Page 27 of Eight Seconds

“So, if he’s on the black beauty, does that mean your boy is ready to go tonight?” Travis asks, referring to Rooney. Wilder is giving a wave, heading down the exit path to set up for another ride. Teaching him to barrel race has been another activity in our down time. Vesper needed the extra practice, and Wilder was desperate to learn. Despite the chastising comments, he’s actually pretty good for someone who doesn’t do it for a living. He has an affinity for horses, even if he gets paid to piss them off, and he wanted to experience what I feel when I race. His interest and support in something I love means everything. It’s more than the automatic deposits I get in my bank account from my parents. It’s the real, tangible proof that it matters to someone. That I matter to someone, and that sign of commitment and care is indescribable.

“Absolutely,” I tell Travis. Rooney was officially discharged from his rehab at the beginning of the month. He only missed two rodeos in my schedule, and while my times were slower on Vesper, I still won both events. The vet assures me that he has no lingering effects from the snake bite, and his leg has healed beautifully under their watchful care and ahead of schedule. “He’s back in the stable, probably pissed that I wouldn’t bring him out this morning.”

I had no idea what it would be like to reunite with my horse after such a long absence, but Wilder held my hand when we drove up to the facility, staying by my side until we reached the barn. Rooney’s vet sang his praises, and every tech who worked with him fell more and more in love with his playful and responsive personality. But he also told me Rooney needed to be discharged because none of the employees could give him the stimulation and work they knew he was ready for. My competitive boy stole hearts and had nowhere to escape with them.

When I walked up to Rooney’s stall, he thrust his head over the half door and nuzzled into my neck, velvet lips nibbling at my hair. I cried in a way I never had before; relief and happiness and love pouring out of me when I wrapped my arms around his neck. When I finally pulled away to look anywhere else but the warm chocolate eyes of my boy, Wilder stood against the barn wall, wiping away a tear of his own. He gifted me a smile full of every emotion I had just sobbed into a shiny red mane, and I knew I couldn’t deny loving him anymore.

“Glad to know he’s mended up. I was sorry to hear about what happened.” Travis hollers at Wilder to ride faster before turning back to me. “Even more sorry our schedules haven’t lined up so we can get to know each other better. I’ve been curious about the cowgirl who finally ‘roped the Wild.’”

I feel a blush start to creep under my skin, but the absurd way Travis talks has me laughing it off. Wilder’s popularity hasn’t waned, and his sex symbol status among the fans at every rodeo has only become more voracious since he stopped playing into their desperate antics. Everyone in the circuits are aware we’ve hit it off, but I see the way our fellow competitors’ looks have gone from understanding and amused to curious and interested the longer we’re together.

“Wild talks about you,” I say after offering a non-committal hum. “Says the pair of you have been riding together for a few years, and you’ve got a belt buckle waiting for you in Vegas. You’re a hell of a cowboy.”

Travis exhales a long breath, hooking a hand behind his head to rub his neck at the mention of the National Finals Rodeo in December. It’s three months away, but there are only a few weeks left in the season to qualify. Everyone is working to keep themselves at the top of the leaderboard and in the hearts and minds of the public. The NFR sells out over its ten-day run in Las Vegas, promising prestige and paychecks to those lucky enough to compete.

“I think we all believe that buckle has our name on it, right?” Travis nudges his hat with a finger as Wilder crosses the finish line again with a shout. “Otherwise, what the hell are we doing?”

Before I can answer, Wilder rides over, Vesper trotting proudly under him. I pat her shoulder before climbing the fence to get to my cowboy. I lean forward to give him a kiss, but he grips me under the arms and pulls me so I’m siding astride his lap, the saddle horn digging into my back. I yelp at the same time as Vesper whinnies. It doesn’t last before Wilder smacks a kiss to my lips, a quick press in greeting, but it still warms me through.

“Hey, baby,” Wilder says, his arms wrapped firmly around me, pressing us close together.

“Hey, handsome. Missed you, pretty boy,” Travis calls back in jest. I can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up at their exchange.

