Change of Hart

Change of Hart

Denver

It’s not that I’m trying to die—it’s that I don’t particularly care if I do. Not if I go out on the back of a horse, with the sun on my back and a smile on my face. Few people understand that, but my mom always did, which is why she’s the only person I want to talk to in the moments leading up to every ride.

There’s nothing but the gentle sound of stretching denim and leather when I squat down in the alley. A fiery course of electricity radiates up my thighs to crackle in my spine, and I take my time straightening back up. After a few slow neck rolls, I’m primed and ready to jump on the back of a bucking horse.

My hands skate up my worn chaps on their way to my mouth, and I press the pads of the index and middle fingers to my lips, then tap them gently against my mother’s memorial plaque on the barn wall.

“Give ’em hell,” I whisper on my way out the door. It’s become somewhat of an incantation in the years since I last heard her say it. A message to wherever her spirit might be; a reminder that I’m not trying to die, if she wouldn’t mind looking out for me.

After a long, harsh winter, the first rodeo of the spring is a sold-out show. The stands are packed, with spectators shoulder-to-shoulder along every square inch of fence rail lining the arena. But I’m not nervous about having a few hundred sets of eyes on me. It only ups the ante because, even if I don’t win, I always come to impress. After all, putting on a show for the crowd is almost as important as winning—especially at these small-town rodeos with relatively lean payouts.

Swinging wide arm circles to warm up my shoulders, I track down Colt—one of the ranch hands at my family’s 20,000-head cattle operation. Besides the local buckle bunnies, he might be my biggest fan around here. And since my best friend decided to start ditching me for dad duties, Colt’s the only guy I can count on to rodeo with me.

Turning the corner, I spot him leaning against the rails of a bucking chute, talking to Peyton. Normally, Peyton would be a sight for sore eyes, with blond hair, blue eyes, great tits, and a penchant for cowboys. Plus, she’s fun enough to hang out with short term, which is the most I can offer any of the women around here.

What more could I ask for?

A flash of brown hair in the background pulls my attention away. I’m shit at gambling, but I’d bet at least fifty percent of the women here have brown hair. There have to be a hundred brunettes in this place, so it couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be.

Right when I’m reminding myself that she wouldn’t be caught dead at a rodeo in Wells Canyon, the sight of her profile as she dips into the crowd of barrel racers plucks at a too-tight guitar string in my chest.

I’ve just seen a ghost; okay, so technically she’s not dead, but her presence here certainly feels paranormal. Even after all this time, I would recognize her anywhere. That face is one I spent hours memorizing, and years trying to forget.

Maybe I’ve been transported back in time.

I turn to follow the girl, desperate to find out if I’m seeing things, but a hand wraps around my bicep, and I’m tugged into the present.

“Hey, cowboy,” Peyton coos in my ear, slinging her arms around my neck. In a place that otherwise smells overwhelmingly like sweat, livestock, and dirt, she’s nothing but strawberries and honey. I inhale deeply, smiling at her like I can’t feel each unsteady beat of my heart. Like my chest isn’t slowly closing in on itself. Like I’m not tempted to toss her aside to chase after a memory.

“Thought I was gonna come find you after my ride,” I say.

“Thought you might need a kiss for good luck.” She smiles up at me, but I can’t keep my thoughts from wandering to the empty space farther down the alley.

But what if it was . . . No, couldn’t be.

Of all the rodeos, this isn’t the one to be distracted at. It’s been months without any real saddle bronc practice, and I can’t safely sit my ass down on a thousand-pound animal when I’m not in the right headspace. So if I could quickly chase after her and confirm it was all in my head, I’d be fine. . . .

“Denny.” Peyton interrupts my train of thought at the same time Colt grabs my shoulder to let me know it’s time to ride.

“Sorry, gotta go. I’ll see you after.” I pull back, flashing her a smile before directing my attention to Colt. Pushing the apparition I saw into a faraway corner of my brain.

Colt’s hand slaps down on the worn saddle, sending a cloud of shimmery dust into the air. “Saddled up and ready to rock.”

Showtime.

I check over his work, tightening the cinch and taking a deep breath before climbing to straddle the chute’s top rail. Thirteen hundred pounds of attitude sits below me, letting out loud snorting breaths, eager to get this show going. The thing a lot of people don’t understand about bronc riding—all rodeo sports, really—is how much fun the animals find this, too. If a horse doesn’t want to participate, they simply won’t perform. It’s a game to them, a moment of blissful freedom to be wild, to play with humans the same way they play with other horses. Then they go back with the stock contractor to live a pampered life in a lush, green field. If Wells Ranch’s remuda could see these horses, they’d start bucking our cowboys off in hopes of finding a new job as rodeo roughstock.

The haggard, braided bronc rein slides through my callused hand, and I plop down into the saddle. Tuning out the cowboys slapping me on the back, repeating tips I’ve heard a million times. Lift. Lean back. Chest up. Chin down.

Eight seconds doesn’t feel like a long time to most. Outside of rodeo, I can’t remember the last time I noticed exactly how long a second is. But when those may be your last eight seconds alive, it’s a f***ing lifetime. Yet despite the real possibility of serious injury, I can’t imagine ever giving up this sport. Life’s short, and the adrenaline rush of saddle bronc is better than just about anything I’ve ever experienced.

I shift in the saddle, adjusting my seat and securing my boots deep in the stirrups. Readjusting the bronc rein in my hand exactly three times, in time with three deep breaths—the way my grandpa taught me.

Lift, chin down, mark out.

Licking my sweat- and dust-covered lips, I hold my free arm out. Strong and steady, not that it’ll stay that way once this horse starts trying to throw me off. And before I have the time to overthink things, I give a nod.

The gate swings open with a bone-chilling creak. The only thing I have now is muscle memory. My heels hold tight to the horse’s broad shoulders, and the front hooves stomp the earth. We’re on fire—cemented in my seat, I’m spurring, lifting, riding out the wave with unwavering skill. We veer to the left and my focus snags on an apparition between the horse’s ears.

The girl who used to be my everything.

It doesn’t seem justified to call her the one that got away. Because that implies she slipped between my fingers; the truth is I dropped her and we both shattered.

The animal bucks and I tighten my core, gaze unbroken. When our eyes lock, I lose sense of everything around me. Forgetting where I am, what I’m supposed to be doing. Then I’m moving in the wrong direction and . . .