Page 21 of Eight Seconds

“Just thinking,” I tell her. She wiggles, burrowing against me and moving until her head rests more on my shoulder, angled so she can look up at me. Her eyes are half open as she attempts to focus, and I feel guilty that she’s awake when I know she’s tired.

“Want to tell me?” Charlotte offers around a yawn.

Do I?Do I want to explain that I’m thinking about words and feelings I’ve never had a clear example of, so I’m not sure if I can trust them? Do I want to admit that tonight has been the best sleep I’ve had, maybe ever? Or that I woke up because I dreamed of her leaving me and I needed to make sure she was still here? Still real?

“I was thinking that with the Horizon sponsorship, I might start looking into land.” It’s a safe confession. Especially if I leave out the part where I picture her being there, too.

“Finally time to settle down?” I watch her face closely. There’s genuine curiosity in her expression, nothing mocking like I would expect from other people if I mentioned my plan. I lift a corner of my mouth, giving her a crooked smile.

“Something like that.” I cradle her face with my hand, brushing the rough pad of my thumb over her cheek. “I’ve never had a place of my own to go to between rodeo seasons. I usually end up in Colorado, working and training until it’s time to ride again.”

“I’d love to have a place of my own.” Charlotte smiles briefly at the thought before her face shifts to something else. Sadness. “Having to go back to my parents’ ranch feels more like a punishment sometimes than security. And every time I do, it’s like one more step up to the gallows. That countdown until I have to take over operations permanently…I hate it.”

I squeeze her in reassurance.

“What would you want in a place?” I ask her, trying to keep our conversation from shifting into heavier topics, the ghosts of my past trying to creep in.

“It has to be somewhere with seasons,” she starts. “Cold winters and bright springs. I love seeing things go quiet until they’re ready to be reborn. The waiting and stillness feel right to me. Also, I love the kind of summers that make you never want to be inside, and autumns full of crisp air and color. Finding that perfect hidden lake—that’s never really hidden—to swim in and laze about on the shore. And early autumn evenings when the sun sinks perfectly over the horizon, bringing out the golds and reds of the trees. I love those sunsets.”

“What else?” I prompt. I close my eyes and start to visualize a house, three to four bedrooms with a large wrap-around porch tucked into a parcel of land surrounded by the type of trees that would make Charlotte smile. There would be a huge swing, the kind that looks like a daybed, stuffed full of pillows and blankets to ward off the nip of fall air.

“I want a riding ring so I can practice in the off-season. Maybe even give lessons when I decide to stop riding.”

“When will that be?” I tease, running my hand along the soft skin of her arm. Little goosebumps break out in the wake of my touch, and my cock stirs, but I’m not interested in that kind of closeness. Right now, I’m too busy imagining a future that feels too perfect to ever come true.

“When I can’t pull myself up on a horse anymore.” Charlotte laughs. It’s a joyful sound. Easy and ringing like a church bell at midnight, calling the listener home. “What about you? What will get you to hang up your spurs?”

My hand stills. The question is a logical one, but it still catches me off guard. I’ve not considered what could get me to stop rodeoing, other than ending up in the hospital or a grave. I know this isn’t a career I can do forever, but what could possibly get me to walk away?

“I don’t know if I’m ever going towantto stop.” I decide to tell her honestly. I get a knowing smile back from her. I’m unrepentant. “I think it would have to be something life-changing. And I don’t just mean an injury or whatever. It would have to be something that shakes me off my foundation, because until I started riding, I didn’t think I had anything in my life that was mine. So, it would have to be something that felt like that.”

“That makes sense,” Charlotte slightly mumbles, warmth infused in her voice. She lets out a squeaky and adorable yawn.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” I soothe her. “We have a big day ahead. Let’s leave the ‘what-if’ life choices for another time.”

I get a grumbling affirmation, and it doesn’t take long before her breathing evens out once again and I’m left to think of possibilities I never thought I would get.

12

CHARLOTTE

LARAMIE, WYOMING — LATE JULY

It’s hot and dry. Much more than any place I’ve been recently, and I’m sucking back water like it’s my job. It isn’t, of course, but hydration is really important on rodeo day. I’m also pulling double duty again today because Uncle Tim still hasn’t fired Brett.

I pull a little too hard on Rooney’s bit as I stand next to him, frustrated at the prospect of us doing more work. I really wanted to try and give him some rest after our ride. Instead, we’ll be back in the arena, corralling ornery broncs and rescuing the fools that try to ride them. Rooney protests when I try to nuzzle against his nose.

“Hey now, don’t be like that.” I stroke his neck gently in apology. “I’m sorry I pulled.” He shifts his weight closer to my touch, the indication that he forgives me clear, but I move to his side and begin fixing his mane and continue, “And I’m sorry that I’m making you work twice today. I know I should tell Tim to find someone else, but.” I pause, considering all the reasons why I am still helping my uncle. I thread a thick peach ribbon through the braid I’m weaving. It matches the bow at the bottom of my own plait. The color stands out against both of our hair and the deep chocolate color of my button-down. “Tim’s the only family who actually gives a damn I’m doing this, you know that. Mom and Dad pay the bills, but it’s not the same. And now with Wilder…I can’t stomach the idea of something happening to him when I could have been there.”

It’s the truth. I’d rather put us through more work to keep Wilder—or any of the other riders—from harm. They shouldn’t be at risk because their recovery rider is still seeing double, or can’t stay upright on his horse. As I finish weaving and tying off a final flourish to Rooney’s mane, I also know I need to tell my uncle I’ve had enough. It’s getting too late in the season to keep adding this kind of work to my rotation, and the risk is something I’m tired of taking.

Rooney and I are on an unbelievable hot streak. We’ve won every race we’ve ridden in. I’m sitting at the top of the leaderboard for Nationals qualification. Despite the unexpected addition of Wilder to my life, I feel confident in myself and my horse to see our names on a title in five months. But there’s a growing unease in my gut; a stirring I can’t quite name that speaks of danger or darkness. I know the outcome is going to be more than I’m prepared for if I can’t get us out of this cycle with Uncle Tim.

“Well, if it isn’t the prettiest damn thing in the rodeo.” Wilder’s arms wrap around me, breaking me from my rapidly spiraling thoughts, his scent and steady hold bringing me back to the moment. “And his rider.”

I thrust an elbow back at his joke, catching him easily in the side. The quick exhale of his breath sends the baby hairs framing my face fluttering. Spinning free, I see him nearly doubled over as he recovers, but there’s a wide smile mixed with the discomfort.

“That’s what you get, Cowboy.” I cross my arms over my chest, completely unrepentant for my actions. Rooney shifts away, used to avoiding Wilder’s boisterous behavior, to give us a wide berth. I pat his shoulder before walking away from where I have him hitched.

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