Wren came sauntering back from his chat with an old hand, dust curling around his boots, and the three of them leaned along the pipe fence, eyes fixed on the barrel racers running their cloverleafs with a blur of speed and grace. When Bella Rose and Samson broke through the alleyway, the crowd came alive. The mare’s hooves ate up the dirt as she carved each turn tight, Rose’s hat brim snapping with the motion, body and horse one pulsing rhythm.
Ryder, Wren, and Isobel hollered with the fans, their voices swallowed by the roar.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer bellowed, “Bella Rose and Samson stop the clock at fourteen-point-five-six! First place!”
The noise rattled the boards under their boots. Isobel’s hands clapped until her palms stung, her heart galloping right along with the c
