First message
Amarillo was hot as hell tonight. The kind of humid summer night that left dust sticking to sweat and turned the rodeo grounds into a sea of noise, lights, and anticipation.
I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Most folks knew me as Ryder Ryland. Bull rider. Ranch owner. Local celebrity whether I liked it or not. The rodeo was my hobby, my passion. The ranch was my livelihood. While reporters liked talking about buckles and winnings, my real work started before sunrise, managing thousands of acres of cattle land and the men who kept it running.
But tonight was for riding. The gate flew open.
2,000lbs of muscle and bad attitude exploded beneath me. The bull twisted hard left, then right. Dirt flew. The crowd roared. My hand stayed locked to the rope while adrenaline flooded every vein in my body. Eight seconds passed. Then nine. Ten.
The buzzer sounded. The crowd erupted. I hit the dirt on my feet and threw my arms up as the arena shook with applause. Another win. Another grand prize. Another buckle to add to the collection. After collecting my winnings, I headed toward the livestock tents, still buzzing.
Halfway there, I heard someone call out.
Hey, wait! You forgot your hat!
I stopped and turned. And the whole damn world seemed to stop with me. Standing there was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life. She held my hat in both hands, looking uncertain as she approached.
I smiled, genuinely smiled and set the hat on her head. Nah, looks better on you.