|LEMON ODELL|

            The foghorn blared, and the gate crashed open. A small patch-coated bronc bolted from the crush, head tucked low between its legs. It took three strides, bunched itself, and leapt high into the air, back arched like a cat, mouth open with the effort, tail lashing through the air. In the small bronc's saddle, a young kid clung to the horn, one hand held out high behind him, grinning from ear to ear even as the pony twisted, landed, and sprang up again.

It spun on its hind end, took two galloping strides and leapt up again, kicking out its legs so viciously that the kid lost his hat, but he simply laughed, long brown hair whipping across his face. Then the foghorn sounded again, the announcer gave a shout, and the kid instantly relaxed in the saddle, waving to the crowd as the bronc galloped and half-bucked around the arena. Then the assistants helped him from the pony, he bowed to the screaming audience, retrieved his hat, and practically skipped out of the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what a ride! That is a fantastic score for our up-and-coming youngster – let's give him a hand!"

Leaning over the metal railing at the edge of the ring, I watched the man carefully. Growing up as Tex Lamar's daughter met that I had been taught from a young age how to recognize true raw potential. Something as simple as the twisting of a rider's hips, the swing of their legs, the tilt of their shoulders, could separate a good rider from a bad one, and this kid had the traits of a good rider.

"Hey, nice ride out there, kid. What's your name?"

The kid looked up, a little surprised, and grinned when he saw me. "Well, thanks! I'm Mack Bethoud. Bit new to the scene an' all that."

"Thought so. What are you, eighteen?"

"Seventeen, actually." Mack seemed to puff out his chest a little, proud; he sported the faint beginnings of stubble across his chin. I considered him for a moment, tapping the toe of my boot against the wooden flooring of the stand. Bethoud. The last name sounded familiar, Mack Bethoud. He was Tessa's son. "You've got a good seat. Ever considered switching disciplines?"

"Aw, hell," Mack frowned. "I've been broncin' since I was fifteen, an' I love it."

Shaking my head, I leant back. "Sure, until you end up breaking your back out there. But I guess that that's bronc-riders for you. You lot must have serious death-wishes."

Mack laughed. "Nah, that's just a hazard o' the job." He paused, frowning. "Hold on, I recognize you. You're Lemon Odell, Tex Lamar's daughter and barrel racer, right?"

"Sure am."

The kid's eyes widened. "Hot damn, no way! I'm a big fan!"

"Yeah?" I offered a lop-sided grin, "You're Tessa's son right?"

Mack's brows furrowed, a mix of surprise and confusion flickering across his features. "You know my mom?"

"I met her once, at a bar. She spoke good things of you." I smiled, nodding.

"Well damn, it really is a small world after all."

I nodded, "I'm riding in an hour. But I'll be keeping an eye out for you Mack. Wouldn't want to miss you on the big screen one day."

"Will do," grinned Mack.

I turned and made my way down from the stand. Now that I was officially in the run, I took some time to clean my boots and adjust Fiets tack. Out in the arena, children are walking their horses through the barrel pattern one by one, and the brave ones are trotting home. I can't help but smile at the tiny brown pigtails poking out of one girl's hot pink helmet. That had been me once.

By the time my class rolls around, there's a familiar anxiety roiling in the pit of my stomach, but I swallow it back as I put Fiets bridle back on and lead the stallion to the gate.

I'm third in the class, and Fiets is ready to run, tugging at the bit as I walk him in lazy circles within view of the gate. Then I'm on deck, then up next, and Fiets is prancing in place in the chute before bam, we take off flying. The wind whips through my hair, threatening to snatch Colt's hat from my head but I tighten my grip on the brim, feeling the worn leather beneath my fingertips as we whip around the first barrel. The footing is deep here, and I can feel Fiets dragging through the thick dirt, but if there's one thing my stallion loves more than anything, it's these barrels.

His shoulders are rising as we make our pocket perfectly on the final barrel, but I keep contact on my inside rein, keeping Fiets from dropping his shoulder at the last minute as we clear the last barrel. The length of the arena stretches before us, clear and inviting, and Fiets kicks into another gear that I am  always surprised by, and I lean low along my neck as we fly towards home like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Fiets is never quite as good at stopping, and I have to grab the back of my saddle to keep from flying forward into the dirt as I rein my stallion around into a loose circle and slow him to a trot, then a walk. Fiets is puffing, his ears flicking back and forth like he's ready to run some more, but as I give him a pat on the neck and whisper words of encouragement into his ear, he begins to settle, and he gives a long sigh.

I haven't even looked at my time, but I had felt fast, and all of my barrels had stayed up. I dismount and give Fiets another rub along his withers and loosen his girth slightly.

"You know I used to have a hat just like that one." A deep voice, with a bit of a southern drawl calls from behind me, and my head snaps up into place. I can feel my ears turning red already. Colt is standing there, pulling his hands together in a slow clap for me. "You had a nice run out there."

"We've done better," I respond flushed. His presence always has that effect on me.

It was true. We had. The matter of the fact was that this run was sloppy.

"Your hat was good luck, though. Maybe I should borrow it next time." I offer the hat back to him, but he stops me with a smile.

"Nah, looks better on you anyway," he says, his tone light, his cobalt blue eyes searching my own.

I flushed, embarrassed almost that Colt had seen me like this. That anyone had. It felt like every eye was on me, judging, whispering behind my back. They always had something to say after Tex's death, as if I didn't belong here anymore. As if I couldn't handle being around reminders of him. I just hoped my ride wouldn't add fuel to the fire.

"Little lemon you ought to know that there ain't nobody in this arena who's worked ha-"

A massive roar from the stands interrupts us, loud enough that Fiets spooks, shifting back and forth anxiously. An announcer's voice bellowed across the speakers, the sound rattling through Gabriel's bones.

"Let's give it up for our next competitor! Your favorite golden girl from Bloomington, Indiana: Jasmineeeeee Morrisooooon!"