Page 17 of Eight Seconds

“Charlie,” I start, letting her admissions roll through me. It calls to a vulnerability deep within me to give her my own confession. “This will be a first for me, too, and I’m really glad it’s with you.”

9

WILDER

CALGARY, ALBERTA — EARLY JULY

“The coroner’s report ruled the death a homicide, noting severe blunt-force trauma to her head, as well as evidence of strangulation. Additional tests came back showing sexual assault?—”

“That’s enough! I can’t listen to this anymore!” I punch the button on the console, cutting off Charlotte’s favorite true crime podcast. It’s the fourth episode we’ve listened to today on our drive to Calgary. I have learned all manner of disturbing facts about serial killers, mysterious deaths, missing persons, and murders that will, for sure, give me nightmares. “I can’t believe you enjoy listening to this. Especiallyalone.”

In the passenger seat of my truck, Charlotte affixes me with an incredulous stare.

“I don’t listen to them to scare myself,” she begins, picking up her phone from the cupholder and scrolling through before tapping. She pushes another button, and Sam Hunt plays through the speakers. “I find them informative. As a young woman who—until very recently—spent a great deal of time by myself on the road and in places that could be described as less than safe, it felt important to know what to look for. What mistakes to avoid. Whatpeople.”

I don’t miss the way her voice dips at the end, a playful insinuation coating the word, as though I’m a stranger and not her boyfriend. At least, that’s what I think I am. We haven’t defined what our relationship has become over the last six weeks, and I have absolutely no experience being more than a passing fling for anyone. But there hasn’t been anyone since the night I met Charlotte. She ensnared me with her sassy mouth and beautiful face.

Since Charlotte’s birthday, we had previously committed to schedules that have kept us apart except for two rodeos. We’ve exchanged thousands of text messages, stayed up nightly on FaceTime, fallen asleep together, and made out like teenagers behind the outbuildings in Boise and Cheyenne between events. But we haven’t spent this kind of time together when there’s no hurry, and it’s a feeling I’m not accustomed to: the need to be with her. Be the reason she smiles, watch for the little crinkle at the corner of her eye when she laughs, and know I’ve kissed her right when the perfect sigh escapes her.

Hell, we haven’t even had sex yet. A fact my dick reminds me of when Charlotte reaches across to bury her fingers in my hair at the nape of my neck, blunt nails shooting bolts of lightning up and down my spine when she draws back. I chance a quick glance at her before I subtly readjust myself while she stares out her window at the passing landscape. My desire for her hasn’t waned in the time we’ve been together, but I’ve taken my cues from her. Her training, routine, and everything she’s built her life around are really important to her, and I refuse to fulfill her biggest fear about taking a chance on me—thatI’llmess this up for her.

“When we get to the grounds, the email said to follow the blue arrows to our spot. Are you okay setting up the rig while I take Rooney to the boarding barn?” Charlotte asks.

“No problem,” I tell her, keeping my voice even. It was Charlotte’s idea for us to travel and stay together for the Calgary Stampede this weekend. The event is, arguably, the biggest rodeo in North America, spanning a whole week of events, exhibitions, carnivals, and fireworks. I look forward to it every year because the livestock are some of the best in the competition, the atmosphere is electric, and even when I don’t ride well, I always get a prize to take home. At least for the night. One year, I had two to take the edge off a bad ride: a really pretty blonde and a feisty redhead.

But that was the Wilderbefore.

The Wildernowhas Charlotte. And I can’t wait for it to be just us at the end of the night.

“Once Rooney is tucked in, want to explore the carnival?” I ask, pulling off the highway to navigate the familiar roads leading to the event grounds. “I’m dying for a funnel cake, a ride on the Ferris wheel, and kissing you under the fireworks.”

“Ferris wheel, yes. Funnel cake, no. I’m a kettle corn girl. And I very much like that plan for the fireworks.” Charlotte smiles. It exudes the enthusiasm and energy I’ve come to love so much about her. In the arena and around our peers, she’s nothing but business. She rides hard and wins. She has zero tolerance for bullshit and those who don’t take things as seriously as she does. And that includes me. I don’t receive half as much shit from my fellow riders as I do from the beauty riding shotgun. “Oh! How are you at the midway games? I know they’re almost always rigged, but I can’t help but try anyway. I came really close to winning once.”

There it is,I think, as her voice drops a little at the confession. The softness and sweetness I have discovered is a privilege to see because she doesn’t show it off. There’s a beautiful innocence to her that draws me in.

“I’m shit at them, but I’d be happy to spend my winnings trying to get you a stuffed teddy bear,” I reassure her, playfulness in my tone. Charlotte rolls her eyes.

“So damn cocky, Cowboy,” she mumbles but gives me a smirk of appreciation.

* * *

The sky looks like the cotton candy hanging from the booth we just walked past. Bright stripes of pink, puffy clouds swirled into the periwinkle-blue of twilight bring a steady, luminous glow to the bustling carnival. With Charlotte’s hand wrapped in mine, I navigate us through the food vendors as their decorative lights blink on.

“Look, the line isn’t very long!” Charlotte points to our destination and pulls a little at me as her pace picks up, a half-eaten bag of kettle corn swinging from her other hand. I trail behind, chewing the last sugary bite of my funnel cake before tipping the trash in a nearby bin. The queue is only a half dozen deep: a family with two small children and a pair of teenage girls more interested in scrolling on their phones than each other. We take our place behind the family, a little girl of two or three watching us over the shoulder of her mother while her older brother impatiently waits for his cowboy hat to be placed back on his head by his father.

“Don’t leave it on the ground again like that, Colt,” the dad says gently. “Always rest your hat on its crown—the top—or you’ll get bad luck. You don’t want that before your mutton busting ride tomorrow.”

“Yes, Papa.” His little voice is full of conviction as he looks up from underneath the brim of his tan hat. His father stares back affectionately when the kid’s attention switches to me. His eyes go as wide as saucers, and he reaches blindly for his father’s shirtsleeve, tugging. He sucks in a big breath before his mouth opens. “That’s acowboy.”

I press my lips together tightly to keep the laughter in. Colt’s whispered awe is about as quiet and subtle as a bull in the chute, but it’s achingly sweet, and I can’t help but feel myself puff up a little as his other hand raises an innocent finger at me. When I started riding, I always made it a point to say hello to the kids who signed up for the mutton busting competition. They were some of my first fans. Talking a kid down, shaken with nerves at the prospect of holding onto the back of a sheep for as long as possible, healed a small part of me. I rarely get to talk to kids anymore, their aunties, older sisters, and sometimes mothers push them aside in their quest to reach me. I don’t think I realized how much I miss the opportunity until right now. I like kids. They’re honest and open, completely untouched by things in the world.

“Please don’t point, Colt. It isn’t polite. I’m so sorry,” the mom says, her attention on her son and holding her daughter. Beside me, Charlotte squeezes my hand. I check in with her briefly as I wave off the mom’s apology. Charlotte gives a little nod, releasing me from her grip and pushing me forward a step. With her encouragement, I crouch down until I’m at eye level with little Colt.

“It’s Colt, isn’t it?” I ask as the kid’s head nods like a bobblehead, all excitement and no finesse. It makes me smile when I cock my head to give him a once-over. He has big hazel eyes and blond hair under the hat that’s perched fittingly on his head. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, scuffed boots, and a small belt buckle. “Well, now,” I start, gesturing to him. “Looks to me like there’s a cowboy right here.”

“Me?” Colt's answer is laced with surprise. I catch sight of his parents smiling over his shoulder.

“Absolutely,” I agree. “You’re competing in the rodeo, right?”

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