Page 4 of Eight Seconds

Rooney has barely finished the circle when Charlotte calls out, urging him across to the next barrel and into the next turn. I take my eyes off them long enough to check the time: they’ve just passed the eight-second mark.

“She’s got to turn and burn here, ladies and gentlemen!”the commentator says as Charlotte heads into the final turn of the cloverleaf pattern. This barrel is placed at the back of the arena, the furthest distance from the exit gate. All they have to do is round it and run flat-out to the finish. Doing just that, Charlotte and Rooney cross the line, killing the timer at 16.5 seconds.

“Damn,” I say, impressed. Travis whistles low next to me while he adjusts his hat.

“That girl is fast.”

“Yeah, she is.”

The event has concluded, signaling a brief intermission while they clear the arena and introduce the rules for the steer wrangling event. Travis and I push off the fence, once again turning for the backstage area.

I can’t help but scan the riders and various individuals for a black hat and a flash of red ribbon. I’d even settle for the sight of Rooney’s mottled red coat. I must be less subtle about my search than I think because Travis ribs me with his elbow before pointing toward the path leading to the trailers.

“There she is.”

“There, who is?” I try to ask without interest. But the truth is, Iaminterested. I want to talk to the woman who hauled me off the arena floor, insulted me, and sent me on my way, and who just dominated the barrel racing competition.

“Charlotte.” Travis has one eyebrow cocked. “She’s nice, from what I know. And she wiped you off the floor tonight, so don’t be a dick.”

I pull up short, turning to my friend. “I’m not a dick.”

“You don’tmeanto be a dick,” he corrects, crossing his arms over his chest before he steps closer. “Look, I know how much fun we have. The buckle bunnies, after the show, always know what they’re signing up for when they decide to put our hats on their heads and come back to our trailers. It’s a damn good time. But Charlotte isn’t a buckle bunny.”

“I wasn’t planning on trying to get in her jeans, Trav,” I protest.Yes, I was. I was definitely going to try and get into her jeans. Because they are tight and make her ass look amazing.“I was just going to properly thank her for riding recovery tonight. Things would have gone a lot differently if she hadn’t been there.”

Travis takes a minute to assess me. It’s taking all of my self-control to appear as earnest as possible. His warning hasn’t really deterred me from wanting to get more than friendly with Charlotte, but he doesn’t need to know that. I tilt my head in farewell and turn to make after the girl with the green eyes and an attitude who got under my skin.

“If what I said doesn’t keep you on your better behavior—because Lord knows yourbestbehavior abandoned you when puberty hit—then know this: Charlotte is Tim’s niece.”

I pause, letting that revelation wash over me. I wave over my shoulder and keep moving forward.Charlotte Stryker is Tim’s niece.

3

CHARLOTTE

JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL

Iput Rooney’s saddle inside the back end of my trailer, pulling a brush from the sideboard. The horse box is small, but we both manage to fit. With long strokes, I follow the grain of his coat, chasing it with a gentle hand.

“You did so good,” I coo. He’s got his head in a bucket of oats, undoubtedly searching out the peppermints I hid as a post-race treat. “My best boy.”

We won. Even with our pre-race routine destroyed by riding recovery and the slight pull in my shoulder from hefting a six-foot idiot off the ground, we ran a good race. No, a great race. Having the money from tonight will be a nice addition to my savings, and it’ll get us ready for the next rodeo in Kansas City in two weeks.

As I brush Rooney, giving him extra pets and attention, I let my mind wander to the events of the bronc competition and Wilder McCoy.

The cowboy is good. He rides well with good form and enough flare to keep the judges happy. Drawing Happy Trails as a horse tonight only helped his score, considering half of it comes from her performance, too. She was spitting mad, twisting and kicking in the way the judges like in order to give her high marks, and just the way the competitors like that makes them feel invincible.

Which is exactly what Wilder must have thought he was to choose to ride with a loose mount. I don’t think he realized I knew that the handle wasn’t where it was supposed to be or the way he struggled to get his hand out of the grip.

“Death wish or dumb asshole,” I grumble to myself as I finish up with the brush, checking the oats bucket. Empty. Rooney lifts his head, his velvet lips brushing together in satisfaction as he looks at me. I don’t like how my horse can see through me.

Yes, Wilder McCoy is borderline crazy for the decisions he made tonight. But, he also is ridiculously handsome, and for a split second, just before he opened his mouth, it was nice to have his attention locked on me instead of his adoring fans. Rooney lets out a little breath, in commiseration or understanding, I’m not sure. Resetting my shoulders in resignation to ignore the flutters I begrudgingly admit to having, I take hold of his head collar, bringing my forehead to his broad nose. “Stupid cowboys.”

“That’s not exactly fair. You don’t know all of us, especially me. I was the salutatorian of my high school class.”

There’s a lightness in the voice coming from the window above my head. I look outside to find Wilder leaning against the side of Rooney’s trailer. I lift an eyebrow at him, no clue why he’s standing there. His face breaks with the force of his smile: all straight, white teeth and charm. I narrow my eyes, ignoring the swoop that flies through my stomach at how handsome he is.

“Salutatorian?” I ask in disbelief. I run a hand along Rooney’s side as I walk out the open back door, always letting him know where I am. He likes that. Once outside, I swing the heavy door closed, securing it. As I slide the bolt in place, Wilder comes around the side to stand in front of me.

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