Page 12 of Eight Second Hearts

“I’m just saying,” I grumble. “You like her.”

“Like is a strong word,” he argues.

“It’s a weak word for me,” Beau interjects. “I’d like to get all up in her?—”

“Stop,” Ram growls. “We don’t need to discuss it any more.Comprende?”

“Ain’t you got some of those buckle bunnies on speed dial?” I ask him. Beau is always the ladies’ man of the three of us, only because he’s the one that takes them up on their offers. For me, the women who fawn all over the cowboys just don’t do it for me. Too easy. Not that I don’t partake every now and then, but I’d rather not. I prefer the company of me, myself, and I to a chatty buckle bunny. Beau, on the opposite side, sleeps with at least one buckle bunny each circuit. Or he usually does. He hasn’t partaken of the fruit this stop yet. I’m starting to suspect it has something to do with that reporter following us around. It’s gonna be a problem, but I can’t bring myself to care.

I can’t bring myself to care about most things these days.

“The buckle bunnies just ain’t cutting it,” Beau shrugs. “I’m tired of the same old thing.” His eyes trail over to the reporter and, yep, that’ll definitely be a problem.

The beer in my hand feels heavy, but I take another drink anyways. It won’t be my last of the night. I’ll keep going until I’m numb, until this heaviness isn’t so burdensome. It’s the only way I can sleep most nights.

“You heard from home?” Ram asks after the waitress comes back with our food.

“No,” I grunt. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Mom mentioned there was?—”

“I don’t care,” I interrupt. “Don’t tell me.”

Ram frowns. “Fine, but it ain’t healthy.”

“Yeah,” I comment, and throw back the rest of my beer. I gesture for the waitress and when she comes, I order a whiskey instead of a beer. The beer isn’t strong enough, and I need something faster. Ram frowns but doesn’t say anything.

It doesn’t matter.

None of this does.

Chapter 9

Indie

It’s another absolutely terrible night at the motel. The bed doesn’t get any softer, and I wake up with aches and pains that could have been avoided with a comfortable bed. I fucking hate that I even have to worry about it, that my hip is screaming at me in pain, but there’s nothing to be done for it right now. I pop a few pain pills, do a few stretches that ease the tension a little, and call the rideshare.

By the time I arrive at the fairgrounds, it’s already bustling. People meander around, shopping at the tradeshow booths selling everything from clothing to food. I’m almost tempted to buy a hat or something to blend in better, but I decide against it. I shouldn’t have to do that to fit in. Then again, if I continue looking like an outsider, the Crimson Three may never give me the time of day. Ram seems the easiest to crack. Beau legit feels as if he’d like to split himself completely open. But Tripp? Tripp is somehow the mystery despite having the most information about him out there. I have yet to figure out how I’m going to get the story. They’re not exactly receptive to doing an interview.

I trail through the arena area, looking for the men I somehow have to get a story on and trying my best not to run into Kim andZander. I don’t have the patience for it this morning, not when I’m starting to limp. The longer I stay in one position, the worse it gets, so I try to move around as much as I’m able, changing positions, not sitting for long. By the time the rodeo events start, I’ve had to take another pain pill to ease the inflammation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to welcome you to another day of the Dixie National Rodeo where cowboys and cowgirls ride hard and take home great big prize pots of money if you agree they deserve it. Remember, the louder you cheer for someone, the more likely they are to take home the Crowd Favorite Pot.” The arena erupts with cheering, as if they need to practice. “Just like that,” the announcer praises. “Now, get ready for the best of the best! It’s time to rodeo!”

This event starts with roping, and I find my mind drifting off instead of watching. I don’t need any extra stories, not when I’ve already sent one to Frank about the last rodeo as well as the fashion column he wanted. I’d died inside a little while writing about the trend in larger belt buckles, but a job is a job.

I’ve come a long way from the war zones I’d made my home for the past five years. Being a war correspondent had its ups and downs. I’d enjoyed it during the ups, but the downs were really down. I met a lot of people. I lost a lot of them. I travelled with different squadrons, changing out depending on where the higher ups didn’t mind sticking me. Sometimes, I’d get word about one of my other squadrons. Usually, it was a notification that they’d lost someone. Someone I almost always knew. It was like that for years. Sitting around under the stars with the men and women I travelled with, exchanging crazy stories, battle scars, and MREs was the life for a while. Until it wasn’t. Until I lost one too many. I’ve been shot. I’ve had shrapnel in my leg. I’ve been held hostage. I’ve been nearly blown to bits.

But it was the loss of Staff Sargeant O’Connell that did me in. He’d just found out he was gonna be a dad. He was so fucking excited to be a dad.

I shake away the thoughts and focus on the events in front of me, trying my best to stay focused. Beau doesn’t come out for barrel racing. I don’t see him at all, so I wonder if he’s coming out at all today. The women with blue handprints on their asses will be disappointed if he doesn’t put on a show.

The bareback bronc riding is announced, and I shake off my funk so I can pay attention. Unlike the saddle bronc riding, the rider must start with both of his spurs touching the horse’s shoulders until the horse’s hooves hit the ground after the initial move from the chute. Which means if they’re not in the correct starting position, they’re already disqualified. Bareback riding tends to be the most jarring sport, and the riders endure more abuse than most other sports. From my understanding, it can be even more dangerous than bull riding. The money pot can be very rewarding, but it may come at a cost. They’re judged by their spurring techniques, the degree which the cowboy’s toes remain turned out while spurring, and his willingness to take whatever happens during the ride. It’s a vast difference from the judgement of technique that comes with saddle riding.

Like many cowboys, Ramiro Mondragon goes back and forth between saddle and bareback. At this stop, he seems to be focusing on bareback, and at his age, the risks go up significantly. Thirty-nine isn’t old by normal standards, but it is for a bronc rider. The fact he’s still going strong is a testament to his skill.

When it’s Ramiro’s turn, the announcer comes back on, and there’s something different. When he’d announced the other riders, he’d done it with the gusto most announcers have. But with Ramiro, it’s almost. . . muted.

“Ramiro Mondragon hails from Wyoming. You may know him as part of the Crimson Three. Here in Jackson, Mississippi though, that hardly matters. We judge a man by his skill, not by where he comes from.”

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