“Damn right, I’m pretty. Don’t you ever forget that,” Wilder tells him before kicking his heels, encouraging Vesper out of the arena. He waves goodbye to his friend and urges Vesper into a trot that has me awkwardly trying to find a rhythm backward in the saddle. I give up quickly, settling for wrapping myself around him as tight as I can be, laughing as we ride.

In the shadow of the stable, Wilder dismounts, reaching up to help me slide off the saddle. He gazes down at me warmly, hands finding the natural dip of my hips as he holds me in the cradle of his arms. He leans toward me, and I rise onto my toes, eager to meet him halfway.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen of the rodeo,” a deep voice says from inside the building. “No sparkly crown around that Stetson, but everyone sure does fall at her feet.” Boot falls echo behind Vesper, and her ears twitch before lying flat as the owner of the voice comes into view.

“Brett.” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. Salt Lake’s rodeo isn’t operated by my uncle’s company, but after Tim fired Brett two months ago, no one has seen the man. I had hoped he either found a new occupation or was trying to dry out somewhere to get a handle on his life. “What are you doing here?”

My stomach churns with unease. I’m not afraid of Brett. But being near him is like being in a room of people you know hate you. It’s uncomfortable and triggers uncertainty and insecurity that don’t quite make sense but come up anyway. I can’t quite keep them at bay as I question if he blames me for how this season has gone for him. That, in my uncle’s absence, I’ll become the target of the vitriol I can clearly see rolling off him.

“Working, your majesty,” Brett snarls. His ruddy complexion twists, failing to hide his dislike of me. He’s sweaty and heavy on his feet as he moves around Vesper. He lifts a hand to touch her, but Wilder’s reflexes are faster than the possibly intoxicated recovery rider. Gripping Brett’s wrist firmly, Wilder walks the man forcibly back a few steps.

“Hands off,” Wilder tells him. I secure Vesper’s leads in my hand, reaching up to give her a reassuring touch. Her ears twitch warily as she shuffles around as if trying to hide behind my smaller body.

Brett lurches to pull his hand free, spitting at Wilder’s feet in response. I curl my lip in distaste as he levels me with a glare. Wilder moves to stand next to me.

“You really going to hitch your wagon to this cunt?” Brett crudely launches at Wilder. He wipes the back of his hand against his chin, where a sparkle of remaining spit hangs. I suck a sharp breath as I automatically reach to hold Wilder’s arm. It won’t keep him from attacking the other man, but I squeeze it hard enough to make my feelings about the matter clear: Brett Fox is not worth our time.

Wilder is tense, anger nearly pulsing against my hand. The corner of his eye twitches, and I know he’s warring with himself. But before he can make a decision, there’s sounds of more people approaching the stables. Wilder lets out a long breath, silent but edged with the unfulfilled promise of retribution, and I will him to relax. It takes one more deep breath before I can slide my hand down his arm to lace my fingers with his own, and then we watch, amazed, as the sloppy man before us smiles with satisfaction and straightens his spine. He runs a hand over his face and paints on an easygoing mask, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. The rodeo professional locking back into place.

Travis and a few other cowboys approach from the walkway to the practice arena, laughter and conversation floating around them.

“Hey, fellas,” Brett greets, voice smooth and slippery as oil. The incoming group looks at him, tipping their hats or nodding. All except Travis, who looks warily at the man. “Sure going to be a good night for a rodeo.”

With ease, Brett embeds himself in the group’s conversation, walking off beyond the stable, leaving a stony Travis in their wake. He ambles over to where we stand, irritation on his face.

“Please tell me he’s not working this circuit.”

“All right,” Wilder says solemnly. “I won’t tell you.”

* * *

“I’m thrilled to have qualified. These next few weeks will be focused on training, recovery, and getting ready for the finals.”

I stand off to the side as Wilder finishes up some social media interviews. He’s a natural on camera. The charming smiles are back, and the cockiness that comes off more endearing than arrogant keeps the interviewer engaged. The blonde is looking up at him with stars in her eyes and one too many buttons undone on her shirt. I roll my eyes when she lands a playful hand on his arm as she asks about his lifting regimen. Wilder’s eyes widen for a split second at her unwelcome touch, but he quickly deflects by pulling said arm across his body in an exaggerated stretch, praising yoga over weights, and shaking her free.

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