Truths I Learned from Sam

by Kristin Butcher

  Up to this point I’ve been standing slightly behind Sam, but now he draws me up beside him. “This here is my niece, Dani,” he says. “Dani, this is Curtis Masters. He owns this fine establishment.”

  Curtis shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Dani.” Then he eyes Sam suspiciously. “Niece, huh? Since when? I’ve known you a long time, buddy, and you never once said anything about family.” Then he looks back at me. “She’s a pretty little thing though. Are you sure she’s related to you?”

  Sam lifts an eyebrow and clears his throat. “Williams Lake Rodeo’s coming up, and Dani could use some clothes. She’s got the boots, but that’s about it. Can you help us out?”

  Curtis calls to a woman standing at the cash register. “Miriam, come on over here.” When she arrives he introduces us. “This young lady is rodeo bound, and she wants to look the part. I’m sure you know what she needs.”

  Miriam nods and smiles. “I surely do. Follow me, Dani.”

  “How long do you reckon this’ll take?” Sam asks as he hands me his credit card.

  Miriam shrugs. “A half hour, give or take. Why don’t you and Curtis find yourselves some coffee and catch up on old times.” She gestures toward the front of the store. “There’s a restaurant across the street. Dani and I will have your money spent before you can order a refill.”

  When we’re done and Miriam is ringing everything in, I begin to wonder if we have spent all Sam’s money. There are three bags of clothes plus the hat I have on my head.

  “Wait,” I say as Miriam holds out my purchases. “I need one more thing.” I tear off across the store. “But don’t put this one on Sam’s card,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll pay cash.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I can feel the rodeo the second I step out of the truck. Not that I know what rodeo feels like or even that it has a feel, but I’m definitely sensing an atmosphere different from anything I’ve experienced before, so I’m thinking it has to be rodeo. The air is hot and saturated with hot dogs, onions, popcorn, dust, hay, horses, and sweat. It’s alive with sounds too — music, a tinny loudspeaker voice, the hum of the crowd, and every now and then shrill whistles and clapping.

  It’s already after six o’clock. Though Sam and I had planned to get to the stampede earlier, a last minute meeting delayed us. For someone who’s supposed to be retired, Sam has an awful lot of meetings. Not that I’m really complaining. It would have been cool to take in the rodeo’s opening day festivities, but since the stampede schedule is pretty much the same on all four days, I don’t think I’m really missing anything.

  “It’s not the biggest rodeo out there, but it’s a good one,” Sam says as we head across the parking lot toward the grandstand.

  A group of women carrying giant flags gallops past on horseback. The ground vibrates under my feet. I wave away the dust they have stirred up, but it doesn’t help. It’s already up my nose and in my mouth. Then there’s an eruption of cheers and applause as the horses burst through a narrow entrance into the arena.

  “Those are the Cariboo Cowgirls,” Sam says.

  “Who are the Cariboo Cowgirls?”

  “They’re sort of a drill team. Kind of like the RCMP’s Musical Ride.” Sam starts to jog across the roadway. “If we hustle our butts and get inside, you can see for yourself.”

  Though we barely run for thirty seconds, Sam is hacking his lungs out by the time we reach the grandstand.

  “Damn dust!” he chokes out between coughing spasms.

  Personally, I think it’s cigarettes — not dust — that’s responsible for his cough, but I don’t say so. Mom has convinced me to lay off Sam about his smoking.

  He flags down a vendor selling pop. “You want anything?” he asks.

  I nod. “A Coke would be good. Thanks.”

  With drinks in hand, we find a place to sit, and turn our attention to the action in the arena. The Cariboo Cowgirls have divided themselves into two groups, and they’re cantering in circles at either end of the arena. Then suddenly the circles unfurl into lines which begin galloping straight for one another. I think they’re going to collide, but instead, one line weaves itself seamlessly through the other, and the next thing I know, the horses have formed a moving figure eight. I am amazed at how the riders can wield those huge flags while manoeuvring their horses. They make what they’re doing look easy, but I know it’s not, and I cringe at the thought of attempting such a feat. I’d fall off my horse for sure. Probably stab myself with the flagpole too.

