Page 33 of Knot my First Rodeo

“…Tripp Beasley will be first up in bareback riding.”

My stomach drops. I lean forward, my chest pressing against the rail as I try to track him through the movement. There’s too much happening. Too many bodies, too much noise, dust kicking up everywhere.

“Watch closely,” Clint tells me.

I don’t think I could look away even if I wanted to.

They load the horse, and everything slows for a second. Not actually, but it feels that way.

Tripp settles into position, one hand gripping the strap, the other adjusting, his body going still in a way that doesn’t match the chaos around him.

The gate snaps open, and the world slams back into motion.

The horse launches forward, twisting, kicking, violent in a way that hits harder because it’s Tripp.

“Come on,” I whisper, the words barely leaving my mouth.

He moves with it. Not fighting it or panicking. Every movement is sharp and controlled, like he knows exactly what the horse is going to do before it does it.

The crowd roars louder, feeding off it. My heart pounds harder, faster, my weight shifting forward until I’m almost climbing over the rail without realizing it.

He stays on.

Seconds stretch, then it’s over. He dismounts clean, landing on his feet, already moving away. My breath slips out hard enough that I realize I’ve been holding it the whole time.

“Holy shit.”

Clint chuckles beside me. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” I turn toward him, my eyes wide. “That was⁠—”

I stop, my words catching somewhere in my throat.

He just smirks. “Yeah,” he says. “It was.”

I look back just in time to spot Tripp near the gate, laughing with another rider while he brushes dirt off his jeans. Somebody says something that makes him shove their shoulder before he starts heading our way, dark hair pushed back, green eyes brighter than they should be for somebody who just willingly let a horse try to fold him in half.

“Still think this is boring?” he asks the second he reaches us.

My lips part slightly, my breath uneven.

Something shifts.

I don’t understand it yet, not fully, but it settles low and heavy, right under my ribs.

The announcer calls the next rider, and another bronc comes out of the chute. The horse bucks harder, wilder, throwing its weight in a way that looks less controlled than the others. The rider fights it instead of moving with it, his body jerking out of rhythm almost immediately.

“He’s gonna eat shit,” Tripp mutters under his breath.

My head snaps toward him, but his eyes are already locked on the arena, jaw tight, shoulders loose.

The rider doesn’t last long. He hits the dirt hard, rolling once before scrambling up, dust clinging to him. The crowd reacts, loud and unforgiving.

Tripp huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head once. “Too stiff.”

“You can tell that fast?” I ask.

He glances at me, one corner of his mouth pulling slightly. “Yeah.”