Page 22 of Eight Seconds

Wilder follows at my heels, hands slipping into my back pockets and pulling until I relent. I lean against him, even if in the July heat, it’s uncomfortable to be so close in the sun. I soak in his unspoken apology, and I give him mine. There isn’t a reason to make more of his ridiculous joke, so I spin around until I can kiss him.

His lips are chapped but eager against my own. Lifting onto my toes, I press more incessantly against him. His arms are like a steel band at the small of my back, and when he sneaks one hand into one of my pockets again to squeeze my ass, I can’t keep the smile from parting my lips. Wilder takes full advantage, deepening our kiss with a sinful swipe of his tongue. I let him devour me, swallowing every gasp and moan I give him. It’s a heated kiss, full of the promise of dirty deeds in the dark, and I allow myself to be lost in the sensations.

“Break it up, you two, or I’ll have to get the hose. We’ve got rough stock that behave with more professionalism than the pair of you!” Uncle Tim’s voice is like the crack of a whip, breaking us apart.

It’s only after the haze of being wrapped in Wilder fades that I can hear the dying whistles from nearby cowboys, their heckling not unkind, but still pointed. My cheeks heat, but Wilder doesn’t let me feel embarrassed. After pressing a final kiss to my forehead, he steps back, still keeping me close by moving me in front of him, thumb hooking in the belt loop next to my buckle. It’s possessive in a way that gives me the confidence to shake off the lingering self-consciousness.

“That can’t possibly be true, Tim,” Wilder begins, the cockiness I’m used to hearing lacing his jovial tone. “That bay gelding kicked at me as I walked past this morning. Unprompted. Not exactly the epitome of a consummate professional.”

“That gelding is supposed to kick. He’s slated for the saddle bronc event. It’s kind of his whole damn job, McCoy.” Tim looks unimpressed from where he leans against the hitching post.

“But he wasn’t on the clock, is my point.” Wilder shrugs, and Uncle Tim rolls his eyes. Before this can go any further, I speak up.

“What do you need?”

My uncle’s face darkens before he breaks eye contact, looking around the vast staging area. He pushes off the post, walking slowly toward me with his head down. When he stands before me, his eyes pinch in the corners from his contrite expression. “Brett’s fighting to ride tonight. He’s pissed that I’m keeping him from the arena.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I acknowledge, thinking back to Deadwood. Brett couldn’t stand on his own two feet in the medical tent when Uncle Tim escorted him there for IV treatment, but the man insisted he didn’t need to miss the bareback event. It was only when Tim quietly insisted a small amount of sedative be added to Brett’s fluids that the man relented. I rode that night without knowing any of this, but having Tim fill me in later sent a chill down my spine. I loved how my uncle wanted to support people trying their best, but it was becoming clear that Brett wasn’t trying as hard as he should.

“Yeah, but he’s not doing it because of a relapse this time. I pulled him because the idiot couldn’t pay his boarding fee for Bacon, his horse, and the stable manager took him as collateral.” Tim sucks his teeth, glancing at Wilder before he speaks again. “He’s pissed off and looking to take it out on anyone who crosses his path.”

“Jesus, Tim. Have you put Charlie in some kind of danger?” Wilder’s voice is cold steel. His anger radiates off him like the sun’s heat on the nearby rooftops. Tim rears his head back in shock.

“Of course not. Brett might be an asshole with a drinking problem, but he’s never tried to hurt anyone.” Tim looks at me, concern in his eyes. “I just wanted you to know so you can steer clear of him tonight until after the bronc event.”

Wilder growls low behind me, his dislike of the situation clear, but he’s not challenging Tim. I give my uncle a firm nod. “I never intend to be around him to begin with. This won’t change anything for me. I can take care of myself.”

The flex of Wilder’s hand against me tells me he doesn't intend tolet mebe alone too much. The protective instincts he hides so well in sweet, thoughtful gestures flare to life in a more visceral way now. I look over my shoulder, eyebrow lifting in a question of trust. He kisses the corner of my eye, soothing the unease, and I know he believes I can handle anything that needs to be done.

“All right.” Tim grips my shoulder. “Have a good race, and see Rayna when everything’s done tonight. She’ll have your extra pay for the recovery ride.”

