The Wildest Ride--A Novel

by Marcella Bell

  In just two months, her entire world had transformed, and now, towering at the center of it was a man whom she was willing to offer up her very life for—someone whose potential loss would bring a pain so sharp she wasn’t sure she could survive it.

  That was what it was all about. All for.

  Her granddad had always said everything in life was reflected in rodeo, that there wasn’t a lesson from it that couldn’t be applied to the everyday dilemmas and tribulations of existence.

  If life was the ride, she realized with a start, a lone point in a swarm of people, then like her grandfather had always told her, she had to pour her whole self into it—the fear, the anger, the hurt, the need—all of it, and trust that life, like the bulls and the broncs and the timers and the judges, were still no match for the stillness at the center.

  A center that had grown bigger, so that it could hold a man who it would someday be impossible to say goodbye to.

  But that day wasn’t today. She reached out to grab his hand and hold, and he held her in return.

  Today was a day for holding on.

  And she just happened to be a woman with an iron grip.

  The thought brought a blinding smile to her face as a group of men in suits cut a beeline through the crowd. At her back, AJ squeezed her hand.

  One of the suits opened his mouth to speak. “Young lady.” The crowd leaned in, straining to catch every word. The man cleared his throat.

  Lil’s stomach sank. The man looked like he’d been born for an era when people still respected rules. Until he smiled.

  Instantly, his stern countenance transformed into that of a wily old codger, complete with a missing tooth front and center, and Lil realized he was a retired cowboy.

  “Congratulations on becoming the first ever PBRA Closed Circuit Champion!” And in front of the gathered cameras, including one projecting on the jumbotron, he handed her a trophy, and a shiny new buckle. And as if the moment couldn’t get more surreal, AJ swept her up into a kiss, projected for the whole arena on the jumbotron, to the delight and roars of a sold-out show and a thousand screaming girls.

  38

  The green room was cramped and celebratory when AJ held the door open for Lil. Swimming in his navy shirt, which he’d given her as they’d walked hand in hand together to meet their people, she stole glances at him, struck each time by the wonder that he was hers.

  He wore a soft white T-shirt, stretched deliciously across his chest, blue jeans, and a Stetson, looking for all the world like a cowboy coming in off the range rather than a man who’d been near stomped to death within the last hour.

  That easy and carefree were as natural to him as breathing was exactly the medicine she needed to balance her own tendency to auger the omens and predict the worst.

  Stepping inside, her eyes immediately searched for Gran and Piper and Tommy, landing on them where they sat grouped together in a corner.

  AJ was already looking toward the place where Diablo stood, tall and dark in his cowboy hat, which should have been at odds with his three-piece suit, but somehow looked as fluid together as water.

  Squeezing AJ’s hand, Lil said, “You go on. I’ll catch up with Gran and them and meet back with you later.”

  Smiling, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles before releasing it. Wickedness came to his eyes and he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I love you Lilian Island.”

  Lil’s blush was immediate, but she hadn’t risked her life to save him just to turn coward now. Stern and serious and red hued, she said, making less of a production about it than he had but no less public for any of it, “I love you, AJ Garza.”

  Across the room, without any of the competitive edge she typically aimed Lil’s way, Sierra let out a big “Awwwww.”

  Diablo’s head snapped up as if the rodeo queen’s voice were a sound aimed at him and began making his way in her direction.

  Lil glared and AJ grinned, and the world felt right.

  AJ went to where Diablo now stood engaged in murmured conversation with the rodeo queen, who, for the first time Lil had ever seen, looked irritated—the real and revealed emotion a disdainful sneer on her face. Shaking her head, Lil hoped Diablo knew what he was walking into with that one but turned to make her way to her own family—only to smash into a solid wall of man.

  The wall was her father, and, judging from the storms raging in the gray eyes that had given it all away, he was pissed.

  “Are you some kind of damn fool?” he lashed. “I’ve never seen such a stupid stunt in all my years of rodeo!”

  Lil’s own temper rose to the surface, two storm fronts crashing into each other. She didn’t know him from Adam and he had no right to comment on her behavior.

  “Interesting,” she replied. “I don’t seem to recall asking you. In fact, I don’t recall ever needing your help ever over all these years you’ve been playing at rodeo with other people’s kids.”

  The room went quiet, the hush right before an explosion. AJ and Diablo and Sierra looked up. AJ’s eyes darting between his woman and his mentor, Diablo’s firmly set to glaring at Lil.

  She didn’t mind. She felt bad for AJ, didn’t want him caught in the middle, but she could take Diablo’s glares, as well as the glares of the man who thought he could just waltz into her life and start telling her what to do.

  Behind him, though, Gran was another matter.

