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“We did.”

“You’re running it.”

“You built it.”

I leaned down and kissed her. Quick. Mustard on my mouth, dust on hers, four hundred people within viewing distance.

Somebody whistled from the bleachers.

Wyatt yelled, “Calloway, the exhibition horses.”

“See?” I said against her lips. “Needed everywhere.”

“Go.”

I went.

The last bull came out at five-twenty.

The rider stayed the full eight. Ty’s bull turned left twice, right once, and launched high enough on the last jump that the rider’s free hand seemed to touch the afternoon sky. The buzzer hit. Hats went up. The flatbed band struck the wrong chord and recovered. Boone opened the catch pen. The bull ran clean through.

The gate shut behind him.

That was it.

No collapsed panel. No loose horse in the crowd. No medical evacuation. No fire. No missing child. No insurance claim. No disaster waiting in the final line of the run of show.

Just a rodeo that ran.

Four hundred people stood in the west hayfield with dust on their boots and sun on their faces, cheering something that had happened exactly the way it was meant to happen and imperfectly in every small way that made it real.

I climbed onto the bottom rail.

“Thank you,” I said into the microphone.

The speaker popped.

Half the crowd winced.

“Professional operation,” I added.

They laughed.

I looked at the banner.

“For Dad,” I said.

Nothing else came.

Nothing else had to.

The cheering rose again, but I was already looking for Priya.

I found her beyond the south rail, sitting alone on a hay bale in the last hard strip of sun.

Doing nothing.

No phone. No plate. No conversation to manage. No person asking her a question. She sat with her face tipped toward the light and her hands loose between her knees. The wind moved her hair. Dust settled around her boots.