Tim’s barely out of earshot when Wilder speaks. “I don’t like this, Charlie.”

A heavy sigh escapes me, irritation and frustration warring at the situation I’m in. I busy myself with double-checking Rooney’s tack and mount, the familiarity of the tasks soothing as I ready myself for Wilder’s protests and commentary.

“Wild, please,” I try to head him off. My event starts in ten minutes, and everything about my routine has been thrown off by Tim’s words. I’m desperate to get my focus back. Rooney turns his head to check in with me, my anxiety, irritation, and anticipation passing easily to the empathetic animal I so deeply cherish. Wilder steps up beside me, brows furrowed and lips thin. “It’s unlikely I’ll even have to see Brett, and your event needs two riders.”

“We can find someone else. One of the ropers—Ellis, maybe, he’s quick and has good instincts.” Wilder pulls my hat off the saddle horn, where it always rests before I ride. Even as he tries to negotiate a way out of this for me, he’s helping me get ready for my race. “Plus, I’ve seen him fight. He’s got a hell of a right hook.”

“Stop making it sound like Brett is walking around taking shots at anyone who dares look at him.” I roll my eyes. “He’s pissed, broke, and bitter. He’s lost his horse, and he has to realize he’s damn close to losing his job. The anger will last only as long as it takes him to find a bottle to crawl into for the night. And none of that affects the job I have to focus on.”

“But it shouldn’t evenbeyour job, Charlotte! Why do you keep doing this?” Wilder throws his arm out, my hat clutched tightly in his grip, voice rising with his own frustration. Rooney stomps a foot at the dramatic behavior, so I try to settle him with some pets at his chest. I shoot daggers at Wilder, my eyes narrowing dangerously. It’s one thing to heave his attitude at me before a race, but I won’t let him mess with Rooney’s head. I depend on Rooney for everything from the moment we enter the arena. His attention has to be sharper than mine, and right now, none of this is helping.

“Because Uncle Tim is the only person in my family who ever gave a shit that I love this fucking life!” I fire back. “Because if he needed me to take the tickets at the entrance or muck out every stall, I would do it for the support he’s shown me!”

I steal my hat from his hands, pulling it on my head a little too hard, and hitching a foot into Rooney’s stirrup. My horse is moving around, his behavior a reflection of the tense atmosphere around him. I need to get us somewhere we can center ourselves again. And fast.

With practiced ease, I swing into the saddle and glare down at Wilder. He has the decency to look a little ashamed, and he’s stepped back to give Rooney and me a little space. He’s breathing deeply, pushing out steadying exhales, and I find myself matching his rhythm. Even in our disagreement, he’s still dedicated to showing me he cares, finding equilibrium for us. Rooney relaxes enough to let Wilder untie him from the post, something I failed to do in my haste. Wilder hands me the reins and stands at my knee.

“I’m sorry.”

The two words slice through me, burning out the rest of my anger in a flash. I slip off Rooney’s back to throw my arms around Wilder’s neck, folding myself into the hollow at the base of his throat. “I’m sorry, too,” I apologize. “I’ll be careful tonight, and I’ll tell Tim that I can’t do this anymore. He promised he would fire Brett at the end of the season, but I think my helping him is only prolonging the inevitable. Tim’s become too comfortable relying on me, and I think I’m letting him.”

“Baby, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know it isn’t,” I tell him. Rooney nudges my back, and we laugh, breaking apart. I hold my horse at his bit as Wilder rubs his velvet nose. “But I can’t keep working Rooney like this. We’ve been lucky so far, but we’re just as likely to take a kick from one of those murder horses as you are out there. I can’t keep putting him at risk. And I appreciate your concern, too. I haven’t had anyone to care like that before.”

“Whatever you want to do, okay?” he reassures sweetly. His hands run up and down my back when I turn back to my mount. I leverage myself back into the saddle, more focused and calm than before. I look Wilder over once more, my gaze catching on the peach ribbon he has wrapped as a band around his hat. It perfectly matches the set Rooney and I wear. My heart swells so much at the sight, it feels a little hard to breathe. I have to swallow more than once to clear the emotion from where it’s lodged itself like an unbroken sob in my throat. The little shake of Rooney’s head tells me he’s ready, too, and I turn us toward the arena, ready to race.

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