|COLT LANGMORE|

I hate getting punched in the face.

Makes me angry.

And truly, nobody likes me when I'm angry.

The stars that explode behind my eyes after a solid hit to the skull are never fun. Even a glancing blow off my left cheekbone from some drunken, wannabe cowboy had those familiar sparks flickering up, clouding my vision. I could already feel the swelling starting, blood trickling down to mix with sweat. My cheekbone stung, and my neck ached from the impact.

Damn, that stings.

"Colt, hang on!" Wyatt's voice cut through the haze, but I didn't need the reminder. My eyes locked onto the kid, who was now held tight by Sean. The growing ringing in my ears wasn't just from the punch—it was the crowd too, roaring like they were at some damn gladiator match.

Rem must've been doing his thing, I thought, clenching my jaw. He always did know how to work a crowd, especially when there were women around. And as much as I hated to admit it, the guy was good—too good, sometimes.

The young punk in Sean's grip took advantage of my brief pause to thrash and kick, trying to break free. He was cursing up a storm, spitting threats about "unfair treatment," "calling the cops," and the classic "my uncle's a lawyer."

The kid had a mouth on him, I'll give him that. Too bad about that gate, though. Did a real number on his face.

We finally got him past the crowd and out onto the street. The cold air slapped me in the face, a bitter wind cutting through the adrenaline and cooling the heat in my veins. April's supposed to be warming up, but up here in the mountains, winter wasn't letting go easy. There's still snow on the ground, though most of it's slush now, dirty and half-melted.

So naturally, we dumped the punk hard on the sidewalk, right into the deepest snow pile we could find. His face hit the icy slush with a satisfying thud, and I couldn't help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction. Served him right.

"That's for the face, asshole," I muttered, wiping the blood off my chin. Sean and Wyatt stood beside me, both quiet, just waiting for the kid to say something stupid.

"Better stay down," Sean added, his voice low and calm, like he was giving friendly advice. "Next time, you won't be so lucky."

I reached up to my cheek, feeling the sting of the cut. It wasn't deep, but it sure as hell hurt. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, leaving behind a sticky mess that clung to my skin. A couple of folks walking towards the stands stared, their faces twisted in a mix of curiosity and disgust. The way they looked at me, you'd think they'd never seen a little blood before. City folks, probably. The type to risk pneumonia just for a glance from anyone competing today. Couldn't say I understood the appeal.

"How you feelin', Colt?" Sean asked, his deep voice cutting through the chatter.

I grunted, rubbing the sore spot on my cheek. "Been better, been worse too," I muttered.

The two kids finally scrambled to their feet, looking more pissed off than hurt. The bigger one, his too-tight Wrangler shirt straining at the seams, tried to get in my face again, but Wyatt stepped in, shoving him back before he could start anything.

"You damn rodeo clowns are gonna pay for this!" the kid yelled, his breath coming out in angry puffs of steam. "Me and my boys hit up every rodeo in Wyoming. You kick us out, and we'll make sure everyone hears about it. No one's gonna want to spend another dime in this arena!"

I glanced over my shoulder at the crowd. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the arena. It was prime time, the golden hour when the buckle bunnies started circling like vultures, hoping to catch the eye of a cowboy. The whole place was alive with energy, and these two punks thought they could disrupt that? They were more delusional than I originally thought.

"Don't think we'll miss your parents' money too much," a voice drawled from behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Caleb. He stepped forward, flashing one of those award-winning smiles, though his eyes were anything but friendly. "You start trouble at our rodeo, you get escorted out. Simple as that."

"Trouble?" The other kid protested, his teeth starting to chatter in the cold. "We didn't do anything! These busted-up rodeo stars started it!"

This one had been the one to throw the cheap shot while I was hauling his buddy out. I resisted the urge to put him on his ass again. Wasn't worth the trouble.

I stepped forward, cutting him off with a hard stare. "You didn't do anything, huh? What about messing with the bulls? That ring any bells?"

The kid's eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought he might try to deny it. But his mouth snapped shut, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, shooting a glance at his buddy, who was busy wiping slush off his face.

