Page 18 of Tame Our Wild

He turns toward the door but looks back at me over his shoulder. “I just wanted to give you a pointer because I noticed it and figured it would help. You scared the shit out of everyone last week, and nobody wants to see the PBR’s Sweetheart succumb to the same fate as two years ago.” Colson leaves without another word.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I grab my bull rope and helmet from my bag and follow him, but only because I’m almost up and need to get out into the arena. He turns right into the locker room, tossing his rope over his shoulder as I run past him. The cheers from the crowd heighten, my eyes taking a second to adjust to the dark atmosphere as I emerge from the tunnel.

Ten minutes fly by in a blur. One moment, I’m standing on the platform at one end of the stadium waiting to climb into the chute, and the next, I’m mounting on my bull, Outcast, shuffling through the box of cards in my head with all the advice Aaron has ever given me. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, focusing on a select few pieces of advice that will apply to my ride tonight.

However, the one that slips into the mix shocks the hell out of me.

“You leaned back and then had to overwork yourself to try to catch up.”

Colson’s words bounce around in my skull. I watched my ride from last night on YouTube. I was off balance and overrode because I was stiff. I didn’t catch myself leaning back, but Colson did, and for some godforsaken reason I’m clinging to that little piece of information.

This is a redemption ride; I’m in no position to be picky and ignore insight, even if it’s given to me by my rival.

I shift my position on the bull’s back and adjust my grip, briefly settling into that comfortable state that tells me I’m ready. I nod my head, and the chute flies open.

Outcast darts forward, bucking to the right in a rotation. Colson’s tip lingers at the forefront of my mind, my body instantly aware the second I start leaning backward. I re-center myself, focusing on adjusting my form as I meet the bull jump for jump. The weight bucking under me has the panic creeping up my throat, but I zone in on my breathing.

My free hand is in the air, and the moment Outcast’s muscles tense differently below my thighs, I know what’s coming and correct my body. He suddenly changes directions, but my hips stay down and steady with each jerk. And when the blare of a buzzer harmonizes with hoots and hollers from the crowd, sparks of excitement flare every nerve ending.

I release the rope, safely letting Outcast fling me aside. My body lands on the ground with a thud, but I jump up, unable to keep the massive smile from my face as the bull is directed to the open gate that leads him out of the arena.

The announcer’s deep voice booms over the speakers. “Harlow Hartt is back in the game, folks, with a—” He pauses, waiting for the score from the judges. “83.25 to finally get her on the board!”

Not the best ride of my life, but it’s points.

And it happened in Jacksonville.

I remove my helmet and raise it in the air, waving to a sea of spectators stacked in the stands, decked out in their boots, Wrangler jeans and cowboy hats. I jog off the dirt, meeting the rest of the athletes behind the chute. Video cameras follow me as other riders slap me on the back, congratulating me, their encouraging voices adding to the high.

Colson is standing against the fence that overlooks the dirt, freshly showered. His cowboy hat is back in place, and he’s in a clean black T-shirt that hugs his muscular frame. He gives me a congratulatory nod, the look accompanied by a sly smile that on any other day would make me roll my eyes. But his advice is the reason I have my first scoring ride of the season.

I grin only momentarily before a body darts across the open space toward me. Mel stops short, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes. Panic bubbles under my skin when I fully register her state. Her breaths are shallow, her cheeks dusted with pink splotches and mascara streaks, like she’s been crying for a few hours. Maybe she has, because I haven’t seen her since I left the hotel midafternoon to come to the arena.

My heart plummets into my stomach—my post-ride high completely forgotten. “Melanie?” I choke out.

She shakes her head, a fresh wave of tears streaming down her face. “It’s Aaron.” She hiccups through the emotion clogging her throat. “He died of a heart attack this morning.”

SEVEN | COLSON

The all-too-familiar feeling of loss resurfaces, digging its sharp claws into my chest. The Arizona air should carry the crisp smell of juniper and sage that tangles in the breeze, yet it’s void of all scents.

Not a single bird chirps.

No voices emerge from the sea of black engulfing me.

Everything is quiet, as if the entire world has fallen silent, remembering a soul who touched so many.

But maybe it’s because I know what this feels like. What crippling sensations overcome you when you place the shell of who someone once was in the earth, while memories are all you have left to seal the cracks they used to fill.

The most recent passing was my grandfather five years ago. I have been in this position too many times, and it never gets easier.

I may not have known Aaron Jackson well, but he has left a legacy—a true legend best known for being the first to conquer and ride the bull Ol’ Unreliable over twenty years ago. From the videos I’ve seen, that bull had lived up to his reputation. He was unpredictable, making it nearly impossible to anticipate his next move. Other riders never made it eight seconds on the back of that beast.

However, Aaron did.

It was his last career ride at thirty-seven, and he went out with a bang, becoming a coach quickly afterward.

I looked up to the man. So did the family standing across the crowd from me as the casket with their loved one is slowly lowered into the waiting grave. His weeping wife clutches her three children to her side—a teenage boy and two young girls.