  At the end of the performance the drill team faces the grandstand and takes a bow. The audience shows its appreciation with a loud round of applause, prompting the Cariboo Cowgirls to do one last intricate formation before galloping off.

  As they ride away, there’s another burst of applause, which gradually peters out. The PA announcer uses this lull in the action to introduce the rodeo’s sponsors. I scan the arena, trying to pick out their logos on the fence circling the dirt oval.

  I turn to Sam. “When is Micah’s event?”

  He pulls a rolled-up program from his back pocket and hands it to me. “The rodeo events should be coming up pretty quick. I think saddle bronc riding is near the start.”

  Micah’s event is slated third, right after wild cow milking and bareback riding. Each of the twenty entrants gets one ride during the four days of the stampede. The officials keep track of every contestant’s score, and after the last round of competitors, the winners are announced.

  It’s just luck of the draw that Micah is riding on opening night. He is the last competitor in his group. I wonder if that’s good or bad. Does it help him to watch the other riders or does it just make him more nervous? I know it makes me nervous. I’m tight as a coiled spring, waiting for his name to be called, but there are four riders before him.

  “The horse is supposed to have the advantage,” Sam says as we wait for the event to begin. “So when the chute opens, the rider’s legs have to be above the horse’s shoulder. He has to stay in that position until the horse makes its first jump. That’s called marking out.”

  “Why do they use those funny little saddles?”

  “Those are made specially for bronc riding. The stirrups hang free, so the rider can swing his legs forward and back. If his foot comes out he’s disqualified.”

  “But there’s nothing to hang on to?”

  Sam smiles. “That’s the idea. Bronc riding is all about rhythm and balance.”

  “They should at least grab the reins with both hands or wrap them around their hand for a better grip.”

  This time Sam laughs. “They’d be disqualified if they did. And they can’t touch any part of the horse either except with their spurs.”

  I frown. “Isn’t that cruel?”

  Sam shakes his head. “No. The rowels — that’s those little spiked wheels on the back — are rounded off. They don’t hurt the horses.”

  “Why do the horses buck?”

  “It’s just their nature. Some horses are like that. They’re not wild. They just need to buck. You couldn’t break them if you tried. So they’re perfect for this event. They do it year in and year out — just like the cowboys who ride ’em.”

  I try to remember everything Sam has told me as I watch the riders take their turns. The very first competitor scores 81 points, and the crowd roars its approval.

  “That’s a decent ride,” Sam says. “But Harley’s been at this game a long time. He should be good.”

  The next competitor doesn’t stay on the required eight seconds and is disqualified. The one after that almost gets thrown over the horse’s head, and a unified gasp goes up from the crowd, but somehow the guy manages to hang on. Even so, his score is low. The fourth rider does better. He posts a 77.

  And then it’s Micah’s turn. I’m right there with him as he straddles the rails inside the chute and lowers himself onto the horse. You can tell the bronco wants to start bucking right then and there, but the chute doesn’t give it any room to move, a
nd there are cowboys at its head and rump, holding it steady. I can see Micah adjusting his grip on the reins.

  Then suddenly, the chute opens, and Micah and the bronco burst into the arena. The horse twists and kicks and bucks in an effort to throw Micah off. Micah’s body jerks every which way — like a boneless rag doll — but he stays on.

  “Hang on, Micah!” I yell. He loses his hat, but not his seat. “Hang on!” I holler again. How can eight seconds take so long?

  Finally, the buzzer sounds — not that it makes any difference to the horse. It keeps right on bucking. Micah grabs onto the saddle with both hands, and a couple of cowboys on horseback move in to help him off.

  The crowd claps and whistles, but no one is cheering more enthusiastically than me. I’m hopping and yahooing all over the place.

  Finally, I grin and wrap my arms around Sam. “He did it!”