Caleb gave them both a hard look, the smile gone. "You're barred. Don't come back, or we'll press charges."

And just like that, he turned on his heel, disappearing back into the crowd. I followed, not bothering to look back. I'd been in this game long enough to know when a fight was worth it and when it was just talk.

"Colt," Caleb called over his shoulder, glancing back at me as we pushed through the crowd. "Better go clean yourself up. You're up soon."

I nodded, threading my way through the sea of bodies. The stadium was packed, the air thick with sweat, beer, and the excitement of the night. The girls by the entrance gave me worried looks, but I waved them off. The last thing I needed was a fuss.

I hung a left around the corner and made it to the men's room. Ignoring the putrid combination of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and urine lingering in the air was a challenge.

But I managed and stepped past the people in my way, bellying up to the sink and taking a moment to steady myself. Glancing up at the cracked mirror, I inspected the damage, noting the jagged cut just beneath my cheekbone.

Wasn't bad all things considered. Less than an inch long and just under my cheekbone. Barely swollen at all. If it wasn't for the blood, the cut wouldn't look so menacing.

Sadly head and face cuts are bleeders so there was enough of the red stuff to trail down my freshly shaven face, onto my double chin and down my neck.

"No black eye. That's something," I muttered to myself while unbuttoning my long-sleeved red shirt. Thank goodness I chose to wear this red shirt today. It might just save me from having to explain away any bloodstains.

Soaking one of the shirttails in cold water I scrunched it up into a ball and used it to carefully scrub at my face while ignoring the looks and gestures from the other men in the room.

The rodeo was an intense experience, to say the least. The energy of the crowd, the thrill of the competition—it all combined into a chaotic frenzy. Bodies thrashed, filling the air with heat, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of endorphins. From my vantage point, looking up on the spectacle from the arena, it was exhilarating. Really made a guy feel alive.

People get into bull riding for all sorts of reasons, but when you strip it down to the bones, it usually comes down to two things: cash and women. Not everyone walks away with either, but for me, the rodeo was about more than that. It was everything.

Being in that arena, with the roar of the crowd filling my ears and adrenaline pumping through my veins, that's where I found myself. Sure, the risks were high—the chance of getting thrown, the bruises, the busted bones—but so was the reward. The feeling of triumph when you nailed that perfect ride, when you conquered the beast, it made every hit, every fall worth it.

Giving up was never an option for me—it wasn't in my blood. I knew I was good, damn good, and out there in the dirt and the dust, I proved it every time.

Plus, there's no denying the allure of the rodeo lifestyle—meeting girls in various states of inebriation, their inhibitions loosened by the thrill of the night. The girl abandoned by her friends, lost and drunk in the bathroom? She's probably in need of a ride home, right, boys? Or that woman in the red dress, leaning against the bleachers, nursing her pride after being overlooked for a younger barrel racer? She's easy pickings for a smooth-talking cowboy ready to mend her bruised ego.

Bull riders, they do a lot of bolstering. Just don't ask most of them to spell it.

But stick around the rodeo circuit long enough, and you'll learn a lesson most young men wouldn't believe and few old-timers would ever admit to. Riding won't pay your bills. Not in the long run.

You can take on the rankest bulls, rack up the highest scores, and still find yourself scraping pennies together just to make it through the month. There's this misconception about the rodeo life—people think it's all glory and riches. They see the names of the top riders on billboards and magazine covers and assume those guys are living the high life. But behind the bright lights and the cheering crowds lies a harsh truth—financial insecurity is the name of the game.

The prize money itself sounds sweet, but once you subtract entry fees, travel costs, gear, and those inevitable medical bills, there's usually not much left to count. And let's not forget the unpredictability. One injury, one bad season, and suddenly you're struggling just to keep a roof over your head.

You also learn pretty fast that rodeo owners are more than willing to take advantage of the endless line of eager young men who are more interested in chasing girls than they are in understanding the fine print. Minimum wage is what you'll get to confront drunken hooligans looking for a fight—a fight that could very well land you in the hospital.

Seriously, it's a bad deal. So why continue to do it? Simple. Cash.

