by T. K. Lukas
“Hi Ruth. Otto. Sorry we’re late.” Sidney took a seat next to Ruth. “When does Victor ride?”
“He’s tenth out of ten.”
“Is that nerve-wracking, him going last?” Sidney asked.
“It is for me. But that’s Victor’s favorite draw. He likes knowing what score he has to beat.”
Markus sat next to Sidney with Rex stretched out across the floor in front of the seats. He checked his cell to see if he’d missed a call. He’d asked his contact to leave a message once they’d found the identity of the mystery number. Hopefully, they’d be able to get through.
Sidney tugged at her wig, flipping the blond ponytail over her shoulder. She scanned the audience, looking for a pair of eyes that might be looking for her. “I wish I’d put on a hat,” she whispered to Markus, “or a pair of sunglasses.”
“Are you nervous? We can leave if you want.”
“No. I’m probably just being paranoid.” She massaged away the gnawing beginning of a migraine threatening the base of her skull.
The bull riding event was a blur of dust and dirt, of noisy cowbells and eight-second buzzers. Rodeo clowns, with painted faces and wearing comically baggy overalls, entertained the crowd between intrepid demonstrations of fearlessness. Their job was to save the lives of riders who got a hand hung up in their rigging rope, or who were bucked off after two seconds and then slammed to the ground. Without the clown’s intervention, an unlucky cowboy would be a target for a bull dead-set on driving a horn through their back or exacting a swift kick to their head.
Nine riders down. Seven times, the bulls won, the riders earning a score of zero. Two times, the riders won. The judge’s marks flashed on the scoreboard. One rider scored a 67, the other an 82. The 82 would be a difficult score to beat, but the crowd knew that Victor was the cowboy to do it. With a maximum score of 50 going to the bull’s effort, coupled with a maximum score of 50 going to the cowboy’s ride, a possible combined score of 100 was the highest a judge could award. Thus far, it had never happened.
Victor climbed the rails of the chute, his spurs clanking against metal. He straddled the top rung, hovering over the bull’s back. The bull snorted and pawed, kicking up dust. Victor worked his gloved hand up and down the rope attached to the rigging wound around the bull’s chest—up and down, stroking the rope, creating heat. The motion built friction, which heated the rosin on the rope, providing a tacky surface for his glove to stick to. He eased down onto the back of the Brahmin bull. The animal continued to snort and paw the ground, bumping the sides of the chute, over and over, each time pinning Victor’s legs against the metal walls.
Ignoring the bull’s behavior, blocking out the crowd’s noise and the announcer’s jabber, Victor concentrated on his task and on the rope in his rosined left glove. His fingers flexed and maneuvered the rope precisely into his practiced grasp. He screwed his cowboy hat down tight with his right hand, thumped the crown of his hat once with his palm—a superstitious act—and arced his arm up over his head. The chute crew watched intently for a quick nod from the rider. Once given, the two burly men hauled on the ropes attached to the gate, pulling with a vigorous effort, shuffling backward as they did. The gate flew open.
Two thousand pounds of hell-on-hooves burst from the confines of the eight-foot by two-and-a-half-foot chute. Spinning, bucking, and leaping, the bull’s single-minded objective was to rid himself of the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound nuisance attached to his back.
“Death Wish,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the din of the roaring crowd, “has been undefeated four rodeo seasons in a row. This bull has sent more riders to the hospital than any bull in collegiate rodeo history!”
The crowd went wild. On their feet. Stomping. Cheering.
Markus and Sidney stood. Ruth jumped up, clutching both Sidney’s and Otto’s hands.
Round and round the bull spun in ever constricting circles, a bovine corkscrew, first clockwise, then counter. Leaping in the air, he twisted like a fish on a line. Death Wish slammed to the ground, his front cloven hooves plowing into the dirt, his rear hooves kicking the sky. Snot and saliva were slung through the air with each toss of the bull’s head. His performance electrified the audience. It would be nearly impossible for any cowboy to stick for eight seconds. This bull was giving the judges every reason to score him high.
