Page 31
Clint glances at me over Captain’s back while checking a strap. “Different events work differently. Roughstock-which includes bareback, saddle bronc, and bull riding- is the rodeo stock. Horses and bulls belong to the contractor.”
“What are the other events?” I ask.
“Timed events. That’s on us.” Briggs jerks his chin toward the horses. “Tie-down roping, steer wrestling, barrels. We haul our own.”
“Oh.”
For some reason, that makes this feel even crazier.
“You’ll figure it out,” Tripp says, already backing away. “Don’t let these old men scare you.”
“Old?” Briggs deadpans.
Clint flips him off without even looking.
Tripp grins then disappears into the flow of people, and I watch him go longer than I mean to.
“C’mere,” Clint says. “Might as well help if you’re gonna stand there judging.”
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You got a judgey face.”
“I do not have a judgey face.”
Briggs snorts.
Turns out, rodeo prep is mostly a lot of standing around, while pretending not to hover.
The horses get watered first. Clint checks Captain over like he’s looking for something invisible, hands moving over legs and muscles. Briggs tosses hay into a net and double-checks latches like the trailer.
The rodeo noise hums around us the whole time, announcements drifting through the speakers, while cheers rise and fall somewhere ahead.
By the time we finally start walking toward the arena, the sun sits hotter overhead, dust sticking to my jeans. The noise gets louder the closer we get. The announcer’s voice cuts through clearer now, sharp and excited, words spilling fast.
“…next up in the chute—”
A roar goes up from the crowd, sudden and loud enough that I flinch before I can stop it.
Briggs notices. “Relax,” he mutters, not unkindly. “They’re just getting warmed up.”
I huff out a breath, dragging my eyes toward the stands. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, boots up on rails, hats tipped back, drinks in hand. Everyone looks like they know exactly what’s going on. Like this is normal.
I don’t. Not even a little.
We reach the railing, and Clint hooks an arm over the top like it’s his spot. Tripp shifts in on my other side, a citrus and bright scent cutting through the dust for a second, then gone just as fast.
Briggs lingers, the scent of something sweet and thick settling low in my lungs before I can block it out.
I don’t move away.
My hands find the rail without thinking, fingers curling around the metal. It’s warm from the sun, rough under my palms, grounding in a way the rest of this isn’t.
“Just watch,” Clint says, not looking at me.
The gate slams open and the horse explodes out of it. My breath catches before I can stop it.
I’ve watched the boys practice, watched Tripp climb onto a horse that clearly had a personal vendetta against him, but this feels different standing this close.
