Page 9 of Eight Seconds

Of course, it has resulted in my horse thinking I am a snack as he trails behind me to the practice ring. I swipe the onyx strands over the shoulder farthest from Rooney’s searching snout, laughing when he knocks the back of my Stetson to try and get what he wants.

“Sweet boy, I promise to give you an appleafterwe finish our work, okay?” I slow to let him draw up beside me, my hand carding through his mane. His head bobs, and I pretend he’s agreeing and not just moving to get my fingers where he wants them. At the gate to the small arena, I take a moment to push my hat back and rest my forehead against his neck, breathing in the oatmeal and honey of the soap I use for his mane.

Rooney and I have been together since I was eighteen when I used my entire life savings to make a down payment on him and brought him home from a neighboring ranch. My parents had no idea I had done it, and they were beyond livid when they found out. But I knew that Rooney was mine, and as a team, we would be unstoppable in claiming the world barrel racing title. I spent Rooney’s first night on my family’s ranch in the barn, too excited to be away from him. I wanted to start building our bond immediately, and luckily, Rooney was just as interested. I slept on a camp cot in his stall, dreaming of the year’s competitions that awaited us.

My parents made us wait a little longer.

Growing up in Evers Ridge, a small, sweet, and cozy town outside of Big Sky, Montana, my life was carefree, but dedicated to my family’s land. Our property, Arrowroot Hills, was the largest in the surrounding area. We were a successful working ranch with livestock and farmland, as well as a tourist destination that promised experiences to rival glamping companies while letting people live out their cowboy role-play dreams. Mom and Dad raised me to know every single aspect of our family business, from mucking out stalls before the sun came up in the dead of winter to baking cast-iron skillet cornbread for paying customers who complained of being saddle sore after the day’s ride. It was their expectation that I would take over running the operation, but only after I completed college with a business degree to ensure our legacy would see Evers Ridge prosper for future generations.

They allowed my curiosity in rodeoing to grow because I kept my grades up, my chores were finished, and they believed me when I said that having the riding awards on my college admission forms would help me to get accepted. It probably would have been true if I had ever applied anywhere. But I didn’t. Three years ago, I was convinced that with a solid horse and a stubborn attitude, I could get them to see that barrel racing was the only future I wanted. I had half the plan executed by the time they confronted me about not hearing back from any schools.

As punishment for lying, straying from the path they set for me, and purchasing Rooney without their knowledge, they gave me one option: complete my associate’s degree and I could pursue rodeo life with their financial support until the age of twenty-five. Then, I would either need to fund my lifestyle or return to the ranch and complete my degree. Knowing the struggles our seasonal help faced and the cost of participating in the junior rodeos, I was aware I couldn’t achieve my goals without their help. I agreed, training in our ranch’s riding arena every second I wasn’t working in class for the business degree now gathering dust on a shelf back home.

This is my first season competing on the pro circuit, and as Rooney comes to a stop along the rails, I know the delay was worth it. Dropping his lead to turn around and secure the gate, I catch sight of a lone figure walking toward the empty stands. Long, lean legs wrapped in faded denim eat up the dirt path. Black Resistol hat pulled low on a head that hangs a little as he lopes closer. Two to-go cups in hands that are calloused and strong. I could lie and say I don’t know who it is, but I won’t. Wilder McCoy’s entire existence is now burned into my consciousness.

Until that night in Jonesboro, Wilder had been a distant star, beauty and chaos wrapped in a healthy distance. But with one decision, one discarded beer, and one turn around a dusty dance floor, he’s threatening to become a supernova. Something dangerous and spectacular that will consume me even if I try to run.

In the last three weeks, I’ve fallen asleep to thoughts of blue eyes and a devilish smile. The phantom feeling of being held securely as music swirled around us, but it being like we were the only two in the room when I tended to my grocery shopping. Every word of conversation replayed and analyzed as I drove down the highway. Even the newest episodes of my favorite true crime podcast weren’t enough to drown out the way his voice caressed my name.

“Mornin’, Charlie.” His voice is thick and hoarse, a sign that the dawn hour is not his usual time of alertness, but hearing the nickname I thought I hated sounds infuriatingly natural. Plus, the yawn that escapes him next only confirms this isn’t normal Wilder McCoy behavior, causing a frustration to build inside me at the implication that he leads a relaxed, lazy life. But the sleepy, boyish quality of his face keeps it from taking over.Why can’t I just stay distantly annoyed where this man is concerned?He lifts a cup to me, the aroma of coffee strong, and I find myself softening.

“What are you doing here, Cowboy?” I ask hesitantly. The offering stays suspended in the air between us. I eye it warily, even if the temptation is strong. I didn’t manage to get a full caffeine fix before tacking Rooney up to be here by sunrise.

“Two sugars, a generous helping of caramel vanilla creamer.” Wilder wiggles the drink temptingly, taking a deep pull from the cup in his other hand. I blink in surprise. That’sexactlyhow I take my coffee, but I know caffeine habits were not something we discussed in Arkansas. I eye it warily. “Christ, Charlotte, I didn’t poison it,” he sighs and thrusts the drink into my hand, the warmth seeping in immediately. But the tingle making its way up my arm is from the pointed brush of his fingers against mine. “There’s enough sugar in that to ward off any chemical agents.”

