Isobel sat perched on the edge of the hard bleacher, the air in the arena thick with the scent of dust, leather, and sweet kettle corn. Her pulse quickened as Bella Rose’s name came crackling through the loudspeaker. She straightened in her seat, palms pressed together like a silent prayer, willing her friend to fly.
Out in the pen, Samson stood coiled with muscle, ears twitching, nostrils flaring. Bella Rose gave him a gentle squeeze with her calves, and when the gate man gave the nod, they tore down the alley like a shot from a rifle. The run was poetry and power, every barrel a tight kiss of precision.
“Fourteen-point-nine-five,” the announcer boomed, and the scoreboard lit up with the number. The roar from the crowd was immediate. Second place.
By the time the last rider in the set