  Making a sound of outrage in the back of her throat, Gran’s voice pitched across the room, modulated to perfectly replicate the experience of pinching Lil’s ear to drag her to account. “Lilian Sorrow Island. I don’t care if you are the greatest bull rider in the world, I raised you better than that kind of rudeness.”

  The swirling energy of tension in the room burst.

  Suddenly sweaty and embarrassed, Lil looked away from her father, scuffing the toe of her boot on the floor absently as she glared at the cabinetry. “Sorry,” she mumbled, unwilling to go any further than that, even with her gran watching.

  The Old Man cracked a smile as he took a step back. “I’m sorry, too. That wasn’t my place.” When he spoke, his voice wrapped around her like a hug she’d been waiting for her whole life. She tried not to resent it.

  Coming to stand at Lil’s side, Gran crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Lil’s father.

  “And just who might you be?” she demanded, glaring up at the man as if she were staring down at him.

  The old man shifted his weight, belatedly taking off his hat. Lil took the opportunity to take him in, his rich dark skin tone, the lines beginning to crease his face, the eyes that were like looking into a mirror. His head was clean-shaven, bald beneath the hat. “I’m Lil’s father—” he began.

  “Oh, I know who you are.” Gran cut him off. “What I’m more interested in is what your name is, where you’ve been all these years, and why you thought you could get my daughter pregnant and abandon her.”

  The Old Man sputtered. AJ and Diablo let out choking noises as the entire room once again zeroed in on the unfolding family drama.

  Feeling bad for him, Lil opened her mouth. “Maybe this isn’t the place, Gran...”

  But her gran wasn’t having that, either. “Oh, I’ll get to you, missy. Nearly getting yourself killed then coming in and acting up with your father. What were you thinking? You might have died. There’s not a prize or a piece of land on earth worth your life!”

  But instead of shaming her, Gran’s words took root and blossomed.

  There was a prize worth risking her life for, and he was crossing the room to her, Diablo at his side.

  “She’s right, you know,” AJ said, joining them, smiling insufferably in Gran’s direction.

  Gran snorted. “I see your tricks.”

  Looping his arm around Lil’s shoulders, he said breezily, “From the woman who raised the love of my
life, I would expect no less.”

  Obvious as it was, AJ’s move worked. Gran’s feathers settled, and Lil and The Old Man each took long breaths, letting them out slow, mirroring each other in ways that were as natural as they’d been unexplained until now.

  Gesturing to the older man, AJ said to Gran, “Gran. This is Henry Bowman, founder of CityBoyz riding program and the man who made me all that I am today.”

  Gran nodded, approval in her gaze. She reached out a hand to Henry, who reached his hand to her. Lil watched it happen, pinned between a thousand feelings she didn’t have names for.

  When their hands connected, she felt it as a physical thing.

  “Thank you,” Gran said to Henry, “for one of the greatest gifts of my life.”

  Sierra, who had joined them, stood beside Diablo, faintly leaning toward him even as she seemed apart, and let out a long, sweet sigh and said, “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Even Lil allowed herself to be moved, giving herself over to the flood of warmth that brought tears to her eyes and finally answered the question she’d carried her whole life: she was wanted, and cherished, and, above all, loved.

  All around them, the Closed Circuit cameras rolled. The rodeo might be over, the buckles all handed out, but for the producers, the drama was the real prize, and it was solid gold.

  And as if the moment needed more excitement, the old-timer from earlier, the producer with a slick suit and a missing tooth, let out a loud “Yeehaw!” and slapped his thigh, hollering out to the room, “The ratings are in, folks, and we blew them out of the water! The Closed Circuit is coming back for a second season, and it’s going to be better than ever!” Another round of cheers followed the news.

  Ever the professional, Sierra recaptured control of the room with her bright and well-timed announcement. “All this celebration has got me hungry! What do y’all say we close this out the right way, on the producer’s dime?”

  Her question was met by a resounding roar of approval, the friends and family gathered in the room and Lil and AJ—Hank was nowhere to be seen—and even the producers caught in the wave of excitement, though the idea hadn’t been on the scheduled plan of events and likely wasn’t in the budget.

  None of that mattered. Pennies would be pinched and more cowboys would come along to take the top prize. AJ would come home with her, and together, they would figure out how to save both the ranch and CityBoyz. But more than that, they’d spend their days together, living, loving, and sometimes, riding off into the sunset.

