Page 23 of Eight Seconds

“I’ll see you after.”

* * *

“With that knocked-over barrel, Charlotte’s earned a five-second penalty, folks. Her final time is twenty-five point three. She won’t be sitting in the money this evening, but that time is unlikely to knock her out of her current first-place seeding on the Nationals table.”

The echo of the announcer carries as I walk Rooney back to his stall for a snack and a rest. For once, the reins feel heavy in my hands, the taste of losing bitter in my mouth. Rooney stays close, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. I shouldn’t be too upset; losing was bound to happen; it happens to everyone. But I’m biting the inside of my cheek as we near the stable to keep from tearing up.

It’s my own fault that we lost. I allowed myself to become distracted. Strayed too far from my pre-race practices. Became too complacent that all the change around me wasn’t impacting what is most important to me: proving that I’m good at racing. ThatRooney and Ican win.

I keep my head down and quickly set about securing Rooney in his stall, distracted by my own melancholy and disappointment. My movements are mechanical, easing the saddle off him before putting it away for the next hour. With my back to Rooney, I reach for the brush, intending to give him a little extra attention, hoping it will help make me feel better by default.

Suddenly, I’m pushed into the side wall of the stall as Rooney stomps his feet violently and lets out an ear-splitting whinny. It’s a panicked, alarming noise that has me on edge as I struggle to get a full breath. I spin around, looking for danger and reaching for Rooney’s lead. He’s still moving around erratically, eyes wide, and the sounds of distress from him aim directly at my heart. I gain control of the reins, pulling at them to get Rooney to focus on me, still searching for signs of danger.

There, slipping under a loose board at the bottom of the stable, the back of a snake in a familiar pattern and honeycomb tail disappears. My heart stops beating before it plummets into my stomach. I’m frozen in place as fear races through me.

A rattlesnake.

“Charlie, I’m so sorry, it’s only one race—” Wilder’s voice sounds from the half-opened stall door. It’s enough to set me back in. I immediately crouch, examining Rooney’s front legs as carefully as I can. I sense Wilder slip into the stall, his voice murmuring soothing words as he picks up the reins I discarded, keeping Rooney still and calm. I think he says my name, but I can’t focus on him enough to care. My fingers move gently, but with practiced efficiency, up and down Rooney’s limbs. Searching. Dreading what I might find.

There, just below the knee on his left front leg, two puncture marks pooling with blood.

“He’s been bitten.” My voice is soft. The taste of bile teases the back of my throat, my stomach churning with the outcomes of this reality, each darker and scarier than the next. My horse—my constant companion—has been bitten by a snake. Even if I can process the fact, my emotions are hung up on the terrifying possibilities of what itmeans.

“What?” Wilder asks, concern and confusion clear. I look up to him, the image blurring as tears cloud my vision. I swallow thickly, infusing my words with more strength than I actually have.

“Rooney’s been bitten by a snake. A rattler.” There’s more confidence in my words, but I struggle to stand. My hands never leave Rooney. I brush and pet, trying to give him some comfort as my sweet horse begins to favor the injured leg.

“Fuck.” Wilder takes a breath. “Someone get the vet! We’ve got a snake-bitten horse that’s going to need help!” His voice commands attention, even though all of his is focused on me. There’s an answering shout, the message being conveyed through the alleyway.

Wilder’s hands are on either side of my face, thumbs working away the tears that have started falling. Their salty residue is drying in tight trails over the curve at my cheeks. There’s a gentle squeeze at the nape of my neck as Wilder shakes me softly to get my attention. It’s hard to concentrate on him when my whole world feels like it's been knocked off its axis. But that steadiness I’ve come to love so much about him reaches through as he locks eyes with me. Then, with silent grace, he removes one hand from me to place it on Rooney’s muzzle. “I’ve got you. Both of you. It’s going to be okay.”

Something about the certainty in Wilder’s statement gives me permission to break. The resolve I’ve been clinging to since the end of my race crumbles to pieces as he wraps me in his arms, and I collapse against him.

