Aidan: Loyal Cowboy

Ace let his hand drop and turned to appraise her father. “I might be a little rusty, but I’m pretty sure I can sit that horse for eight seconds.”

“That boast has all the makings of a wager.”

Now Flynn was really upset. “No betting!”

Ace grinned. “What do you have in mind?”

“Flynn mentioned you’re interested in buying Fancy Gal and maybe a few more of my string. I’ve got another potential buyer lined up. Hoyt Cammeron.”

“Yeah?” Ace visibly perked up.

“You last the full eight seconds on True Grit, and I’ll sell you any of my string you want and throw in Fancy Gal for free. You eat dirt, I sell the string to Hoyt, including Fancy Gal if he wants her.”

“You can’t,” Flynn objected.

“You’re on.” Ace stuck out his hand to her father.

“Ace, get over here,” Colt hollered. “Beau’s up next.”

“See you at the stock pens when I’m done.” Ace squeezed Flynn’s arm, then nodded curtly at her father.

“I’ll be there, too. With Hoyt,” Flynn’s father added.

She waited a mere second after Ace left before whirling on her father. “How could you, Dad? A bet? Really? And what’s this with Hoyt? You told me you’d no more sell that man a broken-down pony than any of your string.”

There was that chuckle again.

She groaned with frustration.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the stands. “We’d better hurry before it’s Ace’s turn.”

At her wit’s end, Flynn went with her father to the crowded bleachers where they found two empty seats. Second to the last row, unfortunately. She couldn’t remain still as one cowboy after the other went. Beau did well, his score landing him in the lead. His position lasted only until Austin Wright’s turn. Austin had also drawn a McKinley horse and was the first competitor that day to successfully ride one.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Ace’s name was called.

Flynn gnawed her lower lip as she watched him straddle the fence and sit True Grit. The horse, raring to go, shifted nervously in the narrow chute, bumping into the side panels and tossing his head.

Ace didn’t hurry.

He was too far away for Flynn to see, but she imagined him testing the rigging and adjusting his grip on the handle until it satisfied him. He’d place his feet above the horse’s shoulders, correctly marking the horse before entering the arena so as not to be disqualified before his ride even started. He’d listen to the advice of his brother and cousins and buddies who were clustered together and hanging on the fence.

In the end, he’d trust his instincts.

Suddenly, the chute gate flew open and True Grit exploded into the arena, front hooves solidly planted on the ground, his back ones reaching for the sky. Not the biggest horse there by any means, his claim to fame was his ability to bend himself into the shape of a twist tie while achieving incredible heights.

Today was no exception.

Rocking onto his hind legs, True Grit reared, standing almost completely vertical. Ace clung to the rigging, leaning so far back his head lay against the horse’s rump and the toes of his boots touched the horse’s ears. Even in that impossible position, Ace spurred the horse, urging him to buck higher, buck harder.

True Grit gave it his all, hitting the ground with his front feet and spinning in a full circle with such force, Ace was almost knocked off.

Flynn gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

What was wrong with the timer? Surely eight seconds had passed. More like a full minute.

True Grit executed another gravity-defying buck, his goal to fling Ace over his head and into the stands. By some miracle, Ace hung on.

The buzzer went off. Instantly, Flynn was out of her seat. “He did it!”

Applause and cheers broke out from the crowd as the pickup men surrounded Ace, hauled him off the horse and deposited him—still in one piece, thank God—onto the ground. As Ace walked across the arena, he picked up his hat from where it had fallen and waved it at the crowd.

Flynn started toward the aisle.

Her father grabbed her wrist, waylaying her. “Where are you going?”

To congratulate Ace, but she didn’t want to tell her father that. “Walk Fancy Gal.”

“Don’t you want to see Ace’s score?”

It didn’t matter to her, only that he’d finished. “Sure.” She sat back down.

A few seconds later, Ace’s score was blasted from the speakers while simultaneously appearing on the scoreboard.

“Eighty-three,” her father muttered. “Not great, not bad.”

“Pretty good for someone who only competes occasionally.”

“I’m glad to see him get Fancy Gal and whatever other horses he wants.”

“Not Hoyt Cammeron?”

“Hoyt was never interested.”

“What!” Flynn stood, braced her hands on her hips and glared at her father. “Then why the bet with Ace?”

“It was for you.”

“Me?”

“I wanted to see how bad he wants you. How hard he’s willing to fight.”

“This was about the horses,” she insisted.

“No, it wasn’t. And he knows it, too.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe so.” Her father wore a smug smile. “But now we have an answer.”