Not the kind that gets deposited into a bank account, waiting for taxes to chip away at it. I'm talking about cold, hard cash—crisp bills that fit neatly into your pocket, untraceable and ready to spend. Any bull rider worth his salt has a cash deal with the rodeo. It's an unspoken agreement—a firm handshake and a knowing nod that ensures you walk away from each event with a wad of bills.

But don't let that fool you into thinking it's glamorous. That cash? It keeps the old Chevy running, just barely, and with gas prices these days, that's no small feat. It pays for a few nights in some run-down motel with a bed that creaks under your weight and sheets that have seen better days. It's not about luxury; it's about survival. A few hundred bucks every weekend isn't going to make anyone rich, but it keeps you going. It keeps the horses fed, keeps you fed, and keeps you on the road, chasing the next ride.

That's why I spend my weekends breathing in the heady mix of sweat, dirt, and whatever else wafts around the crowd. It's not exactly pleasant, but it's part of the deal.

I made my way to the bucking chutes—a prime spot. From there, you can shoot the breeze with folks passing by, size up the competition, and still keep a low profile. Dust swirled around, settling on everything it touched, painting the world in a muted shade of brown. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything, but it was relentless, blinding us every time we turned toward it.

As the barrel races began, I couldn't shake the anticipation building in my chest, knowing that bull riding was just two events away. My mind kept drifting back to 'Dooms Day,' the rankest bull in the pen. Sean had managed to ride him a few weeks ago, pulling off an impressive 84 points. But that didn't make the bull any less intimidating. At over a ton of pure muscle, 'Dooms Day' was a beast in every sense of the word.

Normally, barrel racing came right before the bull riding, but at this smaller county rodeo, it was squeezed between calf roping and saddle bronc riding. The announcer called barrel racer after barrel racer, the names blending into a blur. The crowd's cheers felt distant, like background noise to my own thoughts.

Footsteps crunched behind me, and I turned to see Caleb's familiar black hat cutting through the Wyoming heat. He elbowed me in the side, his grin telling me he was up to no good. "Check her out," he nodded toward a barrel racer waiting outside the arena a few feet away.

She stood there, shading herself from the sun with one hand, and I couldn't help but take notice. She was willowy but strong, sitting her horse with a grace that wasn't common around here. Her light brown hair fell in lively waves halfway down her back, and her eyes—God, those eyes. They were like polished amber, flecked with greens and golds, reminding me of the warmth of a summer sunrise.

Her horse was a big Holsteiner stallion, probably around 16 hands, standing tall and proud beneath her. There was something about them, something that screamed champion.

"Looks like Wyatt's got some actual competition this time," I muttered, more to myself than to Caleb.

The announcer called her name—Lemon Odell—and my nose scrunched up in recognition. That name carried weight, especially in the depths of the Absaroka rodeos where her father had made his mark. Tex Lamar Odell, a legend in his own right, had won worlds in bull riding twice before settling down on some family land. I didn't keep up with the day-to-day lives of those who'd made it big, but Tex... he struck a nerve with me, especially after the way he'd gone out. I never thought I'd hear the name Odell in an arena again.

She entered the alleyway, holding her horse back with practiced ease, her eyes scanning the crowd as if she was searching for something—or someone. Anyone could see she knew what she was doing. With a slight shift of her weight, she let the stallion have his head, and they took off toward the first barrel. There was a bit of hesitation on the second barrel, but other than that, the run was smooth, clean. When she pushed her horse on the home stretch, the sorrel stretched out in tremendous strides, breaking the arena record.

Caleb and I exchanged a look, the kind that didn't need words.

Half an hour later, we were still sitting on the bucking chutes as the awards ceremony for the barrel race began. Lemon walked up just in time, her stride confident and quick. The announcer motioned for her to enter the arena, and she didn't hesitate. The crowd was quiet, watching as she approached, a huge smile lighting up her face. Caleb shot me a crooked grin, his boyish features filled with mischief. "Now that is a fine-looking girl," he drawled.

I nodded in agreement, unable to take my eyes off the girl accepting her award. Wyatt had secured second place, but even he didn't seem too bothered by it. All eyes were on Lemon, beaming at the center of the arena.