I roll my eyes when his lips hitch up in a smirk. With more caution than is probably necessary, I slowly bring the rim to my mouth. The brew is stronger than I’m used to, but Wilder has managed to balance it with my preferences of creamer and sugar. The vanilla and sugar are sweet, and the caramel lingers on my tongue as I swallow. I can’t keep the sigh of happiness from slipping out. Wilder’s smile blooms at that, brightening his face with self-satisfaction he doesn’t bother trying to hide. I glare in response.

“You didn’t answer me.” I shift our focus away from the moment. “Why are you here?”

“Call it professional curiosity.”

Wilder’s posture is loose as he leans his arms over the top rail, lifting a boot to balance on the bottom rung. He takes another drink of his coffee, looking out over the dirt arena and the sky beginning to glow with the warm yellow and pale orange of the sun’s rays. I take the time to consider his presence. With his years-long career, he knows perfectly well what barrel racing looks like. He doesn’t need to watch Rooney and I go through our practice routine to learn the rules, and I highly doubt any of my skills will be useful to improve his weekly effort to stay on the back of a horse. I don’t really know why he’s here, but he isn’t pushing to get my attention in the way I expect. There’s a spark of warmth flickering inside me, that maybe he’s here to see me. I immediately try to drown it with another sip of coffee. As I suck down the life-giving brew, Wilder reaches a gentle hand toward Rooney, who has been standing idly.

Rooney leans forward, nostrils working to distinguish the scent I know he’ll find: leather, worn, worked and warm, and sweet hay, fresh and delicate. It stayed with me for days after Jonesboro, woven into the fabric of my gingham shirt until laundry day, but also clawing its way into my memory against my will. With his usual caution, Rooney’s snout nudges Wilder’s hand, a sharp exhale reverberating against Wilder’s skin as he considers the newcomer. Then, after the smallest of nibbles from his soft lips, Rooney steps closer, letting Wilder extend his fingers to brush against his neck and along his shoulder.

“You are beautiful,” Wilder speaks low and honest, hand stroking reverently over the mottled coat of my horse. My fiercest companion. My best friend. “Such a strong, fast boy. Taking such good care of Charlotte, hmm?”

Rooney swings his head back at the sound of my name, bumping against Wilder’s, knocking his hat askew. It prompts a deep, honest laugh from the man, and I can’t stand still any longer. The butterflies that have fluttered for weeks are threatening to break free the longer I watch their interaction. I can’t afford this distraction. This disruption to my routine. I won’t let my focus slip from my goal.

As badly as I want to finish the cup of coffee, I set it at the base of a post and then reach out to secure Rooney’s lead in my hand. Gently, I direct my horse back to me, determined to get back to work. Rooney comes willingly, but Wilder looks to me with a hint of dejection at being left behind.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I begin awkwardly. I might not know what to do with the interest I’m developing in the rodeo world’s current lothario, but I can easily handle it by burying myself in practice. I look at the horizon, estimating I’ve already lost a solid twenty minutes to my thoughts and Wilder’s visit. I clear my throat, throw the reins around Rooney’s neck, and haul myself into my saddle. I adjust my hat, securing it for the sprints I plan to start with and look down at Wilder. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” he answers without hesitation. He walks to the first row. “Figure I’ll sit right here and finish my coffee.” With an easy swagger, Wilder drops to the wooden bench, leaning back until his elbows rest on the seats behind him. He brings his coffee to his lips, drinking deeply. He locks his piercing eyes on me and licks his lips, pulling my attention there. They split in a grin I’m used to seeing in the arena, cocksure and full of confidence. “Want me to time you?”

I huff in frustration, spin Rooney, and ride away, the sound of his dark chuckle following us. It’s clear Wilder McCoy isn’t going anywhere, and I clamp my jaw at the realization there’s a part of me that doesn’t want him to.

* * *

The Kansas City rodeo is bigger than any event I’ve done so far. The arena is nearly sold out, and the cacophony of music, cheers, and conversation is almost overwhelming. I don’t get nervous, but there’s something about the energy in the venue that is setting my teeth on edge. As I redo my belt buckle, adjust the cuffs of my Kelly green shirt, and check the stirrups once more, I reason that it’s because this isn’t an event run by Uncle Tim’s company. It’s an adjustment. This is how it goes in the big time.

“We run the same race, though, right, Roo?” I brush my hand along his neck, but he doesn’t do much in response. His ears twitch left and right, taking in all the sounds of the staging area, his own version of getting ready. Our practice runs yesterday were solid, even with the presence of Wilder McCoy pulling at my attention.

He never interrupted as Rooney and I worked. He just watched, leaning forward with clear interest when Rooney would complete a tight turn or checking his phone and whistling low. The man really did time us. Then, as I rode back to the arena gate, he unlatched it, tipped his hat, and walked away.

I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours more unfocused than I’ve ever been. It’s a relief that this rodeo stages the barrel racing early in the event lineup. The itch to ride isn’t solely motivated by my desire to win tonight. I want to get out of here. I want to get away from the temptation to look around this space overflowing with participants and horses for the black hat that rests low, covering messy, wheat-colored hair and shadowing a cocky smile. But my head swivels as I lead Rooney closer to the gate.

“Not looking for me, are you?”

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