a tiny bit as he responded to her cue. His gait held steady. Still. She could feel him tensing. Better play it safe, especially since the barrel seemed to jump before her eyes. Keeping her hands light on the reins, she gave him extra time she couldn’t afford on the back end of the turn in case he blew through it and didn’t bend enough. She rotated her entire body as they rounded and squinted in the direction of the last barrel.
Go, Harley.
Go.
She dug her heels into his flanks, asking for whatever Harley had left, and he responded, lunging faster still, closing the distance to the final barrel at lightning speed. Would she be able to judge it with her vision playing tricks? Air stuck in her lungs, and her pulse throbbed painfully in her throat as they committed to the final turn. They had to get around this perfectly. No room for error.
She eased back to her pockets and applied steady pressure, willing him to arc smoothly. In a flawless pivot, Harley beamed around the barrel like a champ. Then they dashed past and the world rushed back in, a tidal force, the crowd erupting as she swept under the arena and down the gated corridor.
“Fourteen ten,” the announcer crowed as she pulled up, then hopped off Harley.
“Not a bad start,” she said to him, patting his steaming neck, grateful to have made it through clean given her distorted vision. Her eyesight, corrected with strong contacts, had never been great. Lately, though, she’d begun seeing spots on bright and sunny days. Then parts of her vision started shifting in and out of focus. Exhaustion from her nonstop schedule seemed the most likely culprit, but she’d been through years of touring without anything like this ever happening before.
Harley’s silver tail lashed a fly on his rippling black hindquarter. He nickered at her and gave her a sidelong look.
“Not satisfied, champ? Me neither.” She threw her arms around his neck for a quick squeeze. His reassuring warmth seeped through her shirt and slowed the gallop of her heart. Her eyesight struggles had been a constant, growing drumbeat these last couple of weeks of the season, a dreadful worry she’d kept to herself.
If word got out, it would set the racing community abuzz. Her sponsors would phone and her endorsements dry up. No sense raising red flags before she had answers. The sooner she returned home, caught up with her rest and got some new contact lenses, a stronger prescription maybe, the better. Hopefully, that’d be the end of it.
And the old, irrational fear she’d once had as a glasses-wearing kindergartener, that she’d go blind, would leave her for good.
The familiar aroma of dust, sweat and leather rose off Harley as she turned and led him back to his stall. Some people associated the smell of apple pie, baked bread, garden flowers with “home,” but for Amberley, the smells of the stable—sweet hay, pungent manure, musky animal pelts—embodied her home, and even her church really, where she’d worshipped all her life, most of it alongside her departed daddy.
“We’ll do better next round,” she promised, guiding Harley past an overturned water bucket. After all, what choice did she have? If she didn’t plan on winning, she wouldn’t have bothered showing up in the first place.
Hopefully her eyes wouldn’t act up again...
Several hours and ten rounds later, Amberley shifted on tired legs beneath a floodlight, trying to look as fresh as she had when she’d begun interviews in the cordoned-off press area. The center of her vision shimmered, and her eyeballs ached with the effort to focus. All around, the humid night pressed close. She held her arms out a little from her sides, her body slick beneath her denim shirt.
Rain had been threatening all day. She wished it’d start and release some of the tension in the black, cloud-covered night. Most of all, she wanted to duck under some covers and get the sleep she needed so badly.
“Congratulations,” crowed a big-bellied rodeo blogger named Hank Andrews. Or Anderson. She sometimes struggled to recall names—and lately, faces, too. “Another world championship makes it your third consecutive win.”
Powering through her exhaustion, she shot the florid man, and the camera, a friendly smile.
“Thank you very much. I’m just as surprised as anybody. I didn’t think I’d be standing here. So. You know. I’m just really excited and thankful.”
“No surprise for the rest of us, Amberley,” he gushed. Behind a pair of heavy-framed glasses, he had kind hazel eyes. Or were they green? Everything looked a little fuzzy, especially under this artificial light. More evidence of worsening symptoms? Dread rose in her throat. “You’ve barely lost a round let alone a competition.”
She winced and shooed away a bothering fly. “Don’t remind me.”
When Hank stared at her, confused, she forced a laugh to pretend she joked.
In fact, she recalled every loss in excruciating detail. They served as warnings of the consequences when her vigilance lapsed, like earlier this month when her eyes failed her for the first time. She’d missed a barrel and didn’t place high enough to secure a coveted spot on the ERA Premier Tour. All her life, she’d dreamed of traveling with the world’s top-seeded rodeo athletes.
“Another great ten rounds. You gave the fans everything they wanted.”
Behind Hank, a tall, dark and handsome cowboy ambled out of the shadows. He moved with an effortless athletic grace she’d recognize anywhere, even in this dim light with her eyesight fading fast: Jared Cade, Heisman Trophy winner, Denver Broncos halfback and a member of Carbondale’s biggest ranching family. He planted his brown boots wide, hooked his thumbs through his jean’s belt loops and shot her an easy grin that gave her a ridiculous beat of warmth—he was her best friend, not a beau or anything...
“I hope so,” she replied, feeling her lips twitch up when Jared crossed his eyes at her earnest tone. She couldn’t quite focus in on the details of his face given her fatigue, but she knew those features by heart, sight unseen. “I just try to come out here and do my best every night. And, you know, I just got lucky.”
Jared rolled his eyes at that. They were both extremely competitive. They’d been friends since they’d met on the rodeo circuit in middle school, trading achievements like some kids traded baseball cards, always keeping score. They shared a hard-work ethic and drive to be the best. Number one. He knew, like she did, that you only spoke about luck, you didn’t actually believe in it.
She cleared her throat, shot Jared a stern, “knock-it-off” look and continued. “I had a good week and Harley worked great and he was real consistent for me. Real solid.”
“You’ve been riding him for...” Hank stopped a moment and whipped out a pad of paper from his back pocket.
Jared held up some fingers.
“Six years,” she supplied. A raindrop smacked the tip of her nose.
Jared waved his hand.
“Almost seven,” she amended hastily, reminded of when she and Jared had spied the rangy black-and-silver colt going cheap at auction and decided on the spot to train him together. They’d always made a good team, never letting the other quit or coast, never satisfied until they’d pushed each other to achieve top spots in whatever they pursued.
“It was so good to come back here and have another finals with Harley. It’s just unbelievable.”
Jared
