Page 27 of The Wildest Ride

“Where were you before the Closed Circuit?”

“Who was your coach?”

“How long have you been riding?”

“Aren’t you scared of the bulls?”

“What kind of jeans are you wearing?”

“Who made your vest?”

The reporters and their associated cameramen pushed in closer, and, seeing the growing group, others began to drift in her direction. Soon she was surrounded by a rather large crowd of media, the buzz of real news electric amongst the crowd.

“Lil Sorrow is a woman!”

“A woman! Lil Sorrow is a woman!”

“She scored a 97!”

“A woman that rides like a man!”

Lil scoffed and, suddenly, like a creature with a hive mind or a school of fish, the crowd of reporters turned, their collective attention focused on her, and, though she wouldn’t have ever been able to say what came over her, she cracked a smile and said, “So far it looks like I ride better than a man.”

If they were focused on her before, they were absolutely riveted now, and, to their benefit, though she wasn’t sure where they were coming from, words continued to flow from Lil’s mouth. “Been riding my whole life and learned everything I know from my granddad. Of course I’m scared of a bull—only a fool wouldn’t be. My jeans are Levi’s, and I’ve been riding rough stock since I could prove my head was hard enough to take a fall. Wanted to be rodeo’s first female rough stock champion since I was six years old. Been here and there, but mostly in my own pasture since nobody in the PBRA would let me try until tonight. Known I was a woman as long as I’ve been old enough to know such a thing, and my gran made my vest.”

As a unit, the reporters scribbled furiously.

As if she’d been possessed, the words had flowed out of her mouth with smooth charm, the only proof they were her own the unique combination of gravel and Muskogee that was all her voice.

And then, the same voice from earlier called out once more, “So, are you single?”

As they had before, Lil’s cheeks heated, darkening to a beet red color obvious to anyone familiar with her.

Lil wasn’t the type to talk about her private life. With anyone—least of all a gaggle of journalists.

But she’d watched AJ earlier, and even through temper and resentment, she’d learned.

The reporters were like sheep, or goats, or middle schoolers, or any other creature that traveled in packs and dealt in intimidation. If she didn’t master them—establish early and quick that she wasn’t to be trifled with—then there would be no end to their torment.

And so, hot cheeked, she angled her chin upward, cast her mind for an appropriate facial expression, settled on the only image her mind seemed willing to provide—AJ’s cocky, one-sided grin—and said, “I’ve been chasing one man my whole life—he weighs three thousand pounds, is sponsored by the PBRA, and if you can ride him for a full eight seconds you get a shiny buckle and a pot of gold.” Once again, rodeo’s first-ever female rough stock star tipped her hat to them, and once again, she turned on her boot heel and walked away.

This time, no one followed, for which she was grateful. She would hate to have disappointed them with her destination: her beat-up old white Camry, parked at the far end of the lot. It was a ’99, but it might as well have been a tank—nothing could hurt it or stop it. It certainly wasn’t anything flashy, and Lil had no intention of ever replacing it. Even pushing 350,000 miles, it purred like a kitten and drove like a dream.

Unlocking the car, she slid into the front seat, set her hat beside her where a passenger might have sat, and pulled the sunshade down, flicking open the mirror panel at the same time in one smooth motion.

She hadn’t planned on changing after her ride, but she also hadn’t planned on being mistaken for a man by everyone who saw her. Her eyebrows were thick, that was true, and she did have a squarish jaw. Her eyelashes were long and curled, her mouth and nose were feminine in their fullness.

She didn’t think it was the clothes. Women all over the rodeo wore the same outfit without confusion, from dusty cowgirls who competed as barrel racers to the full glitz and glam of the rodeo queens.

Taking in her appearance, barefaced and serious, she wondered if it was her hair, then. The undercut sides, her tight braid—looser now, but still pulled back flat to her head for the ride—was more severe and dramatic than most women were willing to dare.

When she’d come into her gran’s kitchen, two-thirds of her “Crown of Glory” as her gran called it shorn clean off to the skin, her gran had had to sit down for a moment. Maybe that, coupled with her being a competitor, was just enough to throw the entire arena off.

She wondered if anyone in the whole place had realized she was a woman while she rode. AJ certainly hadn’t.

But who could blame him? If it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck, why would you even bother checking if it was a duck?

Shaking her head at both her thoughts and her reflections, she winced. After the brawl, the ride, the argument, and storming off, her neck and back were beginning to scream, protesting their long string of abuse, and—between the ride, the jeans, and the chaps—her legs were well on their way to rigid and stiff.

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