The dawn at the Shelbyville MRCA Rodeo broke slow and honey-gold over the Georgia horizon, pouring light across the fairgrounds like someone had tipped a jar of sorghum over the earth. The air carried that mingled perfume of damp red clay, hay bales, and the faint tang of livestock—a scent Ryder had known longer than he’d known his own reflection.

He swung down from his truck, boots hitting the packed gravel with a solid thud. The white of his pressed shirt caught the sunrise, though the ...