Page 10 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

W rapping and unwrapping my grip in the rope, I’m dialed in.

My focus narrows, shrinking down with each pulsating thud of my heart.

Beneath me is a horse I’ve ridden in the past. One that helped me walk away with a buckle-winning scoreline when I’ve been drawn with this bronc before.

This is a routine I’ve done a thousand times, settling my weight, tightening my core, grounding myself with a steadying breath.

The brute strength of the animal is right there. An electric feeling of knowing we’re about to do one hell of a dance. Guys leaning over the rails beside me. Pickup men ready and waiting. All that needs to happen now is for me to give the nod.

Readjusting my grip one final time, locking my glove in place, I dip my chin.

The metal gate to the chute is flung open, and my horse explodes into the arena, flying from the first dynamic kick. My heels mark out in perfect timing. I’m flung backward with the sheer force of the fifteen hundred pounds of muscle and athleticism beneath me.

Nothing interrupts my pinpoint focus. I don’t even hear the roar of the crowd, or the announcer, or see anything outside of my intense concentration on the glossy mane and rippling shoulder muscle below me as our center of gravity lurches forward .

With my free hand stretched high in the air, my grip is secure, hella firm; there’s no dislodging me despite the way the horse bucks over and over and over.

We’re in a tango that takes us deep into the arena—the kind of dynamic, pulsating ride judges fucking gobble up.

One that will score the animal highly and add to my points tally.

Spine strong. Core powerful. Chin tucked.

We’re in sync. I read every decision this horse is making, as if we sat down and poured over the playbook together. Only a couple more bucks remain in this ride. The millionths of a second trickle down like grains of sand until that buzzer sounds, and I’m done.

I fucking nailed it.

I fucking nailed it.

The transition to my pickup riders goes smooth as silk. I’m light, floating on the assurance that was the best score of the event, and will blitz the field tonight.

That buckle is mine.

My fist tightens around the smooth pebble, warm and comforting in the heart of my palm.

From that point of soothing contact, I feel the winning energy seep into my veins.

It drifts down to the soles of my boots in the dirt.

Wind dances across my cheeks as I tilt my chin to the sky and take a deep inhale to lock this feeling in.

To imprint it on my DNA, etch it onto my bones, to stamp the feeling of success indelibly on my psyche.

Eight seconds is all it takes. The kind of timeframe that—to ordinary people—is no more than a distracted thought, a blink, an inconsequential ticking of a clock.

However, when that’s all you’re training for, you develop a unique relationship with time .

Some rides feel like an eternity, when you’re hanging in there and fighting tooth and nail to avoid being slammed into the dirt.

With others, you’re in total alignment with your horse, and there’s a special kind of muscle memory that carries you into the stratosphere.

It’s a feeling like nothing else. The type of sensation reverberating through your veins, luring all of us into forgetting the worst days, rehabbing injuries, chasing after another high.

Rodeo isn’t for the faint of heart, and rough stock riding will chew you up and spit you out without looking back .

“You’re thinking hard over here, Wilder.”

Cracking one eye open, I see Brad approaching me.

This is a spot I like to come to when I’m at Rhodes Ranch for training. A quiet space to visualize from. To play out the ride in my mind hundreds of times. To internally walk through the movements and the specifics. Witnessing success as it unfolds in slow motion.

Rolling my shoulders to loosen up some of the stiffness from standing out here so long, I tuck the stone back into my jeans pocket. We’ve all got our superstitions as rodeo riders; for me, it’s this pebble I found just after I got sober. It’s been my talisman ever since.

“Just running through it.” I shrug and tap one side of my temple before flexing my grip around the metal railing to the training grounds.

Looking out over the arena, I see the barrel racers gathered together, getting ready to start running some drills with their horses.

Those of us based in Crimson Ridge train at this property together as much as possible.

It’s like having a family when you’re on the road, and there’s something a little bit special about being tight-knit when we’re out there competing, no matter what part of the country that might be in.

“You were close last stop on the tour, man.” Brad joins me and takes up a similar position, hooking one boot on the lower rail. “It’s a game of millimeters.”

