Walker jammed his glove more firmly under the rope, adjusting position on the back of the bull. Focusing down on what he was doing, letting everything around him fade away. The noise from the crowd in the stands and the bull under him were loud, but louder still were the rough gasps of his own breathing. Blood rushed past his ears like a drumbeat as his heart pounded.

A steady breath. Another one. Feeling the animal beneath him and trying to work with the wild energy of the beast. He needed great numbers, and that wouldn’t happen unless both of them were ready to put on a show.

His leg smashed against the metal rails as the bull shifted violently toward the right, all of the cowboys along the chute either backing up rapidly to stay out of striking range, or leaning in to control the animal.

It was time. Walker lifted his free hand and nodded.

The gate jerked open, and the next second he was flying into the arena, body whiplashing as the bull did his damnedest to remove the human annoyance from his back. Every time the animal’s hind legs came down, pain slammed up Walker’s spine like a sledgehammer. He made sure to keep his teeth tight together on the mouth guard, riding through the motions, as sharp and rapid as they were, as if he were on an ocean wave undulating through what had to be the most violent rollers ever.

But the ride had a rhythm, and a pace, and in spite of the pain, and the fear, and the adrenaline racing through him, Walker found himself falling into the zone. That perfect place where nothing existed except for the strange connection between him and the beast. He didn’t care that he was doing something incredibly dangerous, or that he needed it to last for a full eight seconds. The sensation was beautiful and glorious.

Until it wasn’t.

Fear should have reared upward like a raging beast, but no, it arrived slowly. Or so it seemed as the zone vanished, and in its place was the sensation he’d felt before.

Death.

Walker was going to die.

It wasn’t about the poetry of the motion now; it was about somehow figuring out how to survive. Pain was one thing, but the icy cold fingers of fear that had wrapped around him were invasive and unstoppable. Walker tried his best to ignore the sensation, but like a wagon that had been inched over the top of a steep hill, momentum built and tension increased.

Bony fingers wrapped around the back of his neck and clung tightly. Death was there with an unshakeable grip, and Walker really didn’t want to be thinking that way, but once the thought arrived, he couldn’t shake it. Like a low buzz that slowly built in speed and volume until he found himself no longer bounced by the violence of the bull but flying with deceptive smoothness through the air, headed for the ground.

Walker had enough presence of mind to roll as the earth came up to meet him, shoulder and forearm slapping down, his head meeting the ground briefly as he rolled and came to his knees, glancing quickly to see where the bull was.

Only in rodeo were you safer on the back of a wild animal than on the ground.

He lifted his eyes to find he was facing the crowd, audience leaning forward with fear and adrenaline on their faces. A woman turned her head, her long hair whirling, the silvery white strands like spun moonshine, and in that moment everything Walker should’ve been focused on fled.

Ivy?

He stared, waiting for her to turn back so he could see her face. It had been so long since he’d seen her, but he knew what she’d look like. Pale skin, but bright eyes. A grey so light they turned silver at times, flashing at him as he’d tease and steal a kiss…

“Move it.” The order came at the same moment a hand hit him on his already bruised arm, pushing him off balance.

Walker’s arms shot forward to stop his fall, his hands hitting the hard steel of the arena enclosure. A flash of bright colours rushed past the corner of his eye. A shadow of pitch black.

Oh God, the bull.

A loud shout escaped as the bullfighter waved his arms and got the animal’s attention, turning the beast away from where Walker was still trying to figure out what was going on. Another of the three bullfighters stood on the safety rails and grabbed Walker by the back of his vest, hauling him to the top of the fence before shoving them both over. A second later, the two of them were sprawled on the ground on the other side of the railing.

The furious bull was out in the arena tossing a safety barrel, the bullfighter inside safe even while he was being scrambled like an egg.

“You make a good target, Dynamite, but maybe you could get the hell out of the arena a little faster next time.” The cowboy grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet, a mixture of good-natured humour and annoyance as he patted Walker on the shoulder. “I know you’re supposed to be fearless and all, but I pretty much recommend being scared sometimes. It’ll keep you alive longer.”

The rodeo bullfighter picked his hat up off the ground before dipping his chin and climbing over the railing to rejoin the rest of his team.

Walker stared after the man. He wasn’t sure what the bullfighter was talking about.

He glanced down at the dust and dirt on his vest and chaps then up at the clock. 6.96. He must have been bucked off, but he couldn’t remember anything from after the moment the panic had begun to slide along his spine.

The last minutes of the event were missing from his memory, and if he wanted to stay alive, that wasn’t good.

He waited until his score of zero for the ride showed up on the scoreboard next to his time, good-naturedly taking the jeers from his fellow cowboys. Then he packed his bag and headed for his truck.

When things went wrong he had a place to go. It was a bit like admitting defeat. But at that moment, realizing he could’ve been seriously hurt or killed, or caused another man to be, acknowledging he was beat was the only choice.