Victor spurred with his outside leg during the spins, his inside leg gripping tightly. Then, both feet worked like furious pistons, up and down. Victor raked his spur rowels in unison with the forward and backward motion of the bull’s explosive bucks. When the bull’s front hooves were buried in the dirt, Victor’s legs were straight down, too. When the bull tipped back, Victor pulled his knees up, raking the spurs upward. Just like the bull, Victor gave the judges every reason to reward his ride.
The sound of the eight-second buzzer screeched above the noise of the crowd. Victor reached down with his right hand and unwound the rope from his left hand. His goal was to time his leap off the bull’s back to coincide with the moment the animal’s front hooves hit the dirt. First, he’d be closer to the ground. Hitting the dirt hurt less when he didn’t have as far to fall. Second, gravity and the natural motion of the bull’s back hooves coming to the earth would give him time to flee to the safety of the arena wall before the bull had time to think about it and give chase.
But Victor mistimed his dismount. He jumped off the bull’s back at the moment the bull’s front end was rising. The bull twisted up and to the right, throwing his head back. His cone-shaped horn snagged Victor’s vest. And, before his boots touched dirt, he was tossed high into the air. End-over-end, he toppled back to earth, landing in a heap under the bull’s pounding hooves.
Ruth screamed. Sidney clutched her hand tighter as her other hand clung to Markus’s arm. The crowd, still on their feet, gasped and cried out as they watched the young bull rider being trampled and gored.
The rodeo clowns were already in motion. Working as a team, two dashed up to the bull to distract him. One clown waved his yellow handkerchief in the bull’s face, darting in and out, getting perilously close to the animal’s thrashing horns. Another clown swatted the bull’s nose with his feathered cowboy hat, then sped away, inviting a chase. He diverted the bull’s attention from the downed rider, and the race was on. The third clown hovered protectively over Victor’s limp body until medics arrived.
The bull chased the two clowns to the wall, threatening them with his horns, while the clowns made flying leaps to the fence’s top rail. The arena crew threw open the end gates, and the bull spied his freedom. He exited the arena with a grand, majestic trot.
Medics raced to the arena and began ministering to the injured rider lying motionless in the dirt. The announcer, his voice solemn, asked for everyone’s prayers for Victor, the first rider to successfully complete eight seconds on Death Wish. The judges turned in their scores. When the scoreboard lit up with an 88, the crowd erupted with sustained applause that became a chant.
“Victor. Victor. Victor.”
Ruth remained in the stands, holding her breath—watching the quick hands of the paramedics—waiting for movement from her grandson. Two additional medics ran into the arena carrying a bright orange stretcher. Then, a motorized cart hurried the unconscious rider to a waiting ambulance that sped away, sirens blaring.
Still on their feet, the crowd continued chanting Victor’s name.
CHAPTER 15
Alpine
A swarm of friends gathered around Ruth in the Big Bend Regional Medical Center’s emergency room. The waiting area was congested with cowboys and cowgirls in dusty denims, and a collective of spur rowels clinked a tune on the linoleum floor. Rodeo clowns in their costumes hovered nearby—bull fighters with sad painted faces. Rescuing riders from under the hooves and horns of an angry animal was all in a day’s work. They took it personally if they didn’t get to the rider quickly enough. Friends tried to cheer them up with pats on the back and kind words. Medics who’d ru
shed Victor to the emergency room stayed until another call came in. Older friends who’d known Victor’s father crowded around, nodding solemnly to one another, sharing common expressions of disbelief, of “this can’t be happening again.”
They all knew the history. Some remembered firsthand, while for others, the story was an oft-repeated tale of how Victor’s father had been left in a permanent vegetative state in an eerily similar accident. On a cool autumn night, many years ago. In the same arena. Atop a bull with an unridden track record. Victor, a few months old at the time, had been too young to understand.
Victor’s mother wasn’t able to suffer the thought of being the young, vibrant wife of a paraplegic in a permanent vegetative state. She fled Alpine for Los Vegas, abandoning her husband and her baby boy. She left both to be diapered and cared for by Ruth.
“Can I get you some coffee, Ruth? Water? Anything?” Sidney sat close, holding Ruth’s hand.