  He hugs me back. “He surely did. And it was a pretty good ride too.”

  Micah collects his hat and smacks it against his chaps to remove the dust. Then he smiles up at the grandstand and waves his appreciation to the spectators. I know he doesn’t see me, but my heart skips a couple of beats anyway.

  He scores a 73, and according to Sam, that’s very respectable.

  Micah said he’d find me after his ride, so while I wait, I watch the next event. It’s tie-down roping, and I have mixed feelings about it. I’m impressed with how the cowboys and horses work together, but at the same time I feel bad for the little calves and the way they get lassoed, thrown down, and tied up. When I tell this to Sam, he laughs at me.

  Now I’m totally on the calves’ side. As I silently cheer them on, my view is suddenly blocked by a couple of women sidling past to find seats. I slide my legs sideways to let them get by. The thing is they don’t move on. Instead, they stop right in front of me. What the —

  “Hello, Sam,” one says. “I should have guessed you’d be here.” I glance up at the woman. She looks to be about my mom’s age and she’s pretty.

  Sam stands up and tips his hat. “Howdy. What brings you here?”

  The woman smiles and bobs her head toward the arena. “The rodeo, of course. You can’t live in the Cariboo and not be a rodeo fan.”

  Sam nods. “That’s true.” He tips his hat again. “You have a good time now.”

  “Thanks. You, too,” she says. Then she and her friend continue on their way.

  “Who was that?” I ask when the women are out of earshot. “A girlfriend?”

  Sam doesn’t even bother to look at me. “Nope.”

  “Well, maybe she should be,” I tell him. “She’s very attractive and just about the right age for you, I’d say. Why don’t you ask her out?”

  Though Sam continues to watch the calf roping, his jaw tightens. “Why don’t you watch the rodeo?”

  “I’m serious, Sam. That woman likes you. I can tell. Who is she?”

  Sam heaves a heavy sigh. “She’s just someone I know.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Finally, he looks at me. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  I grin at him victoriously. “No.”

  He shakes his head and sighs again. “Her name is Maggie MacLeod.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She’s my doctor.”

  All thoughts of matchmaking fly from my head, and I’m instantly concerned. “Are you sick?”

  “Because I have a doctor?” Sam snorts. “Don’t you have one?”

  “Of course I do, but —”

  “Well, so do I, and Dr. MacLeod is it.”

  “But she’s a woman.”

  His eyebrows dive into one another, and his fore-head buckles. “What’s that got to do with anything? There are women doctors out there, and believe it or not, they’re just as qualified as the male ones.”

  “I know that. You just don’t strike me as a lady-doctor kind of guy.”

  “Well, that just shows you don’t know everything. Now watch the rodeo.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Saturday is party day at the stampede. It begins with breakfast and ends with a barn dance that doesn’t wind down until two in the morning. I don’t want to miss a second of the action, so Sam and I are on the road before the sun is barely up. I’m wearing my best new western outfit, and though Sam says it needs some dusting up, I think it’s fine. As for Sam, he looks very handsome — still a genuine cowboy through and through, but all spruced up in his new white shirt from the store in Kamloops. When I give it to him, I can tell he’s surprised and pleased. It makes my heart swell so much it’s a wonder I don’t pop the buttons off my own shirt.

  The stampede parking lot is already filling up when we arrive. It would appear we’re not the only ones getting an early start. We follow the bacon and maple syrup smells to the concession area and join the lineup of hungry rodeo-goers.

  My stomach has been growling for a good half hour already, and I heap my plate with scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage, and pancakes. But my eyes are bigger than my stomach, and three-quarters of the way through the meal, I’m done.

  “I can’t eat another bite,” I groan and push the food away.

  Sam stabs a sausage I’ve left behind and shoves it into his mouth. He washes it down with coffee. “No sense wasting perfectly good food,” he says. “There are people starving all over the world, you know.”

  “And you cleaning my plate helps them how?”

