By noon, the horses were saddled and ready. An hour later, number 162 was called, and Dalton and Alejandro moved into position at the in gate. Raney sat beside Uno in the stands, her hands clasped so tightly her fingers turned white. She heard Rosco’s name announced, then Dalton’s as the rider, hers as the owner, and finally, the name of the ranch. Then the gate opened.
It seemed surreal—the noise, the smells, the thundering of her heart as she watched the man she loved pour his heart and soul into a two-and-a-half-minute ride on the horse he’d brought from a gangly colt to a superb cutting horse. He looked magnificent. Unstoppable. Each move fluid and relaxed. Totally in control.
Then suddenly, it was over. The next rider was announced, and Rosco’s score flashed on the overhead screen. 216. Raney blinked. Looked again. Even with the highest and lowest scores from the five judges thrown out, Rosco still scored 216!
She cried.
Dalton laughed.
Uno did an intricate dance across the stable floor.
Too nervous to sit around and wait for the other scores of the day to come in, Raney walked back to their hotel and called Press.
When he didn’t answer, she left a voice mail, telling him Rosco’s score for the first two rounds and thanking him for setting up the break at the ranch. Then she texted Mama the score, afraid if she called, she’d be stuck on the phone for hours, then took a long, hot soak.
“He’s going to make it!” Dalton told Raney when he barged into the room after waiting for the day’s scores. “There are still horses left to compete tomorrow, but after the first two days, he’s in the top ten!” Laughing, he swept Raney up in his arms, swung her around, then tossed her onto the bed and began unbuckling his belt. “He’s going to the semis, sweetheart! And if he does, he’ll earn back triple the entry fee in his first competition—” He froze, shirt half-off, staring at her sprawled across the bed where he’d thrown her. “You’re naked.”
“I am.”
“You didn’t start without me, did you?”
“Do I need to?”
“Hell, no.” And laughing, he fell on top of her, horse-stink, boots, and all.
“Mama would be scandalized,” she said later, drawing circles in the sweaty hair on his chest while he struggled to catch his breath. “I’ve never done that before.”
“We did it in the shower yesterday.”
“Not with your boots on.”
“Boots?” He looked down, shocked to see his jeans around his ankles and the toes of his boots showing. “Damn. No wonder the bed feels gritty.”
“Maybe next time you can wear chaps, too. For modesty’s sake.” She drew a circle with dots. It felt like a happy face, but Dalton didn’t look.
“How many will Rosco be competing against if he makes the semis?”
“Sixty. That tickles.”
“How many of those go to the finals?”
“Twenty. I need a shower. You do, too. This bed smells like horse.”
“I wonder why.”
The next evening, while the rankings for Round Two were being tabulated to see who would move on to the semifinals, the crowd outside of the USCHA office grew. Raney was too nervous to wait and had gone back to the hotel. But Dalton was there, trying to pretend to the other trainers this was just another day. Being on the list of the sixty top three-year-old cutting horses in the country was a huge accomplishment. And Dalton felt sure Rosco had a chance. But when they posted the list and he saw Rosco’s name in the upper half, Dalton’s heart felt like it would kick its way out of his chest. They’d done it! Semifinals, here we come!
As soon as he ended the call after giving Raney the news, he headed over to the stables. Even though it was late, Alejandro and Uno were still up, leaning against Rosco’s stall door, waiting. As soon as they saw Dalton’s face, Alejandro started grinning and Uno did a hopping shuffle across the hay-strewn aisleway.
“What is his draw?” Alejandro asked when Dalton stopped before him.
“Number 26.”
“¿Es bueno?” Uno asked, pausing in his dance.
“It’s muy bueno.” Dalton clapped the boy’s shoulder. “It means we have time to give the horses a morning practice run in the exercise arena before his go.”
They decided on a time to have the horses fed, brushed, saddled, skid boots and rear boots on, ready for the workout, leaving no more than an hour’s wait time before they had to line up at the gate into the arena. This round, all sixty horses would compete on the same day. Tomorrow, in fact. So, Dalton urged Alejandro and Uno to get some sleep, then headed back to the hotel and Raney.
And another celebration.
* * *
“Text me when you get to the hotel,” Raney was saying into her cell phone when Dalton walked into the hotel room. “Tell Joss hi and give Lyric kisses.”
“Mama?” he asked, settling on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots.
“Assuming she can get out by seven, she should be here by noon tomorrow.”
“We won’t know if he made the finals until tomorrow evening.”
“She’ll come anyway. She’s desperate to get away from Babyville.”
Fifteen minutes later, after a thorough scrubbing—apparently, from his careful attention to every inch of her skin, Dalton thought she needed help with that—they stepped out of the shower just as his phone buzzed in the bedroom.
He ignored it and continued to dry her off. A moment later, Raney’s cell buzzed. “It might be important,” she said. “We should answer.”
She got to her phone just before it went to voice mail. The caller ID said it was Clovis Cardwell. “Hello, Mrs. Cardwell,” she said, giving Dalton a puzzled glance.
He had pulled on his jeans and was now frowning as he checked his calls.
“Is Dalton there?” his mother asked Raney. “I need to talk to him.”
“Of course.” Raney handed her
