I’d fixed my rope already. The joy of being the daughter of a stock contractor was that I knew these bulls, these athletes on four legs, just as good, if not better than anyone. When girls were going crazy over the cowboys, I was always judging and appreciating the performance of the bull. Black Hurricane was one of ours, sired by Dark Storm. I’d watched him be trained, knew his moves, knew how he liked to spin, and what direction he liked to do it in.

I had this.

I tilted my hat lower as I stepped up to the chutes and a grizzled old cowboy helped me secure my rope over Black Hurricane’s shoulders, pulling it tight. Hurricane didn’t mind. He knew it wasn’t time yet. He’d been around long enough to know he had to save it for the arena.

The crowd was going wild and I thanked the cowboy for his help. I saw Branch walking back, a grin on his too pretty face that gave him dimples as deep as wells.

I hid behind the chutes unashamedly. The bulls got corralled through into their chutes and my heart started to thud hard against my ribs.

This was it. A small, sane part of my subconscious told me that it wasn’t too late to back out now. No one knew it was me. I wouldn’t lose face.

Instead of running away, I squared my shoulders and slammed my helmet down on my head, obscuring my face. I tugged my vest, checking that it was strapped on tight.

I headed to chute one, my turn was coming up. My destiny fucking awaited, and I was going to take it with both hands and my head held high.

I climbed up on the chute, running my foot over Hurricane’s back to let him know I was coming. I settled in, and a hand behind me grabbed my vest.

I didn’t look over my shoulder at them. I knew they were there to grab me up in case the bull did something crazy. They’d yank me out of there before I got crushed, if they needed to. As if he knew the direction of my thoughts, Hurricane kicked around in the chute, testing the metal. Hands dragged me up until I could get my feet back on the rails. Hurricane settled back down and I slid back on, running my hand over the rope to warm the rosin. I did the loop and nodded to the rope guy to pull tight.

He did, and I made the mistake of looking up to thank him. I met a pair of familiar warm whiskey eyes. Beau, Branch’s long time best friend. My friend. Fuck.

He reared back in shock as recognition rocked through him, and I knew if he opened his mouth, I was fucked.