Ryder strove for solitude on his path to the ring, clutching his father’s riding glove and the equipment for his ride. A maelstrom of emotions—anger, sorrow, and the palpable tension of a momentous day—left him taut as a wire. He was about to face his inaugural ride since losing his dad, and each person he passed by offered gentle words of sympathy and encouragement.
Dropping his gear onto a hay bale, Ryder settled beside it. He tugged at the zippers lining his chaps until they were snug, then took off his hat to brush away the dust. The heat was relentless; the arid air swirling with dust from the arena.
His moment rapidly approaching, Ryder hopped onto the wooden planks behind the chutes. His lot for the round was Candyman—a bull that promised an easier ride but modest scores—housed in
