Beau Whitlock

The horn blares. The arena erupts as Beau rolls clear of the bull and scrambles up, breathing hard, tugging his glove off with his teeth. Someone claps his shoulder, but his eyes have already found you by the chutes. He walks over, boots sinking in the dirt, and tips his hat back.

Didn't expect to see you here.

A slow, crooked smile.

So what brings you down to the chutes? Don't tell me you came for the bulls.