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The sun over the Arizona desert was not merely a celestial body; it was a heavy, physical weight, pressing down on the neck and shoulders of every rider in the Steel Ball Run. The heat rose in shimmering waves from the cracked earth, distorting the horizon into a watery, dreamlike blur.
Hot Pants wiped a streak of dust and sweat from her forehead, her breathing steady but deep. She had slowed her horse to a trot, signaling a break. They had been riding hard for six hours, keeping a steady pace behind the leaders but far enough ahead of the pack to secure a decent position for the afternoon stage.
She guided her mount toward a sparse cluster of mesquite trees, seeking a sliver of shadow that looked more like a mirage than reality.
"We stop here for ten minutes," she called out, her voice raspy.
Behind her, the rhythmic *clack-huff, clack-huff* of Diego Brando’s stallion came to a halt. Diego swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted with a fluid, predatory grace. Even in the sweltering heat, he looked composed. His jockey silks were stained with dust, his eyes sharp and calculating beneath the rim of his cap.
"Ten minutes," Diego echoed, checking his pocket watch. He snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist. "That’s barely enough time to let the horses breathe, let alone us."
"It’s enough," Hot Pants said stiffly, unscrewing the cap of her canteen. She didn't trust him. Not fully. They were allies of convenience, tied together by the need to survive the bizarre obstacles of this race and the machinations of men like Valentine. But Diego was ambitious, cunning, and volatile.
Diego leaned against the scraggly bark of a tree, crossing his arms. He watched her drink. He watched the way her throat moved, the way a stray lock of hair stuck to her damp cheek. He was always watching.
"I’m going to check the perimeter," Diego announced suddenly, pushing off the tree.
Hot Pants lowered the canteen, frowning. "We’re in the middle of nowhere, Brando. There is no perimeter. There’s just cactus and dirt."
"I don’t like being exposed," he said, though his tone was light, almost teasing. "I saw a ridge over that way. Might give us a better vantage point for the next few miles. Strategic reconnaissance."
"You’re going to climb a ridge in this heat for a view we’ll have in twenty minutes anyway?" She shook her head, exasperated. "Go ahead. If you get bitten by a rattlesnake, I’m leaving you."
Diego smirked, that crooked, confident expression that made his face look dangerous. "I wouldn’t expect anything less, Hot Pants. Keep your eyes on the horses. I’ll be right back."
He turned and jogged off toward a formation of red rocks jutting out of the desert floor, his boots kicking up small clouds of orange dust.
Hot Pants watched him go until he disappeared into the heat haze. She let out a long breath, sinking down to sit in the meager shade. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the wind hissing through the dry branches. The silence of the desert was loud. It was a relief to be away from the constant noise of the other racers.
But as the minutes ticked by, the silence began to feel oppressive. She checked her own watch. Eight minutes. Diego wasn’t back.
Typical, she thought. Probably found a scorpion to talk to or decided to chase a lizard. She stood up, brushing sand from her breeches, and prepared to saddle up. If he wanted to get left behind, so be it.
Suddenly, the crunch of boots on gravel approached from the rocks. Diego reappeared, walking briskly. He wasn’t out of breath, but there was a strange energy to him—a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.
"Took you long enough," Hot Pants said, reaching for her reins. "We’re pushing it."
"Hold on," Diego said. He stopped a few feet away from her.
His voice was different. The usual sneer was gone, replaced by something lower, almost hesitant.
"What?" She looked at him, annoyed. "Did you find a shortcut? Or did you just waste ten minutes staring at rocks?"
Diego shifted his weight. He looked at her, his golden eyes flickering over her face, then down to her hands, which were resting on the pommel of her saddle. He took a step closer.
"I found something," he said.
"Is it dangerous?"
"No. It’s... important."
Diego stopped right in front of her. The proximity made Hot Pants stiffen. She could smell the scent of horse leather, the dry earth, and the distinct, sharp smell of his sweat. It wasn't unpleasant.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave.
"Close your eyes," Diego commanded.
Hot Pants stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"Close your eyes," he repeated, more firmly this time. "I have a surprise."
Hot Pants let out a incredulous laugh. "A surprise? Brando, we are in the middle of a 3,000-mile cross-country race for a massive fortune. We are being hunted by the President of the United States and a dinosaur. We do not have time for-"
"Just do it," he snapped, though there was no malice in it. He leaned in slightly. "Humor me."
