It was Wren’s turn to take the spotlight, and fate—always a sly dealer—paired him with Charlie’s Red Devil, a rank bronc with a mean streak and a reputation for breaking hearts in the chutes. Ryder stood close at his side, his hands sure and steady as he tugged at straps and settled the rigging. Years in corporate boardrooms hadn’t dulled the muscle memory—his touch was still the kind that made a rider feel like the world had his back.
“Own it, Wren. That win’s yours for the takin’,” Ryder said, voice warm with Tennessee grit, polished on the edges from two decades of Manhattan deal-making. He gave Wren’s rigid back a friendly slap, a gesture equal parts reassurance and challenge.
Wren gave a curt nod, set his jaw. The gate banged open, and the Red Devil blew out like a firecracker—hard
