Page 10 of Eight Seconds

As if summoned by my thoughts, Wilder’s voice floats behind me. I take in a breath, trying to find some sense of who I was before meeting him mere weeks ago.ThatCharlotte wouldn’t be happy about being interrupted minutes before she saddles up. That Charlotte would have such a strongfuck offstamped on her forehead everyone around her would know to leave her alone. Instead, my stomach flips, and my pulse kicks up at his proximity. I have to do something about that. Having an attractive cowboy talk to me is definitely not part of my pre-race plan.

Hell, he’s not part of the plan, period.

“Only so I can avoid you.” I spin around, letting my voice crack like a whip, satisfied I am sending the right message. My confidence takes a decisive blow as soon as I actually see him. Wilder’s in his riding gear: black chaps over denim, a chocolate-brown button-down under the black protective vest with a few sponsor patches, and his hat in his gloved hands. The thick strands of his hair fall perfectly over his eyes, and he flicks his head to move them away. There’s stubble running along his jaw, golden brown, and I grip Rooney’s lead harder at the thought of brushing it to see if it’s as rough as it looks or if I’ll enjoy the texture against my skin. My eyes follow until they land on his lips, and I linger. When I lift my gaze, I can tell I’ve been caught—Wilder’s own look curious and flirty, like he knows what I was doing.

“So, you admit youwerelooking for me.”

“That’s not—I don’t want—fuck. I don’t have time for this,” I struggle as Wilder’s smile grows. It’s the real one. Softer at the corners, lifting his face so his eyes squint a little in joy.

“You don’t have time for me to wish you luck?”

“I’ve managed every race without it so far; I think I’ll be all right.” I busy myself to avoid looking at him again by tightening the white bow tied to my low ponytail. It’s secured through my hair tie, so even if it flies loose, it won’t end up on the arena floor. It's a habit I need to lean into now, finding the familiarity of my actions soothing. When my fidgeting is done, I risk looking at him again.

“Probably, but I’m still going to say it. Mostly because I want to hear you say it back.” He turns his hat in his hands, and there’s a blink-and-you’d-miss-it flash of pink at the height of his cheeks. “Good luck, Charlie.”

It’s earnest and kind, and with the unexpected blush fading from his sun-kissed skin, I actually believe it. Silence wears thin between us, our eyes locked together. Then Wilder makes a gesture, hand rolling gently in a prompt. It burns me for a moment that I was so preoccupied with looking at him that I forgot how to speak.

“Yeah, thanks. Good luck to you, too.” The words rush out of me. I take my hat off Rooney’s saddle horn, where it’s been since I checked my mount. I slide it easily into place on my head, thankful for the way that it feels like armor. “Try not to do anything stupid.”

I can’t help the last barb I toss at him. Wilder has the decency to look like he expected it. He gives a little shrug. His casual dismissal twists something in me, and I step toward him without thought.

“Seriously, Cowboy, don’t be an idiot,” I speak the words low and slow, letting a hint of concern slip into them. I’m acutely aware of how close our bodies are, especially when he angles his stance and his vest brushes against the front of my shirt. The azure of his eyes begins to recede as his pupils expand to focus on me. The noise around us dulls to a hum, delicate and tenuous, as we share a look. The same pull that kept me in his arms at the barn dance stretches between us again, wrapping around me, and making me aware of only Wilder. Rooney chooses that moment to shuffle his weight, the familiarity of my horse’s side bumping into my shoulder is enough for me to break the spell. I step back and glance to where I’m being motioned by the event boss. I hook my boot into the stirrup, swinging myself into the saddle. I chance one more look at Wilder and give him my cockiest grin. “I won’t be there to save your ass this time.”

6

WILDER

DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA — LATE MAY

Plunk.

There is a leak in my roof. I never would have discovered it if this spring storm hadn’t decided to roll through Deadwood as I showed up in town. Now, I’m standing in what amounts to the hallway of my trailer, watching the steady drops from the corner of the skylight fall into the saucepan I put on the floor.

Plunk.

The rain outside continues to come down, not heavy but steady, making everything look bleak. It’s going to make the rodeo tonight a real pain in the ass, and the last thing I want is to come back to a possible lake in my trailer. Most people don’t realize rodeos are held rain or shine. My only knowledge of a cancellation is from when there were lightning strikes in the area. But rodeoing in the rain makes everything more complicated. The animals tend to be more subdued, which makes the ride harder because the showmanship suffers. Scores are lower. The ground is thick and mucky, which can potentially lead to injury. Generally, rain rodeos are terrible.

There’s a sharp knock on the door. I take the two steps to open it, smiling when I see the reinforcements I called in standing under the awning, looking unimpressed under the brim of his waterlogged tan hat.

“You’re here, good,” I say by way of greeting. I give him a big smile. “I’ve sprung a leak.”

“That better not be a damn euphemism, Wilder,” Curtis grumbles, a thumb hooking lazily into his belt loop. “We’ve got a road doc for that kind of shit.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, and leave those muddy boots outside.” I push open the screen door, indicating a metal tray where my own boots sit. Curtis lifts an eyebrow at me, but leans against the side of the trailer before pulling his boots free. Then he steps into my space, shuffling closer to the dining table as I close the doors. I point to the skylight and pot. “Roof has a leak, and I need someone to stay inside while I go up top and try to patch it.”

Curtis walks to the problem, removing his hat to set it on the counter, brim up, before looking up and back at me.

“Yeah, all right,” he agrees, picking up the tube of caulking I have. “Think it’s a seam?”

“I hope so,” I tell him as I pull out a worn baseball cap and hooded rain jacket. “Don’t have time for anything more than that until later in the season.”

Curtis grunts an agreement, and I get to work. Twenty minutes later, I’m nearly soaked to the bone, but the leak is patched, and I’m desperate for a hot shower and a cup of coffee as I climb off the roof and back under the awning. Curtis opens the door, offering me a towel while I try to shake off as much excess water as possible from my hair and clothes. I hang the jacket and hat on some outside hooks before pulling off my boots again and making a beeline for the back bedroom to find some dry clothes until I can get to the wash house of the campground. Back in my living space, Curtis is pouring some coffee grounds into the machine and getting out mugs. After rubbing the towel through the ends of my hair, I sit down at the dinette.

“When did you get the new machine?” He points to the coffee maker I bought a few weeks back. It damn near takes up the entire counter with its multiple parts: the drip, the frother, and a tank for ice. But it makes a damn good coffee, the machine so efficient that even someone like me—who’s content with caffeinated sludge—can’t mess it up.

“The old one finally gave up the ghost after Jonesboro,” I lie.Was my old one-pot machine ancient and on its last legs with a cracked handle? Yes. Would I have replaced it if I hadn’t been thinking about Charlotte? No.But once I got it in my head to surprise Charlotte in Kansas City with a cup of coffee—and begged Rayna to tell me how she drinks it—I couldn’t let it go. I made a pit stop at a local department store, picked up the shining monstrosity, and studied the hell out of the instruction manual to learn how to operate it. Given the little sigh Charlotte made when she took her first sip that morning in the arena, I know it was worth it.

“Ride’s going to be rough tonight,” Curtis says without preamble, breaking the silence stretching between us. He leans against the counter as we listen to the coffee machine work, the nutty aroma of the brew filling the small space. I glance out the window where the weather has doubled down, blocking out the midday sun; the rain pelts heavier against the roof, and I know the arena is likely turning into a bog as we speak. “Of all the nights for there to be sponsors here.”

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