“And yet, you eat dirt and feel like that buckle might as well be light years away.”

“Chaos isn’t god. He likes to think he is, but all it takes is for his hot streak to falter.”

Blowing out a breath, I let his words hang in the air. We watch on as the first barrel racer takes to the course. Her horse flies across the ground, showering a great peacock tail of dirt as its hooves dig in, tightly rounding the first marker.

It’s not until she hurtles toward the turn closest to us that I see a familiar gold braid, realizing it’s Jessie that we’re watching.

She’s dialed in, perfectly in tune with her horse, and doesn’t have a care for anything outside of the course she’s gunning to complete. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

“She’s looking confident,” Brad says. “You two still talking? ”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him adjust his hat. He’s got a smirk on his face. I know it, even if I can’t exactly see it.

There’s a strange feeling occupying the space dead center in my chest. Like I’ve been shot with an arrow, right in the bull’s eye of the target, and I’m about to be knocked on my ass.

This right here is it. The fateful moment when I feel like I’m about to topple over at the side of this very arena, because everything has been too much lately.

I’ve been trying to shove it all into the corner, to sweep it all aside and ignore the reality that my world has tipped on its axis. Attempting to avoid the undeniable truth... that I don’t know how to handle any of it.

Let alone how to even process what the fuck happened that first moment I saw Raine. A problem compounded by every single one of our tense interactions each time I’ve seen him at the ranch since.

Fuck. I feel the numbness building, climbing from my toes. A stormy tide rising fast and relentless, threatening to carry me away without warning. One that will, without doubt, leave me gasping for breath, dragged under, not knowing which way to kick and struggle for the surface.

“Hey, man. You good?” This time, Brad knocks my shoulder with his. My friend's face is drawn tight with obvious concern.

I swallow thickly. Words cling to the back of my tongue, refusing to pour forward.

“No matter what it is. I’m here for you... you gotta know that.” He flickers a quick glance around, then lowers his voice. “If it’s the drinking you’re struggling with, or?—”

“I think I’m into guys.” It blurts out of me.

The thing I don’t know if I should say, but have no hope in hell of stopping.

“I think I’m... I might be gay.” Those words are echoing and distant to my ears, like they’re down a tunnel, and it’s not me saying them.

My senses become drowned out with the aftershock of cannon fire, and even though it's only sixty out today, I’m a clammy, sweaty mess.

“Ok, then talk to me.” Brad doesn’t miss a beat.

With a nod, he says it so reassuringly, so calmly.

His quiet understanding permits my heart rate to ease ever so slightly after confessing the thing that has been on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t know if I was ready to admit it out loud to myself, let alone another soul.

He’s been out to his dad, to others, for nearly his whole life.

There wasn’t ever any massive revelation for him.

No big deal. No drama about coming out .

It’s just been who he is since forever. He told me once that he’d been certain since middle school that he was bisexual.

If there’s anyone I trust with this, it’s him.

I just feel like such a shitty person that it’s taken me so long to actually tell one of my closest friends.

“Back when you had the party here on New Year’s.

..” Owning up to this is so unbelievably hard, I realize, as the words croak out.

“I kissed someone. Well, more like he kissed me, and I had no interest in stopping it because I felt like I was going to climb outta my skin if he didn’t put me out of my misery and do it. ”

“Holy shit. So, are you guys... together?” Brad lets out a low whistle while tilting his head.

“Don’t you dare tell me this the first I’m hearing that you’ve got some secret boyfriend.

Are you gonna break my heart and reveal that you’ve been hiding a lover boy from me all year, you little bitch?

I coulda been organizing cute double dates and dinners for the four of us, y’know? ”

That playful scowl and side of scolding is what finally makes the pressure feel like it eases. A rusty chuckle makes its way past my lips, and I shove against his shoulder with my forearm.

“Nah.” I exhale and scrub a hand over my jaw. “He did text me his number. But he’s from out of town and left it open-ended. Kinda like if I was ever around and he was around, and we wanted to meet up.”

“So?”