Bella Rose eased her Ford into the gravel lot, tires crunching over the uneven stones, weaving between a patchwork of gleaming duallys and weather-worn rigs, each hitched to trailers like faithful workhorses. The air was thick with diesel, hay, and the faint metallic tang of excitement that always seemed to hang over rodeo grounds before the first whistle blew.

She spotted an open slot between a battered Silverado and a high-end King Ranch edition—Ryder’s influence on her tastes had her ...