Isobel’s eyes clung to Ryder like a lifeline as he left the arena, her gaze tracking the slow, powerful roll of his shoulders until the crowd swallowed him behind the wall. When he’d first stepped through the gate and lifted his hand to her, something wild had sparked in her chest. Now, that spark had caught flame, her pulse racing hot and fast beneath the denim at her collar.
Beside her, Rose shifted in her seat, the two of them drawn tight to the rail as the next riders set up behind the chutes. The air was thick with the scent of dust and bull hide, that iron taste of adrenaline drifting down from the pens. Each gate swing cracked like a gunshot—bulls exploding into the arena, heads tossing, flanks rippling under the glare of the lights. Most riders were airborne in seconds, dirt cling
