands. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want one?”

At my nod, he leaves me alone, pondering his words. I still have so much to learn about Laramie, and I hope she gives me the time and opportunity to do it. The connection between us, the feelings I have for her are fast and maybe irresponsible, but it’s more than lust. The puzzle that is Laramie Larson somehow grows clearer and murkier.

While I wait, the cute kids finish riding—and falling off—their sheep. The announcer blares over the speakers, sharing the next event’s lineup.

“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to be on the edge of your seats! Our talented round-two barrel racers and their horses will compete against the clock and each other to secure a spot in tomorrow’s finals! Let’s hear a round of applause for our first competitor, Cheyenne Baker.”

“There won’t be as many riders tonight,” Kit says as he hands me a beer.

“Why’s that?”

“First night, there’s anywhere from thirty to fifty, but only the top fifteen move on. And after tonight, the top eight will compete tomorrow.”

“Damn, that’s a lot of pressure. This is her first race since her injury, right?”

“Yeah.” There’s a thread of worry in his one-word answer, and the way he downs his beer tells me enough.

We fall silent as the first racer comes and goes. Kit takes notes on each rider. A peek shows me it’s everything from their time to the angle of approach and body position.

“She’s next.”

My body tenses when Laramie and Xpresso burst through the open gate. I don’t know anything about barrel racing outside what I gleaned last night and today, but something seems off. They’re moving quickly but are far from the barrel on the first turn. Laramie shifts on X’s back as dirt flies around her thundering hooves.

Next to me, Kit swears, then mutters, “She’s in her head.” He exhales when she goes around the second barrel, but when they bump the third, he’s on his feet. “Shit.”

The barrel tips and lands with an inaudible thud, but from the crowd’s silence, you’d think it was a sonic boom.

“What happened?” I ask.

Kit’s face twists into a grimace. “She just knocked herself out of the running for the purse.”

When Kit and I get to the cool-down area, Laramie is already off Xpresso, her brown hair mixing with the horse’s mane as she buries her face into X’s neck. She stiffens when Kit puts a hand on hers. The one cradling her shoulder.

“Need help?” he asks.

She shrugs but doesn’t meet either of our eyes. We silently follow her to X’s stall, Laramie holding her shoulder the entire time.

I linger outside the stall door when we arrive, giving her some time with X and her dad. Kit hugs her, holding her like she’s something fragile. Like she’s his world.

My fingers curl against my thigh as I think of Tuesday and my dad. Have I ever once seen him comfort her? Hug her? Shit, I honestly can’t think of a single time aside from a perfunctoryarm around the shoulder for a photo op. What might our lives have been like if we’d been so lucky to be raised by a man like Kit Larson?

Kit plucks the hat off her head, hangs it on a nearby hook, and then kisses her hair. “I’m heading home tomorrow.” His eyes lock on mine. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make Pueblo.”

Pueblo?

“S’okay,” she mumbles. “Colorado is outside the drive zone.” The smile tugging at her lips loosens the knot in the pit of my stomach. Seeing her bump her dad’s hip with her own does even more, and the breath that weighed in my lungs finally escapes.

He whispers something in Laramie’s ear then meets my gaze. A wordless conversation passes between us, the older man telling me to take care of his daughter. I nod, the movement solid and sure, and a plan forms in my mind.

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