“No. No, thank you. I’m fine…” Her words trailed away. Ruth squeezed Sidney’s hand, but her focus was somewhere off in the far distance.
Sidney spotted Markus who stood with Otto, the two in deep conversation a few feet away. She wondered what the two were speaking about so intently and privately, heads bent together. Maybe she should follow Ruth’s lead and learn to speak German.
The double doors separating the waiting room from the surgical suite swooshed open. The surgeon emerged. He was the same surgeon from twenty years earlier who had tried to put the pieces of Ruth’s son’s skull back together. He strode up to Ruth as an uneasy quiet settled over the waiting room. All ears listened. All eyes watched.
Ruth stood, dragging Sidney up with her. Markus and Otto came up behind them and offered hands on shoulders for support. Dr. Lavine, a weary look in his eyes, removed his signature skull and crossbones doo-rag from his bald head and swiped it over his lined and weathered face.
“Ruth.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to talk here, or in a private room?”
“Here. Victor’s friends need to know, too.”
“As you wish.” He cleared his throat. “I set the simple fracture to his left radial bone—the slightly smaller bone in the forearm. The compound fracture to his left ulna—the larger of the two bones in the forearm—was a bit more complicated, but I’m happy with the results. An abdominal ultrasound showed no internal injuries other than a bruised kidney, which we will monitor. Three deep lacerations to his head and face stitched up well. If the scars are bothersome, a consultation with a plastic surgeon can be arranged.”
At the mention of the injuries to his head, Ruth began to shake. “Is he…? Will he be…?”
Dr. Lavine paused. “Neurologically, the jury’s still out. He was responsive to stimuli before we put him under sedation, which is a good sign. Tomorrow—the next twelve to twenty-four hours—will reveal a lot.”
Ruth’s skin paled, her voice a whisper. “Here we are, twenty years later. First my son—now my grandson.”
“We go way back, Ruth. There’s no reason for me to be anything other than blunt, so I’m going to be blunt. Your grandson’s injures are severe. I’m not sure yet just how severe. But Victor stands a better chance of recovering from his injuries than his father stood. His skull isn’t caved in like Lawford’s was.”
Sidney gasped at the horrific description, her body shuddering at the image of a caved in skull. She wondered why these riders weren’t opting for helmets with facemasks, like other athletes of extreme sports seemed to be wearing. At the feel of Markus’s arm wrapping around her waist, she leaned into him for support.
“May I see him?” Ruth took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.
“He’s still in recovery. The nurse will come and get you when they’ve moved him to ICU. Only two visitors. I’m keeping him sedated and in a semicomatose state to allow his brain to rest, and to allow possible swelling to subside. I recommend after you see him, you go home and get some rest yourself.”
“Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”
“Want I should come with you?” Otto offered.
“Would you? Can you stay away from the restaurant for so long? I hate to ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask—I offered. Anyway, Dieter and Heidi can take care of things.”
“Sidney and I’ll head to the restaurant and lend a hand there. Is that okay with you, Sid?” Markus asked.
“Yes—yes, of course.” Sidney wrapped her arms around Ruth. “And, please let me know if I can help you in any way.”
Ruth squeezed Sidney’s arm and thanked her just as the ICU nurse stepped into the waiting room and motioned for her to follow. The crowd of Victor’s rodeo friends filtered out, leaving behind their well wishes and traces of arena dirt and cow manure. Boot prints trailed out of the exit door and disappeared into the darkness.
*****
It was near midnight when Markus and Sidney pulled into the parking lot of Edelweiss. The number of pickup trucks crowding the space out front indicated Heidi and Dieter would be in desperate need of a helping hand.
Markus let Rex out of the back seat. As he turned toward the building, he noticed a row of a dozen or more motorcycles parked along the building’s west wall next to the Biergarten. Custom bikes. Expensive looking. Tough looking. The kind that might belong to tough looking riders. A familiar alarm, soft, not too loud, plucked at his nerves.
Be alert, the alarm cautioned. He took note.
