Fall With Me (Sugarland Creek, #3) (5)

But my voice is enough to calm him.

“Hang tight, buddy.” I lean down from the saddle and rub his neck, then speak softly near his ear, “We got this. Just like we always do.”

He’s the gelding quarter horse I’ve had since I was sixteen and runs all my races with me. We’ve spent hundreds of hours practicing together, and I trust him with my life.

Now at nineteen, I may not have a social or dating life, but I have Ranger.

I love dressing up in all pink for these events, and even though he’s a male, he’s decorated the same. It gives our duo some personality flair. Sparkly pink cowboy hat, pink cowboy boots under my jeans, and a bright pink collared button-up shirt that matches his pink saddle pad, breast collar, leg wraps, and bridle set. He’s my boy who wears pink with pride.

“Good luck,” Easton says when I exit the waiting pen.

“We don’t need it, but thanks!” I wave as I guide Ranger toward the alleyway where the music and cheering grow louder.

Ranger’s flowing with adrenaline and when he hears the emcee speak, he does little sideways tippy taps as we wait for the gate to open. I always hype him up before we run down to get him ready and to double-check my balance.

“You ready for this, Ranger?” I ask, and his ears tilt toward me as he waits for my command. “Let’s show ’em whatcha got.”

The moment I give him a quick kick, he runs full speed down the alleyway. Ranger’s gaze is locked on the first barrel the moment he sees it.

“Like a glue stick!” I remind him, then smile proudly at how good he does staying in the pocket to avoid knocking over the barrel and manages to twist around it without losing too much speed. “Thatta boy.”

My words come out between short-labored breaths, but he hears every word.

When my body shifts in the saddle, my boot slips out of the stirrup, and the side of my foot nudges the second barrel on the turn. My tight grip on the saddle horn releases, quickly grabbing the edge of the barrel and keeping it upright as I keep a firm hold on the reins.

“Whew, that was close,” I say before Ranger takes off like a rocket to the third one and completes the cloverleaf pattern.

“Yes, hustle home!” I lean forward, hovering closer to his mane and keeping my hold on the reins as he sprints back to the alleyway.

I refuse to use a whip on him mostly because I don’t need to. We have a deep connection, so he knows what to do just from my body language and the tone of my voice. He reads my cues well enough and knows what I need him to do without a crop.

He’s my soul horse, and I’d be lost if anything ever happened to him.

The crowd shouts so loud that we spin around to look at the screen.

My heart races as I read the time and my name next to the number one spot.

“The Rodeo Princess does it again, folks!” the emcee announces. “Ellie Donovan takes the lead with fifteen point nine five two!”

They gave me that nickname after winning every race I entered my first year competing at the pro rodeo events, which is also how I was able to upgrade my permit to a cardholder in less than a year.

I wrap my arms around Ranger’s neck. “Such a good boy.”

I’m lucky that we bond as well as we do. Most riders go through a handful of horses before they find their perfect barrel-racing horse.

My parents make their way toward me, jogging and flailing their arms in the air like they always do when they’re overly excited.

I’m an only child, so I get all their attention.

Sometimes too much.

But I’m grateful for their support. If it weren’t for my mom pushing me to do an extracurricular activity after what happened to my cousin, who was like an older sister to me, I wouldn’t have joined a local 4-H Club and enrolled in their horse training program.

And who knows where I’d be if I hadn’t.

I started showing depressive episodes when I was thirteen. Mom wanted to keep my attention off the news and for me to put my energy and focus into something productive. Truthfully, it worked. I became addicted to the sport.

Hell, I’m still addicted to it.

A few years after I started and was outshining everyone in the juniors division, my parents gifted me Ranger for my sixteenth birthday. Most of my friends got cars or trucks for theirs, but I got him, which was even better. I’d been training on my 4-H leader’s horses, but I was ready to level up.

It was a game changer.

Ranger saved me. And I like to think we saved him, too. His previous owner neglected him and he got put up for auction. From the first time we met, he trusted me for some reason.

It’s like he knew I needed him as much as he needed me.

We invested time and money into getting him the proper care and training he needed and now he’s never been better.

“You did it, sweetheart!” Mom shouts.

Maybe. Easton still has to race.

He’s only been training for the past three years, but he’s good.

Just not as good as me.

We first met at a 4-H Club outing years ago and have been friends who talk about horses ever since.

I ride Ranger toward the waiting pen so Easton can take his turn. Holding out my hand, he gives me a high five as we pass each other.

“Damn, you popped the clutch on that entrance,” Easton calls out, referring to how fast Ranger sped through the alleyway. “And good save out there with the tipsy barrel.”