Page 37 of Knot my First Rodeo

“Next up—steer wrestling⁠—”

I spot Briggs off to the side, mounted on that buckskin, broad shoulders set, light brown hair catching the light just enough to make him stand out even from here.

I don’t breathe.

The steer is already in the box, shifting in place, restless in a way that makes something in my chest pull tight. The gate snaps open and the steer bursts out, fast and low. Briggs moves at the same time, his horse launching forward in a hard, powerful stride that closes the distance quicker than feels possible.

I lean forward, my chest pressing against the rail as I track the space between them shrinking with every second.

He rides up alongside the steer, close enough that my stomach drops, closer than anything should be moving at that size, and I feel my shoulders pull tight as he shifts his weight in the saddle, my fingers locking around the metal as something in me braces without permission.

And then he’s off.

One second he’s in the saddle, the next he’s hitting the ground, arms locking onto the steer as everything slams together in a burst of movement.

They go down hard.

Dust flies up around them, the steer fighting, muscles thrashing, but Briggs holds on, digging in, forcing it over with a strength that hits differently than the others.

My heart pounds harder.

He drives it down, the steer hits flat, the whistle blows, and still, I don’t move. I just stand there, staring out at the dirt. My heart’s still racing, and my hands are shaking slightly.

Watching them out there, in it, moving like that, owning every second of it. I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping just a fraction.

Yeah, this is dangerous, and not in the way I thought it would be.

My pulse still kicks harder than it should, but it’s different now.

Not overwhelming or something I want to step away from.

Something I want more of.

I swallow, my eyes tracking Briggs as he comes back toward me, laughing, alive in a way I haven’t seen before.

Yeah, I’m in trouble.

Chapter

Thirteen

Briggs

The gate snaps open, and I move before the sound even finishes.

Muscle memory takes over. My heels press in, Bruce surges forward under me, and the world narrows down to the steer and the space between us. Dirt kicks up behind it, fast and low, but we’re already closing in, Bruce eating up the ground like he knows exactly what I need before I ask for it.

I don’t think about anything: not the crowd, the noise, or the way the announcer’s voice carries over everything.

Just timing and distance. The second where it all lines up, or it doesn’t.

I ride up alongside the steer, close enough to feel the shift in its stride, the way it starts to veer. My hand tightens on the reins, adjusting, matching it, setting it up.

And then⁠—

My focus slips.

Not fully or even enough to throw me, but just enough to notice.