Page 2 of Eight Seconds

I don’t think Uncle Tim is aware of it. But even if he was, Tim likes to deal in facts. Anything short of a cowboy reporting an issue to his face means Tim will continue to give the benefit of the doubt to his tenured employee. It’s a mixed bag of loyalty, professionalism, and cowboy culture that can make decisions difficult. I just hope it isn’t a hard lesson waiting to come due.

Loud music from the announcer’s booth ends our discussion as the rodeo queens ride out the main gate, the event and sponsor flags waving behind them as they circle the arena. I tighten Rooney’s reins, putting a hand on top of my hat, pushing to make sure it’s secure and low enough to block the bright lights. As I wait for our gate to open, I catch sight of the bronc riders climbing the rails of the bucking chutes. These boys don’t ride the broncs with saddles, so they all wait along the pens for their turn to sit bareback on an animal that would sooner crush them than be ridden.

The crowd’s cheers turn up a level when a broad-shouldered cowboy lifts himself to the top rail, sitting comfortably with a boot hooked under the rail beneath him. There are distinctly more female-sounding shrill calls and whistles when the cowboy takes his black hat off, shaking his dirty-blond hair loose. The edges tease his shirt collar and fall over his forehead, shaggy and swoopy, before he runs a hand through it and pulls the hat back down.

Wilder McCoy.

He’s the bareback bronc-riding darling. With one second-place finish at the world championships, he’s been on a yearly quest for his first win, and he has the skills impressive enough to finally claim the belt buckle. He has a natural affinity for riding with his loose hips and tight grip; his rides regularly score in the mid-eighties and go even higher when he has a stronger horse. The women that come to the rodeo have noticed those skills, and if the gossip that spreads like a dust storm backstage is any indication, he has no problem showing them off.

The gate in front of us opens, and I direct Rooney onto the soft dirt of the arena floor. My horse gives his head a shake in appreciation and walks toward the back center of the ring where the steers are kept. There’s no audience at this end, and I like my horse’s intuition. Between the bull riders and the bronc riders, the clientele of the rodeo has started to severely skew female, and not in a positive way. Women who have little appreciation for the work and talent it takes to live this life, but have picked up a handful of romance novels or watchedYellowstoneone too many times. They show up in new boots, stiff flannels, and painted lips, hoping to find out if reality is anywhere as close as their fantasy.

The announcer is going over the rules for the event over the PA as the whoops and whistles die down. Hooves clang loudly against bucking chutes, and the cowboys talk back and forth amongst themselves, getting ready. There are six riders tonight, all of whom are hoping to come in first. Their scores won’t count toward the season’s standings, but they have the opportunity to win the purse that’s accumulated for this show. Sometimes, that is just as important. Rodeo life isn’t cheap. We have horses, gear, transportation, food, and lodging to consider with a different city to call home almost every week between April and October.

“Charlotte!” Curtis’ voice cuts through, a gloved finger lifting to where the first rider is already being lifted into the air inside the chute. He has one arm on the top bar, holding onto it to stay on the back of the thousand-pound animal. The chute hasn’t opened, the timer hasn’t started, and it looks like tonight’s talent is going to be in for a hell of a ride.Fuck me.I push my heels down in my boots, pulling on Rooney’s lead to get his eyes on the action.

The chute flies open, and a large black mare breaks free, back legs kicking as she twists with the rider on her back. It takes less than a second for her to send her rider flying. I send Rooney loping forward to draw the attention of the mare, leading her away from the cowboy who’s scrambled off the ground and is hustling toward Curtis. With a few whistles and clicks, I send the mare in the direction of the open livestock gate. She’s already settled, trotting pleasantly behind the arena where she’ll be rewarded with a sugar cube and carted off to whatever city she’s to be featured at next.

The rider exits through the gate we entered from, shaking his head at his “no score” announcement. I loop Rooney back around to our spot. The next few riders go easy, with two of them staying on the full eight seconds to obtain scores in the mid-eighties. Their horses help the scores with decent bucks and kicks, adding flare to the athleticism.

I’m straightening in my saddle, running my fingers through Rooney’s mane, when the arena explodes in girlish delight again. I see Wilder swing a long leg over the top rail into the bucking chute. He straddles the massive horse beneath him by standing on the metal rails, twisting to lift his hat in recognition of the crowd’s attention. I roll my eyes, humming impatiently for him to get himself in place and sit on the horse—a horse who is clearly not in the mood for a rider.

The protesting neigh from the animal is louder than the shouts of a group of women chanting, “Let’s get Wild!” It causes the fan club to quiet, the rest of the crowd following as Wilder’s yell pierces through.

