Ryder wound the bull rope hard, leather grinding into his palm, and smacked it with his fist until the sting jolted through bone. He tossed the slack over Hannibal’s thick neck, pressed the brim of his black felt hat down until shadow cut across his eyes, and breathed the vow out steady as steel:
“This ride’s for you, Dad.”
One nod. That was all.
The gate slammed wide, and Hannibal’s Wrath exploded into the dirt like dynamite, twisting hard to the right. When Ryder stuck to him like a brand on hide, the bull whipped left so viciously he nearly toppled himself. Each buck rose high as a high-jumper clearing the bar, hooves cutting air like knives, body snapping vertical before slamming down into the earth.
The stadium fell away—no noise, no lights, only a white-hot spotlight over man and
