The wait was killing her. Fifteen bareback riders, fifteen saddle bronc riders, and fifteen bull riders had to compete before they reloaded the chutes for Gil’s section.
An eternity.
Carma wasn’t alone. Everyone around her was tense—Rochelle, the Jacobs sisters, Miz Iris, Melanie. Only Tori and Bing were absent, both unable to take the day off from work.
But if all went well, they would get to watch Gil ride in the evening short round.
One ride at a time, as Gil and Delon had said about a thousand times over the past few weeks.
Needing something to do with herself, Carma had offered to cuddle Lily’s two-month-old baby. The alternative was to help ride herd on the notoriously rambunctious Ruby. Violet had finally pawned her off on Beni and Quint, collapsing into a seat beside Melanie while the boys played tag with the toddler in an empty section of the bleachers.
The background music died, and the announcer’s voice boomed out over the arena. “Welcome, contestants and fans, to this final qualifying event for the third annual Diamond Cowboy! Hope you’ve all got your tickets for tomorrow because it’s a sold-out show, but if not you can tune in…”
As he gave his spiel for the television coverage, the ambient energy level in the building shot up and set Carma’s pulse thudding so loud she was surprised it didn’t wake the baby. For the next few minutes, before the first chute gate opened, every glittering dream in the building was alive. As the day went on, some of those dreams would grow even brighter, but the majority would dim. Only this moment was filled with pure hope, untainted by disappointment.
A single rider carried the American flag into the arena for a recorded version of the national anthem. And then, without pomp or ceremony, the pickup men took their places and the competition began. Carma pushed everything from her mind but the action. Worries and discussions could wait.
Today was for chasing dreams.
* * *
The moment that Gil stepped up onto the back of the chute was so hyper-real that it felt like a movie—every sight, every sound, every sensation amplified by surround sound and in 3-D. He was ready—chaps buckled, vest zipped, glove laced—and he would never be ready. He’d waited too long, imagined this too many times. It was impossible to absorb.
“Gil Sanchez, you’re next!” the chute boss barked.
He dragged air into his lungs. The clock had ticked down to zero. It was time.
* * *
“It’s so weird, seeing him dressed like that,” Melanie said.
Plain blue denim shirt, plain brown chaps—and he still made Carma’s heart stutter.
“He’s trying to be low profile,” Quint said.
“Gil?” Melanie snort-laughed. “That’s gotta be a first.”
And impossible. Gil Sanchez was born to be noticed. As he lowered himself into the chute, Carma clenched her hands so tight, her knuckles cracked. Violet was keeping a list of the scores on her tablet, ranked from high to low. Miz Iris and Rochelle were doing it old school, writing the scores on paper day sheets—a bittersweet reminder of all the times Carma had watched her grandmother do the same. Currently an eighty-two point ride by an NFR veteran led the pack, and a high school standout was hanging onto the all-important tenth spot with a seventy-six.
Carma tried to swallow, but her mouth was bone-dry as she watched Gil go through his final routine—check the rigging was cinched tight, work his hand into the rawhide handhold, flip the bottoms of his chaps back over his thighs to leave his feet clear as he clenched his knees against the horse’s shoulders, then tip his shoulders and free arm back.
There was an interminable pause as the horse leaned into the back side of the chute, until Joe Cassidy caught a fistful of mane to pull her head around. The instant her weight shifted, Gil nodded.
With her first move out of the chute, his legs snapped straight, his heels planted solidly in the hollow where neck met shoulder. The mare responded by dropping her head and kicking high. For the next two, three, four jumps she barely moved from that spot as Gil seemed to lift her straight in the air, his spurs rolling clear back to his rigging. At six seconds, though, the horse’s head started to come up.
“Come on,” Violet muttered. “Don’t weaken, dammit.”
Gil didn’t, but the horse did, with less hang time on each jump. The eight-second buzzer sounded and Carma let out her breath in a ragged whoosh. The pickup men moved in, and Gil grabbed onto one of them to pull free of the horse and swing to the ground.
His fan club cheered and whistled, and he raised both hands in appreciation, but Violet slapped the tablet onto her thigh, hissing out a disgruntled breath.
“What do you think?” Melanie asked.
“Of Gil? He’s a freak of nature. I swear, he looks better than when he was twenty.” But Violet shook her head. “It depends on how many points they take away from the horse.”
And with the mare’s performance counting for up to fifty of the possible hundred points, the way she’d tailed off at the end could be costly. Had those opening jumps and Gil’s effort been strong enough to put him in contention?
He walked slowly toward the chutes, bending to unbuckle the leg straps of his chaps, his expression hidden by the brim of his hat. He’d done all he could do. Now it was up to the judges. On the back of the chute, Delon and Joe stood side by side, hands clenched on the top rail as they waited. Carma’s nails bit into her palms for the twenty-second eternity it took to calculate the score.
“Eighty points!” the announcer declared, to a burst of applause. “That’ll move Gil Sanchez into a tie for fourth and fifth place. With only a dozen cowboys left to ride, there’s a good chance you’ll be seeing him again this evening, folks.”
Around Carma, cheers broke out while she gulped for air. Beni and Quint pounded each other’s backs. Gil’s strides lengthened as his chin came up, but Carma saw the telltale loosening in his shoulders.
Relief. He’d shown them all he wasn’t just a quirky side note to the real story…and anyone who hadn’t been paying attention before definitely was now.