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Dusty bumps his nose against my shoulder while I adjust his bridle, nearly knocking me sideways. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shoving at his face. “You’re the one who wanted to do this for a living. Don’t start acting difficult now.”

He snorts directly into my hair.

Helpful.

The regional qualifier banners flap overhead near the arena entrance, bright against the blue Montana sky, and my stomach twists hard enough to make me nauseous. One clean run today and everything changes. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself every time I look at my bank account and briefly consider becoming a stripper. I used the last of my savings to enter this qualifier. Entry fees alone nearly wiped me out, and if I make enough back today to cover the first circuit event, I’ll still have travel costs breathing down my neck after that. Fuel, feed, tack repairs—every dollar already spent before I even touch it.

Which means today isn’t just about winning. It’s about being noticed.

Sponsors are here. Real ones. Not local hardware stores offering free feed for a social media shoutout. Actual circuit sponsors. The kind that can change a season before it starts. If I want a shot at the big leagues, this is where it starts.

Dusty paws at the dirt beside me, ears flicking back like he can feel the nerves crawling under my skin.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” I tell him. “You’re the athlete here. I’m just your emotional support human."

He huffs loud enough that the woman walking past us laughs, and I slide my hand down his light brown neck, through the edge of his dark mane, grounding myself in his familiar heat.

Dusty is one of the last colts John Clark ever trained before he passed away. Around Ashford Ridge, people still talk about John like he could look at a horse once and know exactly what it needed. Everyone around here finds value in a man with that kind of ability. John never cared much about the attention, though. He simply cared about the horses. And somehow, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, he believed in me. He gave me Dusty on my seventeenth birthday, after two years of training him together. He said a horse like this deserved somebody stubborn enough not to waste him. I press my forehead briefly against Dusty’s neck and think about how every run since then feels like I’m trying to prove him right.

My family’s land borders Clark Ranch, so I honestly can’t remember a time the Dawsons and the Clarks weren’t wrapped in each other’s lives somehow. From summer cookouts and holidays to branding seasons and sharing pastures. We were always together in some way or another. That’s probably why my brother fell in love with John’s daughter Hazel so easily.

I guide Dusty through the crowded fairgrounds toward the competitor circle, one hand wrapped loosely around the reins while he swings his head like he owns the entire damn place.

Honestly, he probably thinks he does.

Dusty flicks an ear back at me and snorts at a passing pony like he’s personally offended by its existence.

“Mind your business,” I mutter.

He ignores me completely.

Most of the riders here are familiar faces of local girls I’ve been running barrels against since junior rodeos. They just come out for fun now. A few jackpots here and there. Simply something to do on weekends before going back to their normal lives. That’s great for them, but that’s never been enough for me.

Then there are the sponsored competitors, which you can spot immediately. Their horses look like they’ve stepped out of an ad, coats gleaming and tack polished to perfection. The riders all have crisp button-downs, custom boots, and professionally braided manes. Everything is intentional and expensive. Money has a look out here. And I definitely don’t.

Beyond the arena fence, the camping rows are packed with polished Airstreams, lifted trucks, and massive living-quarter trailers wrapped in sponsor logos. Entire mobile setups nicer than some apartments I’ve been in. Meanwhile, I’m calculating fuel costs in my head every time I stop for gas.

The sponsor booths, which I’m really interested in today, overlook the arena from a shaded upper deck. It’s packed with men in crisp shirts, expensive watches, and easy smiles. They’re the kind of people who have the power to change someone’s entire life with one conversation.

My stomach tightens at the thought. If I have any shot at making the circuit this season, I need somebody up there to notice me today, not as a local girl with potential, but as somebody worth investing in. Nobody out here cares how badly you want it. You either earn your place, or you don’t.

Dusty bumps my shoulder hard enough to almost knock me sideways.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, rubbing his neck. “A little late for a pep talk now.”

When I glance up again, there he is.

Chace Walker.

My brother’s annoying-as-fuck best friend.

He’s leaning against the fence near the competitor entrance like he owns the damn place, all lean muscle, broad shoulders, and that crooked smile he knows exactly how to use.

Great. Exactly the asshole I didn’t need to see right now.

Before I can figure out a way to avoid him, his gaze lands on mine from across the crowd. That slow, cocky grin is spreading across his face. I grit my teeth and keep moving toward the gate.

I wouldn't say I hate Chace Walker. I don't. On a good day, I find him mildly amusing. But today is not that day.