Page 35 of Knot my First Rodeo

I glance up to find a skinny teenage boy, ball cap shoved on crooked like he either ran here, or forgot mirrors existed.

“You’re up,” he says a little breathlessly. “They’re getting ready to call tie-down.”

Clint exhales through his nose, pushing off the trailer like he’s been waiting for it.

“There it is.”

He rolls his neck once, stretching, completely unbothered.

“You’re up,” Briggs mutters, already reaching for something behind him.

Clint glances back at me quickly, just enough to catch my eyes. “Try not to fall in love with me while I’m out there.”

I snort, shaking my head. “You wish.”

His eyes flick toward me, quick and sharp, something there I don’t quite catch before he turns away.

“Watch,” Briggs says, his voice lower now.

The arena settles for half a second, like everything pulls tight before the next hit.

My eyes track Clint; he’s not in a chute. He’s off to the side, mounted, his paint horse shifting under him, restless but controlled, muscles rolling under its coat. Clint sits steady in the saddle, one hand low on the reins, the other loose, holding his rope.

The calf is already in the chute, small and shifting in place like it knows what’s coming, and before I can fully settle, the gate rattles hard enough to make my shoulders pull tight.

“Ready…” the announcer’s voice carries, loud and sharp over everything else.

I pull in a breath that sticks halfway down.

The gate snaps open and the calf shoots out, legs scrambling, dirt kicking up behind it as it runs. Clint is already moving at the same time, his horse surging forward in long, powerful strides that close the distance faster than feels possible. My grip tightens without me meaning to, my weight shifting forward as I try to keep up with it, with him, with the way everything is happening all at once.

The rope is already spinning above his head, smooth and controlled, like it’s part of him, and I catch myself tracking it instead of anything else, watching the circle until he throws.

The loop snaps forward and lands clean around the calf’s neck.

Air sticks in my throat hard enough that it almost hurts.

The rope goes tight instantly, his horse planting hard. Clint is off the saddle before I even register that it’s happening, boots hitting the dirt in a quick, solid motion as he moves straight into it.

He doesn’t hesitate.

One hand stays on the rope while the other grabs the calf, flipping it in one smooth motion that shouldn’t look that easy, his body dropping low over it as it kicks and struggles beneath him. I feel my breath coming shorter now, faster, my eyes locked on his hands as they move quick and precise, wrapping, pulling, tying.

Everything else fades: the noise, the crowd, the announcer. All of it blurs out until it’s just him, the movement, and the way he never once looks unsure.

The rope cinches tight and the knot holds. The buzzer cuts through loud, snapping everything back into place.

It’s over.

But I don’t move.

My chest rises and falls too fast, like my body is still trying to catch up to what just happened. I swallow, my eyes tracking Clint as he pushes to his feet and brushes the dirt from his jeans, calm and steady, like he didn’t just move that fast.

Briggs pushes off the rail next.

“I’ll be up soon,” he tells me. “I’m gonna go saddle up Bruce.”

My hand catches his sleeve before I can stop it.