Page 12 of Eight Seconds

“Forgot it the second I saw you,” I tell her, unable to fight the smile on my face. It isn’t my usual grin—all showmanship and bravado—but a genuine one because seeing this woman makes me happy. “This view is better.”

“You’re practically at my feet, Wilder.” She scoffs, the sound a little inelegant, like she’s trying to hide a giggle, but I like that she doesn’t hide it. It’s unfiltered. A peek into who she is when she isn’t wrapped up in winning.

“You don’t like men at your feet, Charlie?” Her eyes widen, lips parting in a tantalizing little ‘O’ shape in surprise. I run a gentle hand along Rooney’s flank, stepping closer until I can pick up the floral undertones of her scent through the petrichor of the night air. “’Cause I got no problem getting on my knees for you.”

A beautiful, bold pink flush spreads from her cheeks down her neck, disappearing under the collar of her shirt. It almost matches the ribbons woven into the singular braid draped over her shoulder. I hold her gaze, waiting to see what she does next, winking when my name being called breaks the moment first.

“McCoy! You’re up first!”

“Yeah, all right!” I call back, not taking my eyes off Charlotte. The color fades from her fair skin, her lips thin as she presses them together and leans back in her saddle. I take a step back, intending to get to work as the horses are filed into the bucking chutes, stopping short when Charlotte speaks.

“Good luck,” she tells me. I want to say something; tell her thank you or ask why she’s here riding recovery for my event again. Instead, the moment is broken by another shout of my name, this time more annoyed than the last.

“Wilder! Let’s go!” The event boss calls again from the chutes, and I lift my chin at Charlotte in thanks as she kicks Rooney through the gate being opened. Curtis rides up behind her, both making their way into the arena.

Grumbles meet me as I hitch my leg up the rails of the chute, but they’re soon drowned out by the music blasting from the speakers and an announcement of my name. I swing a leg over to straddle the horse standing irritably below me before I lift a hand to the crown of my hat, poised to raise it in my automatic greeting. There’s a ripple of applause from the crowd that’s endured the rain, specifically catcalls and high-pitched whistles. But as I glance out, clusters of beautiful women huddled together in clear ponchos and holding beer bottles, the sight before me does little to elicit the usual excitement, and I hold my hat in place.

I swivel my head until I find the black-haired beauty riding recovery again tonight. She’s at the back of the arena, a bored expression on her face, but I don’t miss how tense her body is, the tight grip of Rooney’s reins in her hand. Charlotte’s ready to do her job, and it hits me that her seriousness is likely why I made it off the ground the night we met instead of ending up in the back of an ambulance. I wait until her eyes find mine, tipping my hat intentionally as I hold her stare.

“If your ass isn’t on that horse in three seconds, I’m going to disqualify you,” the event boss growls from the ground. The irritation in his voice makes me smirk, but I don’t hurry myself at his threat. I follow my usual routine, settling against the back of the horse, checking my grip, and bending my knees in the way that will earn me the most points as my spurs settle against the shoulders of my ride. Finally, I lift my free arm to the rail and nod.

The ride is a blur of light, sound, and mud. My horse isn’t the showiest I’ve been on; it’s unlikely she’ll earn me many points as she twists more than she kicks, the lack of bucking will lower my score. When I hear the blare of the horn, I hold on for another second until Curtis and Dusty ride in step next to me. With a swift lift at the back of my belt, I lunge as Curtis pulls, and I find myself against Dusty’s flank while my mare wanders aimlessly away. I slide down Curtis’ saddle into the muck of the arena floor, slapping a firm handshake to my friend while Charlotte urges the mare toward the open gate. I look for my score, unsurprised when it’s in the mid-seventies, but hopeful it will be enough in these shit conditions to win.

I trudge through the mud to the side of the arena, waving in gratitude as the crowd cheers. Rooney walks past me, slowing when I climb the fence so I’m eye to eye with Charlotte.

“Well, at least you didn’t end up on your back,” she comments and gestures to a small group gathered under a tent through the livestock exit. “Good thing, because those men are from Horizon, and they want to talk to you.”

The teasing comment I had about being on my back for her dies on my tongue.

“Thanks, Charlie,” I manage instead, clearing out of the arena as the next rider is announced. “Have a good race.”

I hop over the rails, fighting the nerves I haven’t felt all night, now flaring to life. I swallow as I walk toward what I hope will be a big part of my future.

7

CHARLOTTE

DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA — LATE MAY

“That’s your winner tonight, folks! Miss Charlotte Stryker, and her time of nineteen-point-eight seconds. Let’s hear it for Charlotte!”

I twist in the saddle to look at the scoreboard as the announcer’s voice rings out. I slide my hands through Rooney’s mane and sigh. It’s a terrible time, one of the worst I’ve posted in years, but Rooney’s hooves make a sucking sound as we trudge through the thick mud, and I know I did what was right for us both. It isn’t safe to run a race flat-out, like we usually do, in these conditions. I can’t risk an injury to Rooney, but I also hate seeing that time next to my name.

It feels like a fitting ending to the day. This birthday isn’t exactly average for someone turning twenty-one. With the less-than-normal existence I lead, it’s been less than fabulous. Even the phone call from my parents, with their stilted well-wishes, felt obligatory. Maybe I’ll take my winnings and buy a new pair of boots because after tonight, these will have seen better days. I look down at where the light stitching is now discolored, a shit-stain brown along the toe of my boot, and I know I’m never getting them clean again.

At my trailer, Rooney shakes his head, and I laugh at his impatience. Getting him settled for the night is going to take a lot longer than usual, but he deserves it after the mud and extra work of riding recovery. Again.

When Uncle Time showed up, I’d hoped it was to wish me a happy birthday. But that was forgotten when he dipped his head and flashed me a tight smile. My stomach dropped, and I already knew the request that was coming. Brett was sequestered to a tent next to the medical station, hooked up to a banana bag of fluids and vitamins in the hopes of getting him sobered up for the bronc event, but it didn’t look like he could ride. He told me it was a mistake, that everyone has slip-ups, and he had faith that his employee would get himself together after tonight. I didn’t have the heart to tell him believing that was about as useful as believing in fairies. At least he offered to pay me Brett’s cut of the event, and I did get the opportunity to feel out the ground before my race. But as I pull my saddle off Rooney’s back, I can’t help but fume about the entire situation. If Tim doesn’t get rid of Brett soon, someone will get hurt.

Methodically undoing every piece of tack, brushing down Rooney’s coat and hooves, and getting him into the back of the trailer with his new blanket helps ease all the anger and concern I have floating through me. Before now, I wouldn’t have paid too much attention to the possible dangers an irresponsible recovery rider could bring to the rodeo. But as flashes of a wicked smirk and blue eyes under the brim of a black hat play in my mind, I now know I care because of one rider.

Wilder McCoy has gotten under my skin.

As if summoned from my thoughts, there he is after I tuck Rooney in for the night. Wilder stands with his back against the side of my trailer, feet crossed at the ankles. He’s lost his chaps, spurs, and protective vest, but still wears the charcoal-colored shirt from earlier, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, with the white of his athletic wraps showing. When he hears me, he turns, removing his hat to hold with one hand. His other contains a small green package.

“Great race tonight.” He smiles.

“You know as well as I do that it was shit.” I’m grateful the ground in front of my trailer has been spared from the worst of the rain by the small awning I rolled out earlier during the downpour. I hear a quick puff of laughter as I knock my boots against the step leading up to the door, trying in vain to loosen the buildup. “You won,” I say, sitting on the step, finally giving up and pulling a boot free of my soggy-bottomed jeans.

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