13

WILDER

LARAMIE, WYOMING — LATE JULY

Charlotte hasn’t left Rooney’s side. Not that I blame her, but it doesn’t keep me from worrying, either. She’s pale, her shoulders slumped, and her hands keep braiding and unbraiding a section of his mane. The usually confident, vibrant Charlotte is now closed off and sullen. She looks so small on the stable floor with Rooney’s large head resting on her legs.

Before the vet showed up, some of the other cowboys and I got Rooney moved into a different stall. It’s larger and more isolated in the stable, a better space for the vet to work without us getting in the way. There’s even a little room off the side with a cot tucked against the wall. I take another look around and realize it’s likely where they bring the horses to give birth or for severely injured livestock that need round-the-clock care. It’s perfect, as I know Charlotte won’t listen if I suggest she go back to the trailer tonight. In fact, I plan on her not doing it.

The vet assured us Rooney’s bite is mild. It’s likely the snake bit defensively, injecting a low volume of venom instead of outwardly in attack. It was probably spooked by Rooney being close, striking fast and making a hasty exit. He’s had a round of antivenom, and the wound has been cleaned and bandaged. A few of the staff walked the perimeter of the stable, finding it curled up not far from the hole in the siding, soaking up the sun without a care in the world. I was told it will permanently be without a care now that it has met its end.

I take up the spot next to Charlotte, extending my legs alongside her own, and look deep into Rooney’s chocolate eyes. They’re a little dull, the dose of pain medication the vet administered doing its job to keep him placid and compliant. He needs to stay off his leg for the first twenty-four hours so blood doesn’t pool at the wound site, causing further complications. I stroke my favorite spot on his muzzle; it has the barest polka dot of cream mixed with the mottled brown-red hues of his coat. Rooney’s velvety soft lips move searchingly, maybe hoping I have a peppermint for him, but close when he realizes I don’t have a treat to offer. He’s been so good; didn’t protest any of the vet’s examinations or treatment. A strong, steady horse that stayed focused on Charlotte before resting easy with her continued attention.

“Charlotte.” I place one of my hands over hers, stilling the mindless weaving. I don’t know if it’s my touch or the use of her full name that has her lifting her eyes, but it’s the first time in hours she’s reallylookedat me. It takes barely a breath before the green of her gaze swims behind a pooling of tears. “Oh, baby.” I cradle the back of her head, burying her face against my chest at an awkward angle to let her cry it out. “He’s okay. The vet says he’ll make a full recovery. He just needs a few weeks.”

Her cries sputter and ease through hiccups and snorts. It’s a raw and vulnerable moment, not a trace of vanity in how she runs her sleeve across her face, wiping the remains of her tears and snot. She pushes back, Rooney adjusting to lay his head alongside her thigh opposite me. His breathing is level and strong, indicating he’s fallen asleep. Charlotte’s splotchy face holds nothing but tender affection and concern, but there’s a small spark of her usual verve hiding in the corners of her eyes. She runs one more hand through his mane before facing me.

“Wilder!” The life rushes back into her countenance, shock popping her eyes wide and mouth open. “What time is it? Your ride! What are you doing here?” In a flash, she’s off the floor, reaching back to hoist me to my feet in a move so similar to how we met I can’t help but laugh. My chuckle sets her glaring at me and spinning on her heel, words continuing to tumble from her. “Tim is going to be so mad at me! I missed riding.Youmissed riding! What were you thinking?”

“Hey, hey, hey.” I grab hold of her wrist, turning to pin her arm gently against her side, pressing her to me. I kiss her softly, her lips yielding to mine, even in her flustered state. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

The fighting energy leaves her with the next exhale.

“But your ride? Tim must be so upset with me.” Charlotte’s words are concerned and searching, just like her eyes that flit back and forth across my face. I release her, bringing her hand to rest atop my heart, letting her feel it beating. “I’m so sorry.”

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