Hot Pants studied his face. He looked serious, intense. There was a challenge in his eyes, as if this were a test of some kind. If she refused, she was weak. If she accepted, she was playing his game.
And despite herself, her curiosity was piqued.
"Fine," she huffed. "But if this is a trick, I’m breaking your nose."
She squeezed her eyes shut. The world went black, save for the red imprint of the sun on her eyelids. She heard the rustle of fabric as Diego moved. She heard the faint, distinct sound of his hand dipping into a pocket, the clinking of something hard and small.
She held her breath, her senses heightened. She felt the air shift as he stepped even closer. She could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Hold out your hands," he whispered.
Hot Pants hesitated. She was a trained fighter, a surgeon, a user of Cream Starter. Putting herself in a vulnerable position went against every instinct she had. But the tone of his voice made her comply.
She held out her cupped palms, open and waiting.
"Okay," she said, her voice tight. "I’m waiting."
Diego didn't speak. He moved his hands over hers. She felt his fingertips brush against her skin. Calloused, rough, warm. The touch sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with the heat.
And then, he tipped his hands.
Clatter. Plop. Thud.
A cascade of small, hard objects tumbled into her palms. They were heavy, cool, and uneven.
Hot Pants frowned beneath her closed lids. The weight was substantial, but the texture was wrong. It wasn't gold. It wasn't a weapon. It felt... like debris.
"You can open them," Diego said. He sounded weirdly proud.
Hot Pants opened her eyes.
She looked down at her hands.
Sitting in her palms was a collection of pebbles.
They weren't just any pebbles. They were distinct, rounded stones that had been smoothed by a riverbed long since dried up. There were about a dozen of them. Most were a dull, dusty grey. One was a speckled granite. Another was a chunk of rusty red sandstone.
Hot Pants stared at them. She looked up at Diego, her expression completely blank.
"Pebbles," she said flatly.
Diego was standing with his chest puffed out slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Not just pebbles. Look at the red one. It matches the color of your horse. And the grey one—it’s shaped just like a skull, see?"
He reached out and tapped the grey stone with his finger.
Hot Pants blinked. She looked back at the stones. She looked at Diego.
"You wandered off for ten minutes," she said slowly, "to pick up rocks?"
"I didn't just pick them up," Diego corrected, his voice taking on that edge of arrogance he always carried. "I selected them. I was scouting that ridge, and I saw them glittering in the dirt. Most people would ride right past them. They’d see nothing but trash."
He took a step closer, looking her dead in the eye.
"But I have the eye for value, Hot Pants. I see what others discard. I saw these stones, and I thought of you."
Hot Pants felt a strange fluttering in her chest, a sensation she hadn't felt in years. It was absurd. It was absolutely insane. They were in a life-or-death race, and this man, this jagged, ambitious man who wanted to conquer the world, had just given her a handful of driveway gravel as a courtship offering.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Am I?" Diego challenged softly. He reached out and closed her fingers over the stones, wrapping his own hands around hers for a brief second. His skin was hot, his grip firm. "They’re solid. They’re permanent. They’ve survived the desert, just like us."
He squeezed her hands and then let go, stepping back and adjusting his cap.
"Keep them," he said, turning back toward his horse. "Consider it a down payment on our partnership. Or maybe just a token of good luck."
Hot Pants stood there, frozen. She looked down at her closed fist. She could feel the sharp edges of the stones digging into her skin.
She opened her hand again and looked at them. They were, admittedly, nice pebbles. The red one was a striking color.
"Diego," she called out.
He had already swung his leg over his saddle. He looked back at her, his eyes obscured by the shadow of his hat brim.
"Ten minutes are up," he said, kicking his heels into the horse's flanks. "Let's ride. We have a race to win."
Hot Pants looked at the rocks one last time. She didn't throw them away. Instead, she unbuttoned the breast pocket of her racing jacket and dropped the pebbles inside. They clinked lightly against the metal case of her Cream Starter canister.
She mounted her horse, feeling the weight of the stones against her chest. It was a small, heavy, ridiculous warmth.
"I'm keeping the skull one, though," she muttered to herself, spurring her horse forward.
As they galloped back onto the trail, side by side, Hot Pants glanced at Diego. He was looking straight ahead, focused on the horizon, but the corner of his mouth was turned up in a smug, knowing smile.
And for the first time in the race, Hot Pants didn't feel the weight of the sun quite so heavily.