Page 3 of Eight Seconds

“Fuck yeah!” I whoop, pulling my hat from my head and waving it around as the crowd cheers.

“Goddamn it, get off my fucking horse if you’re going to act like a clown,” the girl hisses. We stop next to the exit gate, one of her hands reaching back to push at my thigh. Just like Happy Trails, she clearly wants me to exit her space. I put my hat back on, glad that, at this angle, her strength isn’t enough to dislodge me. On the soft breeze that flutters through the spring air, I catch a hint of peaches. The scent so faint and inviting I lean forward to follow it back to the curve of her neck, where it originates.

“What’s wrong? You sick of me already? I kind of like riding with you.”

I have no idea why I say it, much less whisper it in her ear. This girl saved my ass, but I can’t seem to resist the idea that she’s not impressed by me. And somehow, that just won’t do. I’m a goddamn delight if the loud screams from my left are any indication. I catch sight of a group of women in the stands, wearing white cowboy hats and matching shirts with “Looking for aWildtime” emblazoned on them.

“And now, the ride is over,” she announces when we pass through the gate. She pulls up short on the reins, turning fully to pin me with her stare. Her green eyes—nearly gem-like in their emerald color—blaze with irritation, one black braid swinging to the front with the force of her turn. “Get off.”

“A gentleman always gets his lady off first.” I smirk, hand reaching out to toy with the red ribbon in her hair. The smack I receive on my wrist isn’t unexpected, and I laugh loudly as she flips the temptation back over her shoulder.

“You’re no gentleman, Cowboy.” Her eyes flick up and down my body in assessment before she jerks her chin to the ground, her wordless direction clear. “And I’m plenty capable of getting off without anyone’s help.”

I hold my hands up in surrender, spinning to swing a leg over and slip off the back of her horse. Boots firmly back on the ground, I look over my shoulder to get in a parting shot, but she’s already trotting off toward the warm-up ring. I watch for far too long at the enticing sight of her round ass posting in the saddle.

“You’re a real dumb son of a bitch, you know that?”

Curtis’ disapproving voice has me walking to where he’s now tying up Dusty on a post near the gate. He spits in the dirt as I get closer.

I look down at it and give my friend and mentor an apologetic frown.

“But, I won.”

“Winning means nothing if you’re not around to enjoy it,” Curtis says, genuine concern laced in his words. “Wilder, you’re one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. But you have no goddamn sense. The ride only really counts if you live through it. That horse was inches away from knocking your head off your shoulders.”

“That wouldn’t improve my looks any,” I joke, hoping to take the worry away. Curtis took me under his tutelage when I was sixteen after I watched him win in Tulsa. He was a legend, and I was persistent. I followed him around for the rest of the night like a lost puppy, asking question after question until he finally told me he’d train me if it meant I’d shut up. The man took a dumb kid with enthusiasm and a ‘devil may care’ chip on his shoulder and turned me into a near-champion rider. Along the way, he’s tried to turn me into a better man, but that hasn’t come as easily.

“Shit, Wild.” Curtis sighs. “If Charlotte hadn’t been there, it could have gone really bad for you, kid.”

“Charlotte.” I let the name roll around my tongue, slipping it past my teeth, almost like a kiss. I try it out and smile when I like how it sounds. I haven’t seen her at events before.

“No.” Curtis’ voice is firm.

“What?” I ask innocently, holding up my hands and stroking Dusty’s snout. The horse chuffs and moves away from me. Figures he’d take sides. Curtis is glaring at me. Hard. “I was just confirming her name.”

“Bullshit.”Guilty as charged.Curtis goes on, “It’s Charlotte’s first season since moving up from juniors. She doesn’t need anything—oranyone—messing with that.”

“Did you hear how she talked to me?” I laugh. “Something tells me ‘distraction’ is the last thing she thought of me.”

“Keep it that way.” Curtis hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “Get going. I’ve got a race to watch, and I’m sure you want to get over to Tim to see about your winnings.”

“Thanks, Curt,” I say, stopping long enough to clasp the man’s shoulder. “You’re always trying to take care of me.”

A grunt is the only reply I get as I make my way back toward where my trailer is parked for the night. I drop off my vest and aim for the main tent to find Tim. But my boots carry me in a different direction, circling around to the side of the arena. I hitch a heel on the lowest rail, arms crossed across the bar in front of me, and tip my hat back a little to see the action before me.

The black horse streaking around the barrel is fast. Its rider, a blonde, extends over her saddle and quietly urges the animal to turn faster before streaking to the other side to round another barrel. They go into the next turn wide, the horse fighting against its rider and slowing them. I glance up at the timer on the screen. I don’t race, but I know that hitting the second barrel at twelve seconds won’t win you any prizes.

As the racer blows through the exit gate to stop her time, Travis steps up beside me. Our public address announcer goes on in the background about the score and introduces the next competitor.

“Hey, man,” I greet my friend. He holds my eyes for a second too long, and I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry I put you in that spot. I already caught hell for it from Curtis, don’t need it from you, too.”

“I get your hat,” Travis replies, voice heavy and serious. I blink stupidly. He drapes his arms on the rails, watching the action before us, and smiles. “The next time you do something that does get you killed, I get your hat.”

“Fuck you.” I shove against his shoulder, playful and dumb, just like most of our antics. He laughs, and I know all is well between us. As a bull rider, he’s crazier than I am. The racer finishes in the arena, and a good time flashes on the screen.

“Eighteen point three! That’s the time to beat, folks. But we still have one more rider,”the announcer booms from his perch in a tower next to the gates.“This pretty little lady comes to us from Evers Ridge, Montana, and is a two-time junior world champion. She’s won three of the last five shows and is looking to extend her streak here. Stomp your feet for Charlotte Stryker and her horse Rooney!”

I swing my attention to the woman on the back of the red roan bursting from the gate. She’s leaning way forward in her saddle, practically over Rooney’s ears but as flat against him as she can get. They take off like a bullet from a gun, tackling the left barrel first. It’s the only one they have to complete an inside turn for, the hardest part of the race. Charlotte is urging Rooney on with her solid grip on his reins. They make the tightest revolution I’ve ever seen, not quite brushing the barrel, but getting close enough that Rooney could suspect what it feels like against his flanks.

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