  * * *

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Thank you for picking up The Wildest Ride. Writing this story was its own wild ride, and I am very proud of it. In particular, I am proud to have brought Lilian Sorrow Island to life. In addition to bearing the names of my forefathers and mothers, Lil is a character who shares my family’s little-known ancestry—that of the Creek Freedmen. The Creek, or Muscogee (Mvskoke), Freedmen story is one that, due to the unique interweaving of racism, Native genocide, and the imperative of cultural survival in the United States, has been swept under the rug of history. It is a fascinating and powerful story of allyship and betrayal, one that spans generations, homelands, and the formation of the United States as we know it now. Like many long-lived and ongoing stories, the way it’s told changes over time and depending on the teller. The Wildest Ride reflects how it was told to me and how my knowledge of it has evolved as I’ve grown older and sought out more tellers.

  My first teacher of this story, however, was the most important: my paternal grandfather. He was born Xenophon Island (last name later changed to Barnes after being legally adopted by his stepfather as a boy) in Muskogee, Oklahoma, in November of 1926. By the time I showed up on this blue planet sixty years later, he had grown old but no less proud of his roots. As an adult, I interviewed him about our heritage and his childhood, and he told me he identified as an “Indian” man first, and second as a Black man. To me, a young woman born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and therefore irrevocably stamped as “Black and nothing else” by my surrounding community despite my rich multicultural ancestry, this statement was world-shaking. I’d known of our Mvskoke Freedmen heritage through the incredibly close relationship I shared with my grandfather, as well as my mother’s dedication to the idea that part of a mother’s role is to impart culture to her children. To that end, she exposed and connected me with our local Native community (which are notably not Mvskoke). I had even begun and abandoned an application for tribal enrollment through the Portland State University Native American Student and Community Center. At that point, I was advised not to apply because my ancestors are listed as “Creek Freedmen” on the Dawes Rolls instead of “Creek by blood,” which the enrollment counselor relayed to me after speaking with the Muscogee Nation enrollment office. It was mortifying for both of us to encounter an expression of racism like that in modern times. Still, tribal sovereignty is tantamount. There is nothing closer to the heart of sovereignty than the ability to determine citizenship, so I resolved to accept the news and move forward while continuing to pray for a more inclusive future. I am still praying for that future today.

  However, after the fateful conversation with my grandfather, my need to own my heritage took on new strength. I knew we were Mvskoke, but to have my grandfather, a man born before the Civil Rights era in Indian Country, a man who was the quintessence of strength and dignity, share that his own cultural identity was Indian first and Black second was transformative. My grandfather used the word Indian, and with his cadence and accent, the word always sounded like something important. In my own speech, I use the words Native or Indigenous. In the book, however, you will have seen both. In my opinion, due to the history, Indian is a word reserved for the use of the elders and established institutions (for example, Indian National Finals Rodeo). Others have different opinions.

  Extending the conversation of language further, the word Creek, as in Creek Freedmen, is an English moniker for the Muscogee (Mvskoke) Nation. Originally from the southeast, the Muscogee people were called Creek because of towns being located near waterways. Muscogee, or the less English spelling Mvskoke, is the name the people have for themselves. Like Indian, the term Creek is one I reserve for elders and official organizations. For myself, I prefer the word and spelling Mvskoke. Most of my teachers and elders have used the name Creek, but an important message was given to me to use Mvskoke rather than Creek. As a student of linguistics, I prefer the spelling Mvskoke to Muscogee because of its visual/auditory transmission. Mvskoke history and heritage are rich and well-documented. I encourage the curious to engage and learn more about the Mvskoke Nation and Indigenous peoples worldwide. There are wonderful resources available online and in print. Native country is alive and thriving, modern, and powerful. At the time of this writing, there are 574 federally recognized sovereign nations in the United States. The number continues to grow as more and more Native peoples reclaim their distinct histories and heritages. If you are inspired, you can become involved in supporting Native activism through campaigns like Land Back (landback.org) and Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW, mmiwusa.org), as well as through organizations such as the National Congress of American Indians (NCAI) and movements that oppose the use of Native peoples and iconography as mascots and aesthetics. Additionally, research and support the Freedmen. In 2017, following legal action, the Cherokee Nation granted citizenship rights to their Freedmen. The Mvskoke Freedmen continue to fight for recognition within our Nation. Never stop learning and never stop reclaiming. Mvto (Thank you).

