Page 18 of Eight Second Hearts

Ramiro nods. “So, what made you decide to follow the rodeo circuits? You don’t really seem the kind.”

I shrug. “Didn’t have much choice really. A job’s a job.”

“Not much choice?” he asks, turning in his seat to look at me. “You lackin’ experience?”

“On the contrary, I have plenty of experience but. . . it’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time,” he says, pointing to the open road.

“Sorry. I should have said I just don’t like talking about it,” I reply, meeting his eyes. “But yeah. Working for a rodeo magazine isn’t exactly the dream.”

“So what is the dream?” he asks.

Tripp sits quietly, his eyes on the road, listening to us talk but never adding anything to the conversation. I feel like that’s his MO. He’s a silent watcher, but I get the feeling he doesn’t exactly want to be. It feels more like armor.

“To write stories that matter,” I answer honestly.

“Every story matters to somebody,” Ramiro points out.

“But I want them to matter to me,” I say. “For a long time, that was reporting on the wars around the world. I realized pretty quickly though that the wars only mattered to me because I gave humanity too much credit. I thought I could make people see what was happening and they’d stop it. Instead, they just started more wars.” I shrug. “Now, I’d rather do stories that don’t require me to get shot at.”

Tripp’s eyes flick to me in the mirror, but I don’t pay him any mind. I also don’t point out that his eyes glance at the silver flask every so often. Not my business as long as he doesn’t drink from it while driving.

Ramiro grins at me. “Got any cool battle scars?”

I tilt my head. “Yeah.” But I don’t elaborate, and he picks up what I’m putting down. “So, since we’re sharing stories and all that,” I begin. “Why don’t you guys do interviews?”

Ramiro glances at Tripp. “We prefer our privacy.”

“Privacy is one thing, but the both of you have been on the rodeo circuit for damn near twenty years including your youth sports. Absolute privacy is a choice at this point, but a single interview wouldn’t shatter that,” I point out.

“Interviews mean questions,” Tripp says. “Questions mean people digging into our lives.”

I raise my brows. “If you think people aren’t already digging into your lives?—”

“Yeah, but we don’t make it easier for them,” Ramiro interrupts. “Better this way.”

“In my experience, people who don’t do interviews have got something to hide,” I reply. He stares at me. “You got bodies buried somewhere?”

The corner of his eyes crinkle. “Maybe we do.” He leans closer. “And maybe we just like our privacy.”

“I call bullshit,” I tease. “But whatever you have to tell yourself. Just know, I’m going to keep asking for that interview.”

“As long as you understand we’ll keep saying no,” he teases back, clearly amused. “We’re hardly as interesting as a war.”

I raise my brows. “I don’t know about that.”

Because these three men are definitely interesting all on their own. Just being near them is a bit of an adrenaline rush. I can see why women throw themselves at them.

Bilbo shuffles closer to me and I rest my hand on his head. “By the way, why is his name Bilbo?” It seems like a strange name for a cowboy to choose.

Tripp glances at me in the rearview mirror. “His full name is Bilbo Waggins,” he says gruffly.

The smile that splits my face makes him look away again. “Like from Lord of the Rings? I didn’t peg you as a fan, Tripp Savage.”

He shrugs. “They eat a lot. I like food.”

And that’s the only answer I get about it. Apparently, Tripp Savage doesn’t plan on holding too long of a conversation then.

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