“Whatever happened to Victor’s father?” asked Sidney, stopping as they reached the porch of the restaurant. “Is Lawford still alive?”
“No. Otto said he lived for almost five years, if you can call that living. Ruth took care of him and Victor, with occasional in-home nursing help when Ruth’s husband, Silas, could afford it. But, he contracted pneumonia and never recovered.”
“How sad. Ruth’s amazing. So cheerful, even after all that.”
“Exactly.”
“And Ruth’s husband?”
“Died last year. He and Otto were fishing pals—really good buds. In fact, when Silas knew he was dying of cancer, he made Otto swear that he’d marry Ruth and look after her. Otto promised he would, so his friend ‘could go to his grave with an unburdened heart,’ quote-un-quote.”
“You’re making that up.” Sidney placed a palm against his chest, her eyes wide.
“I swear I’m not. Otto is a loyal friend until death. He was to my father, too, after they both emigrated here from Germany. That’s just the kind of man he is. Ruth doesn’t know about the promise made between friends, though. And, I don’t think Otto will marry her. He’s an eighty-four-year-old bachelor. But he will look after her, without a doubt.”
“Oh, my God! What a loving and romantic gesture on Silas’s part, to take care of his wife, even after he’s gone. And, Otto. He sounds like a very kindhearted person. I can tell he and Ruth are sweet on each other. I’m loving this story.”
“Sweet on each other?” Markus laughed as he opened the screened door. “Aren’t you the old fashioned, romantic one.”
“Sometimes.” Sidney smiled and shrugged, stepping inside the door Markus held open.
The lights had been lowered, and the volume of music raised to meet the expectations of the midnight crowd who packed the dining area. Even more people lined the bar and spilled over onto the dance floor. Those who couldn’t fit inside the building, or who simply preferred to sit under the stars, gathered on the patio of Otto’s Biergarten. The jukebox played the latest country songs while the band took a break, and couples vied for space on the sawdusted dance floor.
Markus caught Heidi’s attention and waved her over. “Did you get my message?”
“Ja. Thank you for calling. How is he?” Heidi set a customer’s drink on the bar and took another order.
“Out of surgery and in ICU. His prognosis is guarded. He’s lucky, though, that it wasn’t worse. Ruth and Otto will be on their way shortly. In the meantime, Sidney and I can help here. Put us to work.�
�
Heidi threw Markus a look of relief as she tossed him an order book. “Go to the patio. Please save me from them. An upcoming biker rally in New Mexico, and some on their way there are on our patio tonight.”
He caught the order book. “I can do that. Do you need help in the kitchen?” He wanted Sidney out of sight—not out in the public eye.
“Not right now,” said Heidi. “Aubrey just got here. I put her to business washing dishes.”
“Aubrey?” Sidney asked, the name sounding familiar.
“Victor’s girlfriend. The 2012 Women’s Barrel Racing Champion.” Markus shot her a sly grin. “She’s fast all right.”
“Ah, yes. I remember. You borrowed her letter jacket that chilly night in the barn.” Sidney gave Markus a penetrating look he had a difficult time interpreting. “If not the kitchen, Heidi, where can I be of most use?”
“Could you help Dieter at the bar? Pour wine? Open the beers? Make conversations?” Before Sidney could answer, Heidi rushed away.
Markus clamped a hand around Sidney’s arm. “You should be out of sight. Not out front.”
“Heidi said she needs me here. I’m bartending. I’ll see you later.” Sidney pulled away from his tight grip. She smiled over her shoulder and waved behind her head at Markus as she settled in behind the bar.
Resigned, Markus muttered under his breath. “At least you’ll be safer there than out on the patio.”
Markus considered asking Dieter to trade places and let him work with Sidney. For some reason, he was feeling extra protective. Nervous? He shook it off and hurried out to the Biergarten, order pad in hand.
The capacity crowd, a rowdy mix of locals and bikers, was restless. Thirsty. But most of all, impatient and unhappy to see Markus taking their orders instead of Heidi.
“Hey, where’s the beer wench?” A mustached man wearing black leathers from head to toe shouted above the music. “I want the beer girl wearing the dirndl serving my order.”
