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practicing steer wrestling first,” I say. “It’s his best event.”
    “Because he’s just psycho enough to hurtle himself from a horse at a full gallop and hope that the cow will break his fall?” Bailey says.
    “Pretty much.”
    I watch Landon as he circles around one more time, then slows to a walk and heads over to the big boxed area. Then he turns Storm, who is prancing like it’s his job, and backs him up into the box.
    The horse’s muscles quiver and he snorts, trembling with excitement. The other rider—the guide horse—backs into the box on the opposite side of the chute. This guy’s job is just to run in a straight line, ensuring the steer has to run directly to the other side of the arena.
    I was right, it’s steer wrestling. The same configuration as team roping, but neither of them has a rope.
    Despite my loathing of all things Landon, I can’t help the jump in my pulse as he nods, his cowboy hat bobbing to indicate he’s ready.
    A guy on the ground yanks a lever and the steer bursts from the chute, and Storm jumps forward, going from a dead stop to a full-blown gallop in a single stride. The rider on the opposite side of the steer leaps forward, and the two gallop ahead, the steer between them, looking tiny in comparison to the giant horses.
    Halfway down the arena, Landon lets go of the reins, leaning in low. He slides from the saddle, positioned just right. …
    And then the steer makes an odd little hop of sorts … and Landon’s sliding down …
    Until he slams into the ground.

Chapter Seven
    I’m in the dirt and running toward Landon before I even process what I’m doing. The other rider has his back to Landon, loping after Storm in order to keep the horse from running too long and letting the reins droop low enough to catch in the horse’s hooves. The guy is clearly unaware that Storm’s rider is lying completely immobile in the dirt. Meanwhile the steer, unscathed, trots back the way it came.
    I slide to my knees when I get closer, my stomach climbing into my throat as I realize his eyes are shut and he’s not moving.
    “Landon!” I say, afraid to touch him. His hat landed back at least a dozen feet, and his arm is sort of jacked underneath him. Stupid, stupid boy . He should have followed the helmet rule, but he’s too busy trying to be one of the ultra-tough cowboys.
    “Landon!” I reach out to touch his shoulder, but then I stop, unsure if that would make it worse. What are the rules withfalls? What’s more important, spinal injury or making sure he’s breathing? It’s gotta be the breathing, right?
    Bailey falls to her knees beside me just as a few people call out, followed by the clanging of the gate and footsteps as the other guys flood toward us.
    Landon’s eyelids flutter, but he keeps his eyes shut as he moans, shifting just enough that he’s not lying on his arm anymore. “Oh thank God,” I say, finally touching his shoulder. “Landon, wake up.”
    I exchange a worried glance with Bailey and then Landon’s eyes open, but he’s blinking, again and again and again, like he’s having trouble focusing. I lean in, planning to take his pulse, but when my fingers touch his throat his eyes find mine, and I freeze.
    “What happened?” he asks, his voice a little breathless and pained.
    “Um …” Is it bad to tell him he just crash-landed on his head? Would that be too jarring or something?
    “Be honest, babe.”
    I recoil, my fingers leaving the warmth of his throat as I look up at Bailey’s furrowed brow and parted lips.
    “Uh,” I say, and then swallow. “You just kind of bit it while you were steer wrestling. Like, totally missed and landed. You know, on your head.”
    He’s silent for a heartbeat. Maybe I’m not supposed to tell him about a traumatic event if he doesn’t remember it. Maybe I was supposed to make up some crap that wouldn’t sound too scary.
    “Can I sit up?” he asks.
    The other two cowboys just shrug. Awesome, great support, guys