Page 35 of Eight Seconds

“We were.” I clear my throat. “But we’ve been exclusive for months, and we…”

“Okay.” Mary puts a warm hand on my knee. It’s entirely maternal in a way that makes my throat constrict from the care in her touch. “Have you missed any pills? I know the schedule of competing can make life difficult.”

I shake my head. I haven’t missed a single dose. Wilder helped me keep up with them, even when I was up to my eyeballs in fever and discomfort from the ear infection.

I suck in a sharp breath, certain it's my last.

“Oh my God.” My throat is dry. My brain feels like it’s trying to process a million things a second. Mary’s hand gives an encouraging squeeze, and she pulls her chair closer. I take several swallows before I can gather the ability to speak. “I had an ear infection in October. Took a ten-day course of antibiotics. We stopped using condoms at the end of the course.”

Mary gives a nod of understanding. High school health class flashes before my eyes: Mrs. Stevens highlighting the ways the birth control pill efficacy is impacted by medications like antibiotics. Tears spring to my eyes. Salty and harsh when I try to focus on the kind doctor giving me a kind smile in front of me.

“I have a few pregnancy tests in my med bag. Let’s find out, hmm?”

20

WILDER

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA — EARLY DECEMBER

Travis is pulling his glove on while I zip up his protective vest. His event starts in a few minutes, a highlight in the marquee for the crowd that’s still buzzing from the barrel racing that just concluded.

Charlotte is still at the medical station, and even if I’m worried about my girl, I’m so proud of her for pulling off the most amazing race of her life. She crushed the competition, setting one of the best race times in the past twenty years.

With her force-of-nature approach to racing, a horse more competitive than her, and a bright, beautiful smile when she pulls her hat off to whoop at the crowd, Charlotte Stryker is a bona fide rodeo star. Her future is full of possibility, even though she’s already left an indelible mark on the sport from her accomplishments this season.

“Which bull did you draw?” I ask Travis as we make our way over to the chutes. The livestock is being shuttled to where they need to be, the snorts and hooves ratcheting up the tension in the area. The thousand-pound beasts bang against the metal bars, in protest or anticipation for what’s to come, it’s hard to tell. They have as much to prove and win as the cowboys who will drop down on their backs and hold on for eight seconds.

“Buttercup.”

“Are you fucking with me?” I look at him as he notches a boot on the bottom rung. He shakes his head and flashes a hard smile. “Shit, I bet the breeder let his kid name him.”

“Maybe he’ll treat me sweet.” Travis shrugs, and I laugh with him. He’s stiffening up, and the sound is a little forced as he mentally slips into the zone he needs to in order to focus on his ride.

The sound of horse hooves coming up behind us has me turning around to view the recovery riders making their way to the entrance gate. It’s a different crew than was in the arena with me yesterday for the bronc events, and any sense of relief I feel at the sight of them being here to support the riders vanishes when an unwelcome face is among them.

“Son of a bitch,” I grit out between my teeth. Brett rides at the back of the trio, his ruddy face hidden under a deep brown hat. The last time I saw him was in Salt Lake City, working a circuit that clearly hadn’t vetted their employees since Tim had told every contact he had to avoid the man. I still don’t know how Brett managed to get the position that day or how the fuck he ended up with this prestigious assignment. Without a glance our way, the riders proceed to the arena, and I spin to Travis, who looks puzzled and annoyed. “You watch your ass out there, you here? Don’t count on anyone but yourself.”

Travis nods, and then the event boss calls him over to chute number three. I watch him walk away, then step up to the rails of the arena and wait for him to ride, watching the dark form of Brett with unease. The riders position themselves evenly around the space, leaning down to chat with the barrel men in their hazardously bright clown attire. The crowd is buzzing as music pumps through the speakers and the announcers give a rundown of the event’s rules.

The first rider doesn’t last two seconds before he’s thrown, the bull quickly spinning away. A barrel man pulls his attention as one of the recovery riders helps the cowboy shuffle off the dirt and climb the side of the fence. My eyes swing to Brett, who doesn’t seem to register that the event has even started. His other riding partner goes past, something being exchanged before Brett kicks his horse into action, moving closer to the chutes. I think I see him sway, but I can’t be sure if it’s my subconscious supplying it or my eyes.

The arena comes alive during the second competitor’s ride. He hangs on for the full eight seconds with near textbook form. The bull is lackluster, so I don’t think his score will be what he wants. With a final spin, the bull loses his rider, and I watch Brett move in to offer a hand. But he’s riding too fast and misjudges the distance, flying right by him. I grip the railing in irritation, but relief floods me when I see the bull has already lost interest and is heading through the stock gate.

As the crowd waits for the score, a tiny hand slides into my back pocket, and I relax slightly. I glance down and see Charlotte smiling up at me. It’s not the usual one that makes the green of her eyes sparkle. Nor is it the one I’m expecting to see from her after her win, but I can see her trying.

“Hey, baby.” I gather her against me, and I don’t miss how she leans in close, a little shuddering breath escaping her. “Did the doc get you all fixed up?”

“She helped me figure out what’s going on,” Charlotte acknowledges. I kiss her forehead, hoping the slightly dull look I see in her eyes is just fatigue. We’ll get things sorted after we watch Travis win his buckle. The crowd cheers as a replay and the score are shown on the jumbo screen. Charlotte doesn’t elaborate, she just takes in what’s happening. “Did I miss Travis?”

“He’s next.” I point to the chutes, watching as Travis settles in. There are shouts and curses when Buttercup lifts Travis dangerously in the box. Charlotte tugs on my sleeve to get my attention. She points at Brett.

“Why is he here? Tim practically blacklisted him. There’s no way he should be here,” Charlotte hisses, her head whipping back to where Travis and the rest of the staff are working at getting Buttercup to settle down long enough for him to mount properly. “Oh my God, is he even sober? What about the riders?”

I give her a squeeze, sliding her to stand in front of me where I can hold her and still see the action. She stiffens oddly when I slide my hand along her stomach; she’s never shown signs of being ticklish, but I think maybe her muscles are sore from throwing up and riding. She relaxes once I get my hands in her opposite front pockets, pulling her back against my chest.

“I don’t know what kind of state Brett’s in, but there are two other riders and the barrel men out there,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her that everything is fine. I drop a quick kiss to her shoulder. “Let’s just watch Travis win.”

It takes another minute before I see Travis’ hat bob up and down, and the chute flies open. I feel Charlotte take in a deep breath, and I think I’m holding my own as well. Buttercup is hell on hooves; twisting and spinning viciously as he tries to get Travis off him. The bull is an absolute beast: all black with snot flying in huge, thick strands, and grunting angrily. But he can’t shake Travis loose, and my best friend is riding better than I’ve ever seen him. His free hand arcs perfectly through the air, and he slides up and back on Buttercup’s back in a way that makes him look like part of the animal. I don’t even need to watch the rest of the competition. Travis has this in the bag.

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