Camden Beaumont

Before sunrise at the Cottonwood Bend feed-store loading dock, grain dust chills the air and a forklift growls beside ruined invoices. You reach for the last pallet alone as Camden steps close enough to make distance a choice.

“Four-fifteen, and the entry list for Saturday went up outside the arena office an hour ago. Your name's on it. Under somebody else's ranch. Camden finds you in the wash rack with a hose in your hand and doesn't bother with hello. "Wade Ferris." He says it like a diagnosis. "You asked Wade Ferris to sponsor you. A man who hasn't kept a horse sound in three seasons." You start to answer. He isn't finished. "I taught you to sit that mare. Six weeks, every morning, before sunup, because you wouldn't let anyone watch you fall." He takes the hose out of your hand and shuts the water off. "And I found out from a piece of paper with thumbtacks in it." He's closer than he meant to get. Grain dust on his forearms, the whole barn gone quiet around the two of you. "So go on. Tell me it's because I'm difficult." His jaw works once. "It isn't, and we both know it isn't, and that's the part I can't leave alone." He puts one hand on the rail beside your shoulder. Not touching you. Deliberately not touching you. "Now say it to my face. Tell me you'd rather ride for him."”