8 Seconds on the Mountain

"Like the pretty horsey?" The cowboy holding the animal's reins couldn't possibly have gotten any more scorn into his voice. Given the flashy blue and red yoked shirt he sported, I didn't think he should be addressing anyone in tones of derision.

"Oooh. Very pretty." Oh, damn. Kurt was doing that little kid voice he used, just before something really awful happened. Make that, just before he made something really awful happen. I should have thrown him over my shoulder and hauled him out of here: we were outnumbered, unwelcome, and I didn't know enough to risk trying to defuse the situation.

"This ain't just a pretty horsey, dude." Dude had about four syllables. "This is Midnight Kid, by Midnight Madness out of Bonnie Belle, and he'll be at the National Western Stock Show Rodeo in January." The horse shook its head, making its mane fly. "One of Tredgard Roughstock's finest."

"Should I say 'wow' again?" If Kurt was batting his eyes when he said that, I'd kick his ass myself. If we survived to get out of here with any ass left worth kicking.

"You should, pretty boy. This is one fine bronco. Finest bucking lines in the business. Only a few riders have ever stayed on him the entire eight seconds." The cowboy spat brown juice between his boots and grinned. I wouldn't throw the first punch for him calling Kurt names, though I wanted to, and Kurt didn't look irritated. No, Kurt put on that air of innocence that often presaged a very large transfer of funds from someone else's pocket to his. He'd make that cowboy pay, though I couldn't imagine how. Right now, I just wanted to see the evening out of two eyes that weren't black and swollen.

"Eight seconds." Kurt sounded breathless. "That doesn't sound very long." Oh, cripes, he was picking a fight.

"Bet you couldn't do it, pretty boy."