Twenty-One
BECAUSE GETTING STOMPED BY ANGRY LIVESTOCK IS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE CAREER CHOICE.
KINSLEY
Last night's good night kiss burns through my memory as I stand at the entrance to the VIP section of the rodeo, and try to catalog the chaos inside of me into something manageable. That man has skills he is completely aware of—ones he mercilessly uses to melt my defenses and turn me into a puddle of cowboy-loving goo.
The Jackson Hole Rodeo arena breathes like a living thing—a couple thousand voices rising, ready for the action to begin. The air tastes of dust and kettle corn, laced with the bite of mountain cold air.
I know this world—the arena dirt, the announcer's cadence, the way barrel horses move like liquid lightning around their pattern. I've spent countless nights in stands like these. I’ve been the rider myself and know what happenson the other side of that gate. What I don't know is how to be the woman in the stands, watching someone she—.
Do not finish that thought! I don’t anything Wyatt.
"You must be Kinsley." A woman wearing designer western jeans and a bright smile approaches. "I'm Linda Morrison—Jake's mom."
I smile. “Hi, I met your son yesterday and your sister-in-law Janet last night.” I accept her welcoming hug.
She grins. “Jake has nothing but good things to say about you.”
“He’s a good guy,” I reply and I mean it.
“He gets that from my side of the family.” She pauses for emphasis. “Riding broncs comes from his dad’s side. Come on over here, there’s some people I want to introduce you to.”
I'm swept into a circle of women—an instant insider into this select group. A few faces are familiar thanks to my social media feed. I keep glancing toward the arena wondering if they’re ever going to get to the rough stock and dreading it at the same time.
"First time watching Wyatt ride?" asks a brunette in expensive boots.
“Yes and no.” I laugh trying to loosen my nerves. “I saw him ride in Cheyenne, but that was before…” I trail off not sure how to explain why this feels like the first time. “Sorry, I must sound crazy.”
“Not to someone who's been there.” She gives me a knowing look. “I'm June Rawlins—my husband rides saddle bronc. The fear never gets easier, but you learn to breathe through it."
I want to tell her I've watched plenty of bull ridersbefore, that I understand the sport and the risks and the way eight seconds can rewrite everything. But I don’t because my palms are sweating, and my chest feels like there’s a boulder laying right in the middle of it. “Thanks.”
When did I start caring this much about someone else's eight seconds?
June smiles and scoots over. “Have a seat.”
I settle next to the fence and Linda sits between me and June. She seems to know that I’m on edge and need a little buffer though she makes sure to include me in the conversation. The ladies share the news—who’s hip is acting up, who's having trouble with his timing, who just started dating, who signed a new sponsor, who has a ring on their finger, and who didn’t show up this week.
The music shifts from Laney Wilson to Metallica. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer raises his voice three notches. “It’s time to buckle up because these cowboys are here to ride some of the roughest, toughest horses and bulls in the West.”
The sun’s gone down and the arena lights blare. Pickup men ride in, and the officials take their places.
I twist my fingers in my lap—a nervous habit I only do before I ride.
"The key is to remember they're stronger than they look," Linda says, patting my hands. I loosen my grip. "These boys have been getting thrown around since they could walk. It's what they do." She flips her long hair over her shoulder.
Right. Because getting stomped by angry livestock is a perfectly reasonable career choice.
"But it’s—" I start, then catch myself before admittinghow the thought of Wyatt climbing onto something wild makes me want to march down there and drag him away from the chutes.
"Scary as sin," Linda agrees with a knowing smile.
June leans across her. She's been nursing a giant soda all evening, and I can't help but think that I could use some carbonated comfort right about now. "I saw the pictures of you and Wyatt from last night online. You looked gorgeous."
“Thank you. That’s so sweet of you to say.” I give her a weak smile and tell myself to get it together. I’m acting like I’ve never seen a roughie ride before.
The announcer's voice booms across the arena, signaling the start of saddle bronc riding, and my stomach drops like I'm about to give a presentation to Congress without notes.