Page 16 of Ride the Sky

The bunkhouse is no frills, rustic. Only what a man—or woman—needs to get along. A barebones space with bay windows and a large porch overlooking miles of canyon wilderness. The kitchen and the bedroom only have a thin partition separating them. Completing the space are four large bunk beds.Along the wall, a handful of awards and newspaper articles celebrating Vic’s past students.

I scowl at the photo of Cole Weston—Vic’s prodigy and my nemesis. The last time I saw him was at the Rough Rider rodeo in Resurrection. He called melittle girl. Since then, he’s become the object of my vengeful obsession. With every breath in my body, I vow to score higher than him at our next event. I’ll never let my boot off that arrogant man’s neck.

Just off the bedroom is the bathroom. I enter, stepping into atrocious neon lighting. Across the vanity, sunscreen, makeup, migraine medication. I pick up a pill bottle and roll it between my palms.

The night Aiden kidnapped me and Dakota, he had hit me. Hard. First with a gun and then a fist. Just trauma wasn’t enough; he also left me with a nasty concussion. For a long while, I was saddled with dizziness and motion sickness. It could have ended my career. Could have stopped me.

But it didn’t.

I haven’t needed medication since I’ve been here.

My gaze drifts.

Taped to the mirror are glossy advertisements and news articles. All featuring me.

I stare hard at the images of myself. I’m not stupid. It’s obvious why Pappy gambled on me. I hear the announcer when they saypretty Fallon McGraw. But I keep my back straight andmy shoulders stiff. I grit my teeth, and I ride. I didn’t come to be pretty. I came to do a job in man’s world and make money.

I skim the tips of my fingers over the edges of the advertisements, a smile tugging at the edges of my lips. The endorsement deals and sponsorships came fast, especially after I placed in Resurrection’s Roughstock Rodeo. The prize was a measly three grand, but I made more from shilling boots and bedazzled blue jeans. And Pappy—shit, he probably made twice that.

The five seconds of fame were worth it. I’ve been able to pay for Lovely’s surgery and help my father with his past-due cancer bills.

My eyes snag on a glossy image of me in a Stetson. I wonder for a brief second if my mother’s seen any of it. If she cares. If she even remembers who I am anymore.

A brick lands in my throat. Damn it. No. She doesn’t get my tears. She left and didn’t look back, and that’s how it stays.

Shaking my head, I turn on the faucet and lower my mouth to drink. Straightening, I slip my phone from my back pocket, place it on the counter. I tug off my sweaty tank top and toss it onto the floor.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

My hands, my gaze, move to my stomach. To the long scar snarled over my ribcage and stomach. Almost reverently, I trace a finger over it like it’s a road map to something I haven’t yet found. Hope? Peace?

I snort.

These days, the only peace I have is on the back of a bull. Chasing it eight seconds at a time at a thousand miles per hour.

It’s all I can do. Run myself so ragged during the day I don’t have time to dream at night. Dreams mean Aiden and his hands on my body and the way I had enjoyed them. The blackening ofmy vision. Blood on my shirt and Dakota’s scream in my ears. And Wyatt and his—

Inhaling sharply, I squeeze my eyes shut.

Not him. Not him.

If a bull stomped on me, would it matter? Would death finally find me?

Death.

That dark shadow nipping at my boots.

When I was ten years old, a fortune teller at the county fair told me I had nine lives, and I’ve been chasing that high, that dark omen, ever since.

The sign intrigues me. Fortune Teller. I want to ask her about my mother. Where she’s gone, why she left, and when she’ll be back. At the very least, if she can’t find my mother, maybe she can curse Sheena Wolfington,

I edge closer to the tent, push through the black curtain. A whiff of incense makes me wrinkle my nose.

A woman with high cheekbones and thick curly black hair sits at a table. A tattered black book rests in front of her.

Gingerly, I move closer, casting a glance over my shoulder for Dakota who I snuck away from in her search for the best corn dog. She’ll be pissed. Ever since Mom left two years ago, she’s been big sister bossy.

“Sit,” the woman orders. Her voice reminds me of unspooling velvet. She waits as I sit then place a dollar in the wicker basket on the center of the table.

---