Page 56 of Cherry Tree Ranch

I’m frozen, watching him, hoping he doesn’t look up to find me staring. His straw cowboy hat blocks his view of me, and as people begin cheering he makes his way to the chutes.

The bronc rider who’s up next holds one hand high in the air and nods quickly to the gate keepers. The gate swings open with the loud screeching of metal. I can’t see, but by the reaction from the crowd, he must be holding his own.

I inch closer to the chutes, where Cash is getting his bronc ready. He’s busy tying a piece of the horse’s mane round the top of the halter so it doesn’t slip over its ears. Thankfully, he’s now wearing a helmet again. There’s a grimace on his face and something seems off. If I know anything about horses, it’s that they can sense a rider’s nerves. Cash could make a mistake if his head’s not in the right place.

An inexplicable force nudges me his way. As confused and frustrated as I am with him, I don’t want to see him get hurt. But what can I do?

I’m a stone’s throw away when he catches me out of the corner of his eye.

“Dahlia?” He looks up with a jerk. “You came?”

I nod, unsure of myself.

With shaking hands, he leans back and holds the bronc rein at the height of his stomach. The birthmark round his neck peeks out of his shirt as the bronc bangs against the chute. A man who I believe is his coach holds on to Cash’s back and chest, spotting him. There are intervals when Cash’s focus is on the bronc, but when his eyes dart back to mine, the world stands still and the seconds feel like lifetimes.

Before I know quite what I’m doing, I charge closer to the chute and stand up on the rails. Unfamiliar words come from my mouth: “Hey, put your hand higher. You won’t jerk forward as much.”

He’s as perplexed by my advice as I am, but his coach gives him a nod in agreement and says, “I’ve heard this bronc needs more rein; long average.”

Cash slides his hand up about a finger’s width, tucks his chin and nods to the gate keepers.

The bronc charges out of the chute with a jump. He bucks and tips his nose towards the dirt. Cash’s spurring action is on point. He doesn’t miss a beat, and his horse bucks hard, back feet straight up in the air.

Riveted, I climb up and sit on the top rail by his coach. There’s something about Cash that makes me root for him, no matter what is or isn’t going on between us.

The seconds tick by in slow motion. As the clock shows six seconds, Cash just barely slips to the side. The bronc turns, but Cash’s butt stays glued in the saddle. My heart sinks into my stomach, and I take a split second to glance at his coach. He sits forward nervously.

At seven point nine seconds, Cash leans back. One of the pick-up men rides up alongside him and his bronc. After the eight-second buzzer goes off, Cash swings an arm round the pick-up man’s waist and goes to lunge on to his horse’s rump, but he’s hung up – something on Cash’s leg or boot won’t free from the saddle. His bronc keeps running and bucking, making it harder for him to let go.

The second pick-up man turns his horse on a dime, rushing to his side. Their horses can do it all, the most athletic in the whole rodeo. He snugs up to the bronc, grabs the rein, and now the horses are all in stride with one another. The first pick-up man leans over and pulls Cash’s leg free, then loosens the bronc’s flank strap.

They canter round the arena until Cash lets go – and lands on his feet. The top half of his body pitches forward, almost sending him face-first into the dirt, but he catches himself and runs to the rails while the pick-up men guide the bronc to the alley.

In unison, the crowd, Cash and I all look up at the scoreboard – eight seconds with a score of eighty-nine out of one hundred. His coach and I look at each other, wide-eyed, and we can’t help but high five. The crowd stands and applauds. Cash takes his helmet off and waves it in the air, the fringe on his chaps swinging back and forth to the joyful beat of his footsteps.

He pulls himself up on to the rail effortlessly and sits between his coach and me. His knee rests against mine.

“Damn, Cash. Nicely done, man!” his coach praises him and squeezes his shoulder.

“That was awesome,” I say, and he studies my face and furrows his brow.

“The tip you gave me about the rein… It helped me hold on, and I was able to focus more on spurring. Eighty-nine – I can’t believe it. Best score I’ve ever got.” He shakes his head and grins.

“This will probably put you in the standings to compete at the state-fair finals in Pueblo,” his coach says, slapping him on the back.

We’re quiet for a moment while we all watch the next competitor. I want to hug Cash and shake him and tell him he’s probably going to finals, but I remind myself it’s not my place – and he hasn’t clinched the spot just yet. Fortunately for Cash, the rider comes off quickly.

“How’d you know about the rein?” Cash asks.

I shrug and readjust my sweaty legs hanging over the rail. “I wish I could say. I had a dream when I was in the hospital about riding a bronc, and it was like I could feel where your hand should go…” I tuck my head. “Sorry. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, telling you to do something based on a dream.”

“Well, it worked,” his coach says, slapping him on the back again. “I gotta go spot Jimmy. Nice job, Cash.”

Cash rubs his hands together and blows out a short, nervous breath.

“You did great,” I say, beginning my careful climb down. “I need to get to the fair tent.”

He snaps his head in my direction and takes off his hat. “Will you watch the last two riders with me? See if I squeaked by?” He smiles bashfully. Then he looks down at my hand on the rail and scoots his pinky close to mine without touching.