Page 1 of Eight Seconds

PARTI

THEN

1

CHARLOTTE

JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL

“Charlotte, is Rooney ready to go?”

I lift my head from beside my American Quarter horse, flipping down the stirrup I was checking, and peek over his back. I run a gentle hand across his shoulder, earning a little whickering noise in return.

“What do you think?” I don’t keep the irritation from my voice as I stare down the arena boss. My horse, his variegated red, roan coat glossy under the lights, is quite clearly tacked up as he stands tied to the back of my trailer, his saddle in place. I lift my black Stetson from where it rests on the saddle horn, pulling it over the top of the twin braids running down my back. They’re tied off with little red bows to match the cherry-colored gingham shirt I have tucked into my worn blue Wranglers.

“I think you’re too young to have such a fucking attitude, but I don’t give a good goddamn about it if you can be in the arena in five.” Tim Gains is one of the meanest sons of bitches in the rodeo world. He runs tight shows, tight books, and, if you’re looking for it, even tighter jeans. I never look because he’s my uncle. It’s part of why I know, despite his words, he’s not really upset with me or my attitude; he just needs a favor.

“My event isn’t for another forty-five minutes. I was just going to take Rooney for a few laps.”

As I duck under Rooney’s head to appear on theotherside in front of my uncle, my horse gives a little shuffle of his feet. He knows what “a few laps” means. It’s our code for warming up before the barrel racing starts. If at all possible, I ended up with a horse even more competitive than I am.

“Running recovery for the broncs can count as his warm-up tonight,” Uncle Tim announces. I rear my head back a little, but he steps close, bringing a hand up to stroke along Rooney’s withers. “Please, Charlotte. Brett’s black-out drunk and I don’t have anyone else to do this.”

“You don’t haveanyoneelse to do this? Really?” I sigh, pulling the tail end of one of my braids around my shoulder to tighten the ribbon. Uncle Tim has the decency to look uncomfortable at my response. He looks down before sucking his teeth.

“I can’t trust anyone else,” he admits, meeting my eyes. The plea in them obvious.

“If I do this for you tonight, you have to agree to fire Brett.” I stare at my uncle, my ultimatum clear. It’s his turn to look shocked, but he gives the barest of nods.

Brett Fox has worked with my uncle for fifteen years, but he’s likely been an alcoholic for nearly that entire time, too. I might only be twenty, but I’ve grown up around this business. Watching, learning, and eventually participating. I know what a seemingly careless mistake can do. If his drinking has started to impact the safety and well-being of the rodeo, that has deep implications for my life, my uncle, and everyone else in the rodeo’s. This rodeo—and the man behind it—deserve better than someone who’s one shot of whiskey away from killing someone because of his mistake.

“All right,” Uncle Tim agrees, and I start untying Rooney’s lead. “But it will have to be after the season is over.”

I freeze, throwing a glare over my shoulder. Rooney huffs in agreement, a stomp of his hoof signaling his impatience. He wants to get to work, even if he doesn’t realize it won’t be our usual job. I pull an extra coil of rope from the inside of my trailer, grumbling as I look toward the bright lights of the arena. The year’s events have just started, but most circuits and companies have already secured their staff. I get why Brett can’t be let go at this point in the season. I just don’t have to like it.

“I’m not riding recovery every show,” I say, securing the lasso to a side strap of my saddle and hooking my foot into a stirrup. “I’m here to win, Uncle Tim, and I can’t do that if Rooney has to pull double duty. If Brett can’t do it, you better find looser jeans and dust off your saddle.”

“Fuck you, Charlotte,” he laughs as I haul myself up into my saddle. I give a little wiggle into the supple leather that has been worn down to perfectly accommodate my shape. I wave a dismissive hand in the air, taking Rooney’s reins in the other. With a gentle pull, I direct him to the end of the row of trailers. I barely hear my uncle shout, “Thank you,” as Rooney and I lope to the contestant’s gate.

A familiar tingle ignites in my veins. The hum of the crowd as they hoot and holler for the cowboys competing in the tie-down roping event spills into the air, growing louder the closer I get. I love that sound. I love how it pulses and swims under my skin. It makes me feel alive in a way that simply breathing can never measure up to. It’s a shot of adrenaline and motivation that’s better than the best espresso. It reminds me of when I was five years old, clinging on for dear life to Betsy, a cranky and oversized sheep in the mutton busting competition. I held on the longest when we shot out of the bucking chute. Nine seconds later, I won fifty dollars and bragging rights.

I’ve been chasing that rush ever since.

Over the last fifteen years, I’ve worked my way up through days of hard practice and junior rodeos to compete as a member of the Women’s Professional Rodeo Association in barrel racing competitions across the country. When I won my second junior rodeo championship title in the summer before my senior year of high school, I think it finally sunk in with my parents that I was going to be a professional cowgirl. They haven’t been very enthusiastic about my pursuit, despite owning a ranch and surrounding me with the lifestyle. So much of this is in my blood, but I think they planned a different future for me. As I draw up beside Curtis, the other recovery rider for the bucking event, I genuinely can’t think of a better way to live.

“Well, hey there, Miss Charlotte.” Curtis tips the brim of his hat with a gloved finger in greeting.

“Curtis, it’s just Charlotte, you know that.”

The man gives me a gentle smile from underneath the black-and-gray speckled mustache that stands out prominently on his weathered face. His kind brown eyes crinkle in the corner, the only other indication that he isn’t one of the twenty-something-year-olds who call the rodeo circuit ‘home’.

Curtis Stanton is a legend. A two-time saddle bronc world champion, and a four-time pairs roping world champion. He retired at twenty-nine, content to spend his days training riders and riding recovery in the arenas he loves. I’ve known him most of my life; he spent a number of his off-seasons training and working my family’s acreage in Montana.

“Old habits for an old man, I suppose,” he offers as an apology, sitting back in his saddle, leading his Palomino, Dusty, a few steps to the right to make room for Rooney and me. I roll my eyes at his words while the horses bump noses, their smells and personalities familiar to each other as herd mates. Curtis is thirty-six, hardly ancient, and his continued presence in the sport proves he has a lot left to give. “Whatcha doing here? You got to be riding soon.”

“Yeah, well you can thank Brett for the pleasure of my company in the arena tonight. Right after you tell him to get fucked for messing with my pre-race schedule,” I grind out, the flash of anger almost too much to keep out of the last sentence. It’s April, still too early in the season to get a clear understanding of the rankings. But I don’t plan on winning my first world championship in December by having my carefully crafted preparation messed with by a thirty-two-year-old man-child who can’t remember what city we’re in half the time. A man who then spends the other half of his time talking a big game about the rodeoing he’s never done.Fucking Brett.

“Hmmm,” Curtis hums low, crossing his hands over the saddle horn. I can tell he’s thinking what we both know: if the rumor we heard is true, it’s better—safer—for everyone involved that Brett is likely passed out in his trailer right now. There has been talk among the competitors of a major fuck up by the rider. Last week in Fort Worth, one of the saddle bronc riders was almost trampled after his ride because Brett dropped him while trying to get him out of the arena. Brett blamed it on the heat and a bad grip on the cowboy’s arm, but I overheard the rider shouting about the smell of Jack Daniel’s on Brett’s breath in the staging area later in the night.

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