Page 21 of From the Ashes
“Phoe, it’s nine in the morning,” Knox points out. “And it’s not like you’ve never made this drop before. It takes two hours, max.”
Christ. Will everyone get off my back for a fucking second?
“Yeah, well, Trisha told me this morning that her mom’s just been diagnosed with cancer and she’s heading to Maine this afternoon indefinitely, so the two-hour job will now take four.Plus,it means that until I get new help, I’m on my own for the farm upkeep. So, I’ll keep you guys in the loop, but I’ve gotta go load up. I’ll holler atcha later.”
I disconnect the call, basically hanging up on them, grab my cowboy hat—becausewhen in Rome—and head to load up the last three animals I need to take to the arena.
When I pull up to the holding stalls out back, I notice they’ve made a few changes to the temporary structure.
Ones I don’t like. Especially if they’re going to be housing my thousand pound, fifteen-thousand-dollar broncs.
I don’t like to leave the animals cooped up in the trailer longer than necessary, so I unload them and place them into the paddock in the field next to the parking lot while I go find Tonya, the rodeo manager.
It takes me two phone calls, three texts, and twenty-five minutes, but I finally track her down. She’s running from place to place, answering texts—although, not mine apparently—on her phone while we talk.
“Phoenix, the animals are fine. They’re here for three days max. It’s the same structure a lot of the arenas are using these days,” she argues, trying to brush me off.
“That may be true, but those arenas aren’t responsible forthe well-being ofmylivestock, Tonya. Fix it, or I’m pulling my horses from your competition.”
Finally, she stops walking and huffs a sigh. “You signed a contract.”
“And part of that contract is that you respect my animals and provide safe housing. This isn’t safe. You’ve only got one way in and one way out of there. If this shitty excuse for a building goes up in flames, no one’s getting to these horses in time.”
“Fine. I’ll have maintenance come look at it and see what they can do about it.”
“Maintenance isn’t going to do shit, Tonya. They aren’t fucking builders.”
“Or the fire marshal,” she says under her breath.
“Give me the green light to get it to code. I need something to keep me busy today anyway.”
She narrows her eyes at me like I’m somehow pulling something over on her.
“I’m just going to cut a hole in the siding and install a rail for a barn door. I’ll disassemble it when it’s done and weld the original piece back in place, okay?” I explain.
Before she agrees, a voice I recently heard for the first time reaches my ears.
“…better be fucking amazing. I don’t want your score brought down because some hillbilly’s inbred bronco doesn’t have its shit together.”
Jonas and Walker turn the corner into the barn and stop on a dime when they see me. My eyes flit between the two, but quickly land on Jonas before narrowing as I cross my arms over my chest.
Calmly, I answer, “Seeing as the hillbilly supplying your bronc has actuallyriddenthem instead of just coaching from the sidelines, you can rest assured I provide the highest qualityanimals. If Walker’s score isn’t perfect, it’ll be due to your shit coaching skills, not my horse.”
Embarrassed, Jonas clenches his jaw. “I didn’t know you were one of the stock contractors for this arena.”
“Well, do your fucking homework next time. You need to be giving Walker all the information you can get your hands on. Knowing which farms these broncs come from allows you to review tape from other rides of the same horses or different horses from the same farms. Give him an idea of what to expect.”
“That’s a waste of time,” Jonas fires back. “Those eight seconds are all about feel.”
“That may be partly true, but there’s a big difference in feeling a bomb or a butterfly between your legs. If he’s mounting a bronc from Starkiss Farms, he should be ready for a vertical buck every two seconds. If he draws one from Maplefield, he needs to be prepared for a three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation. He’ll stand a much better chance of surviving those eight seconds if he anticipates that with his hips instead of reacting to it, not to mention it’ll save his back.”
Trying like all fuck to rein in my frustration with this asshole who calls himself a coach, I slide my eyes to Walker.
“If you draw forty-two, he’s got a nasty double kick. You’ll think he’s coming down, but as soon as you relax, his back legs will kick out again. Stay ready. He’s thrown a lot of good riders with that move.” And because I’m a fucking masochist, I add a little softer, “Good luck tomorrow, Quick Shooter.”
Chapter 11
Walker
