Page 6 of Sexting the Cowboy
“Good run,” Ford says when the horn goes, and Cash dismounts clean. “Wasn’t perfect, but crowd’s in his pocket. Judges like a kid who remembers they’re showmen first.”
“Show-offs. Gender neutral, remember, Ford?” Blaze says.
“Apple, tree,” I mutter.
We keep watching, our family’s version of church. Levi’s down the row jawing with a sponsor rep and half listening to Cash get needled by the other boys. Reno isn’t here, and that’s a hot stove I don’t put my hand on.
But he’ll be here. He’s a moth to a flame, especially when we’re all together.
Ford shifts his weight like the thought in his pocket is poking him. He clears his throat. “Blaze,” he says too casually, “we going to talk about your…very robust social media presence?”
I feel my daughter stiffen the way a cat does when you run a vacuum.
“Define robust,” Blaze says, sugar-hard.
Ford lifts both hands. “You are magnetic on camera. It’s a gift. But the photos with…friends.”
“Guys and gals,” she says, chin out in that sweet defiance that makes me proud and gives Ford a rash. “I kiss who I want. I post what I want. It’s your job to handle the fallout, not judge me.”
“I am not judging,” Ford says, and I believe him. He’s a numbers man, not a morals man, and thank God for it. “I am simply saying there’s a…brand alignment challenge when half our sponsors are selling family values with their jeans.”
“Family values,” Blaze says, rolling it like a stick of gum she doesn’t want. “What’s that, Ford? Jerseys tucked in at church and nobody cusses at Thanksgiving?”
“Blaze,” I say, quiet, because I don’t need her to scorch him every time he looks her direction. “He’s doing his job.”
“And I’m doing mine,” she says, flicking her hair so the ribbon flashes. “Being a Wyatt. We’re not boring. That’s part of the package you sell, isn’t it?”
God, I love my girl.
I clap Ford on the shoulder so he knows I’m not letting him drown. “Look,” I say, smiling easy because it’s true, “I didn’t name her Blaze for nothing. She’s a wild card, and any person who tries to tame her is going to get bit. Don’t try. It’s part of her charm.”
Ford gives me a look like he both appreciates and resents that I just made his Q3 harder. “I would never try to tame Blaze,” he says, hand to heart like a court oath. “I just wish she would align more with the…let’s call it the ‘responsible western heritage’ messaging I’ve built for the Wyatts.”
I laugh, full belly, because if I don’t laugh I’ll start explaining things that don’t fit on slides. “She’s making you earn your commission.”
Ford’s professional smile goes tighter than my jeans. “Every damn day.”
3
ANNIE
The day starts slow,but it doesn’t stay that way.
By midafternoon, the air inside the medic tent has gone thick and sour. The two fans at either end are working themselves to death and barely keeping up. Outside, the crowd roars whenever a rider lasts longer than expected, and in between rides, the music blasts so loud the ground shakes.
Jaden’s crouched by the far cot, wrapping a barrel racer’s knee, while I clean up after a calf roper who split his lip. I’ve gotten good at small talk that keeps my patients from fainting—questions about horses, the weather, and who they think will take the purse this weekend. Most of them are polite, grateful, and eager to get back out there before they lose their nerve.
This guy isn’t so bad. He keeps saying, “Don’t tell my wife I bit through my lip,” which makes me smile even though I’m melting. I finish the last stitch, wipe his chin, and send him on his way with a warning about infection and alcohol.
I’m labeling a tube of antibiotic when the flap to the tent jerks open. Hot air laced with sweat and whiskey tumbles in.
A tall man in a denim jacket ducks through the opening, half guiding, half dragging another man who’s barely upright. The drunk’s boots scuff the ground, and his words are slurred nonsense.
The man helping him walks with a limp. I know the gait before I see the face. My stomach drops out.
Reno Wyatt.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up with my eyes. He’s older, thicker through the chest and shoulders, hair longer than he used to wear it. There are streaks of gold in the brown from the sun, and his skin’s rougher around the edges. His jaw is still too square for its own good. I can tell he’s been drinking less—maybe—but still enough to leave faint shadows under his eyes.
