Page 14 of Saving the Rain
My eyes flick their way quickly, then toward the main doors where Storm’s heavy metal drifts in from. It’s an odd sensation, almost feeling like I’ve been caught watching them when that’s definitely notthe goddamn case. I’m not fucking creeping on what they’re doing; I’m just checking how the horses are looking after their long ride for the day.
I shift the weight of the saddle in my arms and can’t seem to move from this spot right here, where it’s easy to watch as they approach the barn. The two of them are busy cackling, honking like a pair of goddamn geese, and Chaos leans over to shove at Kayce’s shoulder. Their knees bump as their horses walk in step, so close it would be nothing to reach out and take hold of the other’s reins.
Something about seeing the two of them acting like idiots fucks me off. I can’t explain it. They’re technically doing their job. It’s adequate enough, although if I was being a dickhead about it, I should really chew Kayce out for not making sure one of them was stationed at the rear, pulling up the last rider position. But I know from seeing them head out earlier this morning that they did, in fact, set out that way.
Nope. It’s nothing I could give a crap about. The two of them are obviously obsessed with each other. They travel to pro events together, they ride together, and they’re training partners. Being up each other’s asses is how they live and compete.
I inhale deeply and make my way over to saddle Mist. They’re going to be in here, filling up this barn any minute, and I’m not interested in hanging around listening to them crack jokes, thinking they’re funny. It’s none of my business. They can suck each other’s dicks while they’re at it, too. I’ve got work I need to get on with.
As I heave the saddle into place and thread the straps through their buckles, making sure nothing is too tight around Mist’s belly, the pressure inside me refuses to dissipate. The frustration I’ve got rolling around my shoulders and chest is probably a sign I need to work this out of my system.
When I let Kayce think I’d hooked up with that girl from the bonfire, it was just to mess with him. I never did go there, and I certainly don’t have any plans to. But hell, it was satisfying to see the look in his eyes when he thought his sweet little barrel racer had ditched him.
No prizes for guessing that I need to work out this tensionsomewhere and somehow. Between moving across the border and getting my head around managing this place, it’s been a dry spell. Too much work isn’t an issue, but I clearly need to break the drought—pussy or cock, doesn’t worry me.
I’ve got phone numbers for both, and invitations I haven’t taken up yet.
All I gotta do is get through this week, then when the weekend rolls round I can let Crimson Ridge find me a bit of hot-blooded, no-strings attached fun.
Chapter 6
Wrapping 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 thewinningenergy 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 ofsuccessindelibly 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 withtime. 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.