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The much-beloved Fred Rogers encouraged people to take time to think of and thank the special people who have “loved us into being.” Given my unique heritage and the lineages I study and practice, I have a particularly strong love for this idea. When I had the honor of writing my very own acknowledgments page, I knew this was the model I wanted to foll
ow. This story, and all of my work as an author, would not be possible were it not for the people who loved me into being. I am guarded and insecure and struggle with a massive inferiority complex. It took A LOT of love to develop the courage and bravery to be myself and go after my dreams, including creating this book. So, chronologically (because the concept of time is a useful boundary and guideline!), here are the people who have loved me into being and, therefore, without whom this project would not have existed: my mother, whose survival and tenacity, and more importantly, whose faith and hope gave me life and the ability to take a hit and always get back up. My father, whose unshakeability, intelligence, and constant, quiet, and steady love, let me know the ground was strong enough to leap off from. My grandpa, my lodestar, the man who was not just in my corner, but fiercely guarded and held that corner long before I even knew what it was. My grandma Sharon, my Rosetta stone for white culture and musical theater, and the one who gave me a pair of rose-colored contact lenses, permanently affixing and affirming my optimistic view of life. My grandpa John, our family Buddha, who loved and understood his eldest granddaughter’s discomfort with her appearance and deep love of the written word and made room for both, as well as dragons. My auntie Carol, my Tía Tía, whose kitchen was always full of my favorite kinds of foods, whose freedom and love were boundless, and whose witchy magic planted the seeds of becoming the spirulina and tea-and bee-pollen-loving yogi I am today. Kaleen, my soul sister, in the form of a cousin, my partner in crime till the end of time, my best friend since before we were born. There’s more to say, and she knows it all. My cousin Jarid, for seeing beauty and strength in me long before I ever did. My fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Moellenar, who went the extra mile for a hybrid-latchkey kid. My first stepmom, Sandy, who gave me most of my brothers and taught me what elbow grease was. My brothers, Nicholas, Conar, Tyrone, and Steven, who forced me to grapple with siblings and to discover how genuine that bond is. My second stepmom, April, who finally got it through to me that Black is beautiful and taught me how to take care of it. My great aunt Barbara, who took us to New York and loves theater and travel as much as I do, and who introduced me to my WASPy heritage. Alec Wilson, my first boyfriend, whose sweet goodness showed me it was worth it to take a shot on this whole romance idea. My University of Southern California friends, Brynn, Selkie, and Kim, who helped me leap into the great big pond of the world. My first yoga instructor, Paul, who planted and sprouted the seed of yoga in me and taught me to practice yoga instead of ego. Sarah and Dan and Sarah, who will forever number among the small list of people I go to in hard times. Ethan Lau, whose love and example led me to be comfortable in my body. My dear friend Zoe French, whose care and nourishment are unparalleled in this chaotic world. Philly Boyle, my cousin/brother-in-law, whose presence has seasoned life and shown me what it means to grow your definition of family. My Barnes & Noble family—Trisha, Dennis, Misty, Robyn, Andrea, Aaron, Anne, Erika, Vanessa, Liam, Ed, Rebecca, Addie, and Joshua—the period when our lives were intertwined, the ways we loved each other, and the lessons I learned are stamped on my soul for all of time. Each of you helped me become a grownup. My husband, Josh, I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, you are the seed of everything wonderful in my life. My mother-in-law, Sally, who welcomed me and mothered me despite my resistance, and I am still unpacking the treasure of lessons and love you gave me. My Gold, et al. family—Randy, Rebecca, Dan, Patty, Sarah, James, Louis, Rosalie, Sam, Ariella, Becca, Graham, Jeremy, Dilek, Grafton, Argyle, Paisley, Jon, Jen, Bill, James, and Allison—you all showed me a new model and mode of family. My heart has grown way more than three sizes because of it. My children, Emerson Rose and Xenophon Gold—nothing, and I mean NOTHING, inspires and teaches and rebirths me the way you do. The Ropps, who gave me the kick in the ass I needed to have a little pride in myself and remember that I know how to make new friends. Eileen M. K. Bobek, I bulldozed into your life and dreams, and you changed and reshaped mine. Everything I do is stitched with your color (and it’s black). Megan Crane and Maisey Yates, look what you made me do. I will never be the same—there’s probably a Taylor Swift lyric that captures it better *_^. Krista Holland, my sweet teacher, I won’t call you what you are because of circles and honeybees and Old Mother Dark, but we both know it’s the truth. My yoga sisters and drum women spread around the world. Our lights connect like the knots of Indra’s net. Flo Nicoll, for meeting with me at the very last minute after recognizing my work and lighting a spark of hope after a long journey in the dark. Nic Caws, for seeing my potential in a sea of bad grammar and my endless attempts to bury the emotion with jokes and outrageousness—the patience and fortitude are as deep as the musical theater knowledge in this one. Helen Breitwieser, who is exactly the professional champion I needed and who inspires me in every interaction to become a little stronger, a little more direct and honest, and, ultimately, a lot more comfortable stepping into my power. Mvto to all of these people, living and not, who have loved me into being. It took so much work to get here, and even though there are “miles to go before I sleep,” I know that, because of you all, I will get there. And I won’t go alone.