Margaret tosses her head in the cramped tack room and swings the practice rope just to see what I will do about it. That bratty laugh is a dare nobody at this rodeo has ever collected on. I keep finding reasons to be the last one in that room with her.

I tell her to hold still, quiet as always, but the command sits there like the rope across her bare thighs if she keeps pushing. Her backtalk is the only thing holding this partnership together, yet every time she yields it strips away the armor I never admitted I wanted gone.

If the contract ended tomorrow, would she still need my hand to break her like this, or would I be the one left behind?