“Let’s just go!”

I’m too far away to see exactly what’s happening, but just like the other riders, he has one arm braced on the top rail, head down, and shoulders curled in. There are more neighs from the horse, loud clanks from where its hooves are kicking against the small space it’s currently held in. Then, Wilder gives a nod, and all hell breaks loose.

2

WILDER

JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL

This horse is either going to make me a lot of money or give me a lot of broken bones. Maybe both. I’m hoping it’s the former.

The bay-colored mare has made it abundantly clear that she doesnotwant me astride her. She leans heavily to one side of the chute, pinning my leg uncomfortably against the fence before flaring her nostrils loudly and grunting with annoyance. I’m settling my ass as comfortably as possible against the horse’s back when Travis Frost, my friend and professional bull rider, notices that there’s an issue with the mount. The handle I’m supposed to wedge my hand into and grip for the duration of the ride is secured to a mount around the horse’s chest. It’s loose, putting the entire ride in jeopardy. He’s about to turn to get an official to inspect it and delay my ride.Absolutely fucking not.

I drew the best horse tonight; I’m not about to miss out on the opportunity of a good ride because the mount isn’t fully secure. My grip is, I can tell my grip is secure as I move my fingers.

“Let’s just go!” I bellow at Travis. He knows what I’m asking, and his eyes widen. It’s a dangerous move to ride when the mount could break away unexpectedly. An even worse possibility could be that the handle slips to one side of the horse’s shoulders, putting me in a position where I can’t get off when the ride is up. I don’t think about how badly that could hurt; I just know it’s my turn to ride, and I don’t want to miss this opportunity. I glare at Travis, teeth grinding together when I say, “Fuck it.”

With a disapproving shake of his head, he turns, telling the official everything is good to go. I’m ready. I give the final nod and suck in a sharp breath as the chute gate flies open. My spurs dig in as the horse’s front hooves pound into the dirt.

The mare, named Happy Trails, twists violently, her back legs shooting out behind her. I hold on tight, flinging my free arm in the air, knees lifting above the mare’s shoulders. The horse keeps performing like a hellspawn, snot flying from her nose as she tries to dislodge me. It’sexactlythe kind of ride everyone hopes for. My arm stays in the air, and I move up and down along the horse’s back. I can feel it in my blood. This is going to be huge.

The buzzer echoes in my ears. Eight seconds.

And if I’m lucky, the purse tonight.

I’m allowed to let go and hit the ground, but the handle has shifted to the right, loosening against Happy Trails’ shoulder. The exact worst-case scenario, and this horse is still pissed that I haven’t vacated her immediately. I lean forward, over the mount, to try and twist it back to the middle where I can extract my hand more easily. I wiggle my fingers and pull hard to my left to move the mount as I see our two rescue riders approach. It doesn’t matter. With a quick slide, the mount moves, and my fingers pop free. It’s fast and awkward enough to send me tumbling to the ground.

I grunt as my hip hits the dirt, but survival instincts have me rolling to my side and knees almost immediately. It’s just in time as Happy Trails swings her back legs in my direction, the kick displacing the air close enough to me that I can feel the whoosh of the wind against my face.

“Hand, cowboy!” The command comes from my left, and the petite rescue rider in the black Stetson and braids reaches down. Curtis has Happy Trails backing away, but the wild horse seems to be targeting me, staring stupidly at the hand being thrust in my face. It doesn’t take more than another stamp of Happy Trails’ massive hooves to get my body in motion. I reach up to clasp the girl’s forearm, giving myself a small running jump as she hoists me behind her saddle with a surprising amount of strength.

I’m not a small man. At six feet, I’m the tallest competitor in my event and an outlier for bronc-riding cowboys. I have broad shoulders and a considerable amount of lean muscle honed from years of ranching, riding, and keeping my body in shape. But this girl’s grip is fierce, her fingers digging into the flesh of my arm through the plaid shirt and arm tape I have on, almost like blunt talons. She swings, using my momentum to help me land on the back of her horse, a beautiful red roan with a braided tail and little braids in his mane. The ribbons match the two at the bottom of the braided pigtails in front of me. My arms wind around the girl’s narrow waist as she trots away from Happy Trails, who’s been roped by Curtis and is being led to the livestock gate.

The announcer is calling for attention to the screen at the end of the arena, where a replay of my ride is being shown. I twist to watch it over my shoulder. It’s a damn good ride on the back of a damn good horse. My score flashes boldly at the conclusion of the replay: 89.5.

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