The opening ceremony wound down with brass and blinding lights, the kind that made the dust shimmer like gold suspended in the air. The night was alive with rodeo fever — boots stomping in the grandstands, the scent of kettle corn and fried bologna mingling with sweat and horsehair. Under the glare of the arena lamps, it wasn’t just dirt; it was a stage, and every rider knew they were stepping into a spotlight that could turn them into either a hero or a ghost.
Isobel and Bella Rose slipped into their seats, pressed shoulder to shoulder among townsfolk and drifters. The first barrel racer charged the cloverleaf pattern, her horse slicing through the turns. The time was quick — but the thud of a fallen barrel sentenced her to failure. Gasps. A whistle. That was rodeo truth: fast don’t mean