  “Don’t get sassy with your elders,” he rebukes gruffly. He’s trying to look stern, but his moustache is quivering, and I’m not fooled.

  We spend the morning wandering the grounds and jawing — Sam’s word, not mine — with every second person we meet. Sam isn’t kidding when he says he knows a lot of people at the stampede. After a while I give up trying to remember names.

  At noon, tantalizing barbecue smells lead us to a grilling area behind the grandstand. I’ve walked off my breakfast, and I’m ready to eat again. I’m thinking it’s a good thing I’m not on the rodeo circuit. If I was exposed to food like this on a regular basis, I’d be two hundred pounds after one season.

  I watch Sam toss back a couple of burgers.

  “How can you eat so much and stay so skinny?” I ask.

  “Hole in my foot,” he says. Then he lifts his foot to show me the bottom of his boot.

  There is a hole in it. The start of one anyway. That cracks me up, and I snort with laughter, which makes Sam laugh too.

  At one o’clock the rodeo events begin, and to my surprise, Micah is in the grandstand, waiting for us.

  “I thought you had to work,” I say as I plant myself next to him.

  He takes my hand and holds it in both of his. “My dad gave me the afternoon off.”

  I don’t even try to hide how happy that makes me. The day just keeps getting better and better.

  The rodeo events take up most of the afternoon, and then it’s time to eat again.

  After supper, Sam sags against his chair back and rubs his eyes. “I am plum tuckered out,” he sighs. “Not as young as I used to be, I guess.”

  “That’s not weariness you’re feeling,” I laugh. “It’s your body working overtime to digest everything you’ve eaten today.”

  “You should talk!” he retorts. Then he smiles and shakes his head. “I wish it was that, but it isn’t. I’m just plain whooped — like a horse that’s been ridden too hard.” He stands up. “It’s time for this cowboy to hit the road. I need my bed.”

  I have an instant of panic. I don’t want to leave the stampede yet. But before I can plead my case, he adds, “Micah, can I ask you to see Dani home?”

  Micah nods. “Sure thing. I’d be happy to.”

  Sam slaps him on the back. “Thank you muchly.” Then he kisses the top of my head. “And you behave yourself, you hear? I’ll try to remember not to lock you out.”

  After he’s gone, I say to Micah, “I wonder why Sam’s so tired. We haven’t done anything today but walk around and eat.�
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  Micah snickers.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  His face splits into a huge grin. “You. Sometimes you are so stunned.”

  I feel my spine stiffen. “I am not.”

  “Oh, yeah, you are. Sam isn’t tired. He just wants to give us some time together — alone.” He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully. “So now that he has, let’s not waste it.”

  ———

  It’s almost two in the morning when Micah drops me back at the trailer. He waits until I am safely inside before driving away. I leave the outside light on until his tail lights have disappeared in the trees.

  Through the closed bedroom door, I can hear Sam snoring, and I wonder if Micah was wrong, and Sam really was tired. I slip quietly into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Then I pad down the hall to my room. I’m so exhausted I barely get my clothes off before I’m dead asleep.

  ———

  It’s nearly eleven o’clock when I open my eyes. Even so, I’m up before Sam, and that never happens. At first, I think he must have gone out somewhere, but there’s no coffee brewed, and his bedroom door is still shut.

  I make the coffee and then knock softly on his door.

  “Sam?” I call quietly.

  There’s a groggy groan.

  “Sam?” I say again. “Are you awake?”

  “I am now,” he mutters.

  “Sorry,” I say to the door. “I just made coffee. You want some?”

  There’s a long pause. Finally, he says, “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  A few minutes turns into almost half an hour, and I have bacon and French toast cooked before he makes an appearance. He pours himself a coffee and drops down onto a chair.

  He rubs his hands over his face and groans through his fingers. “I swear I have the mother of all hangovers. Only problem is I didn’t have the pleasure of getting drunk to deserve it.”

  He does look pretty rough.

  “You’re not feeling well?” I venture tentatively. “Would you like some breakfast?”