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Once.

Twice.

The rider's body tumbles through the dirt.

A clown rushes in, then another. They do everything they can to pull the animal's attention away, but the bull keeps coming. For one awful second, a horn catches the rider's vest and lifts him completely off the ground.

My fingers lock around the rail, and beside me, Clint goes very still.

Nobody's cheering anymore. Nobody's talking. The entire arena seems to hold its breath.

Finally, the clowns get enough separation to move the animal toward the out gate. The second it disappears behind the chutes, medics are already running. The rider isn't moving.

I swallow hard as the stretcher and backboard come out. Around us, conversation slowly starts again, but it sounds different now, more subdued.

A reminder that this is what rodeo can do, how quickly things can change. Just there.

"You okay?" Clints asks.

I look out toward the arena where the medics are loading the rider into an ambulance.

"No."

His mouth tightens slightly.

"Yeah."

I shake my head. "I don't know how you do this."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "We're a little broken."

"A little?"

"Fair."

I glance toward the chutes where the next competitors are already getting ready. It blows my mind that the show keeps moving, but I guess it always does. Even back home, if someone takes a bullet or wrecks their bike, the rest still ride and don’t abandon The Renegades.

Suddenly, the nerves I'd finally gotten under control start creeping back. Because now all I can think about, is how quickly a good day can become a bad one.

By the time Clint goes up for tie-down, I’ve settled into a different kind of nerves. Less blind panic, more focused on his timing, which is apparently growth according to Tripp. Captain starts dancing before Clint even settles fully into the saddle, and that makes my throat tight. I know Clint pats his neck before they start, and he checks his rope twice, even though it was fine the first time. I know he goes very still right before the gate opens.

The calf breaks from the chute, and Captain launches after it so fast my stomach immediately knots. Everything about Clint changes once he's in the arena. The easygoing man who argues with Tripp about nonsense disappears, replaced by somebody completely locked in on the job in front of him.

Captain eats up the distance in seconds. The rope comes off Clint's saddle horn smooth and practiced, spinning once overhead before flying forward. For a second, I lose it against the dirt and movement.

Then the loop settles, and the rope snaps tight. Clint is already moving, one second he’s in the saddle, and the next, he’s hitting the ground at a run.

I barely remember to breathe.

His hands move quickly, confidently, years of muscle memory taking over while Captain holds steady at the other end of the rope. Everything happens so fast, I almost miss pieces of it trying to keep up.

Around me, the crowd cheers loudly, somebody screams his name, someone else whistles, but my attention never leaves Clint.

When he finally throws both hands into the air, signaling he's done, the arena erupts. The scoreboard flashes, and I don't even look at it because I know it was good.

I know because the pickup men are nodding, the crowd is louder, and Clint's smile appears before the official time does.

“That’s it, baby!” I scream.