by Quint, Suzie
And then she got caught up in this music. Her daddy’s voice sang a song she’d never heard before. The lyrics told of a dream that wouldn’t let him rest, a dream that took him away from the ones he loved. He sang of all the things he was missing back at home. He sang of the division in his soul. He sang of wanting two things that couldn’t coexist and the loneliness of the road.
Georgia’s heart broke for him. It broke for herself as well.
After the song ended, she realized her daddy could have lived both dreams if her mama had been a different kind of woman.
She didn’t want to be her mama. She didn’t want to make Sol choose the way her daddy’d had to.
###
Damn, Sol thought when he found out he’d drawn Colonel Mustard for the short round. Just when things had started looking up.
He’d scored eighty-four on an Angus-Brahma cross whose bucking style suited his in the first round. A good enough score to put him in position to win this event if he had a solid ride in the second round. His history with Colonel Mustard, however, wasn’t promising.
“I’m quitting,” Sol told Terry as he fastened his chaps in the locker room. Even here, they could hear the muffled drone of the rodeo announcer. The calf roping had just started.
“Quitting? You made the prettiest ride in the long round that I’ve seen out of you in a while. Why would you quit now?”
“Just am,” Sol said. “This is my last round-up.”
Terry shot him a long, hard look. “Is this about drawing Colonel Mustard?”
“It’s got nothin’ to do with the bulls. It’s time, that’s all.” It was too much to hope that his buddy wouldn’t give him grief over this.
Terry snorted and wound tape around his hand to protect it from injuries. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
They both had. Hundreds of time. Some cowboys actually went home. Sat out the rest of the season. A few stayed away. Most showed back up when the new season started. Cowboys were like smokers that way. Most of them had to quit several times before it actually stuck.
“You ain’t heard it from me before,” Sol said.
“You’re right.” Terry eyed Sol. “So why now?”
Sol had been down too many roads with Terry not to at least try to explain. “I gotta get serious about life. Find my place on the ranch. I gotta be Eden’s daddy.” He couldn’t lose her the way he’d lost Georgia. “Zach wants help with the breeding program.” He huffed out a deep breath. “And I ain’t gettin’ any younger.”
“Yeah,” Terry muttered, sounding a touch grouchy. “None of us are.”
Sol attributed his grumpiness to the presence of Molly, Terry’s newly minted fiancée, who was in the stands. The wedding was slated for December, after rodeo season.
Smart girl, Sol thought. If she couldn’t get Terry to quit, at least he’d be home for their anniversaries. However many of them she hung on for.
###
Thanks to an accident on the freeway that had tied up traffic for hours, when Georgia finally pulled into Mesquite, she was worried that it was all over. Coward that she was, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or grateful when the ticket seller told her the short round was coming up.
In other places, the rodeo came to town once a year. In Mesquite, since 1958, every Friday and Saturday night through the summer was rodeo night. Most places couldn’t have sustained the level of interest necessary to keep the weekly rodeos profitable in an arena with a capacity of six thousand, but this was Texas, and Texans loved rodeo the way NASCAR fans loved car crashes.
The climate-controlled arena was a long rectangle with the entrance for the timed events at one end and the chutes for the bucking events at the other. Georgia considered spending the sixty bucks for club seating. She needed to face what Sol did, to accept it, maybe even embrace it, if she wanted to be with him. If she couldn’t see it as anything but torture, a trial to be gotten through, they had no chance of being happy together.
Watching from club seating right by the chutes was the most difficult test she could devise, but sixty dollars to watch a single event—in truth, a single ride—was outrageously expensive. And if Sol wasn’t riding or had gotten bucked off in the long round, it would be money wasted. Besides, she didn’t want to be where he might look up and see her. Especially if she failed the test. So instead, she paid thirty dollars for the next section up.
When she found her seat, it was closer to the action than she’d thought it would be. A hundred miles closer than she wished it were, if she wanted to be honest. From there, she’d be able to see every excruciating detail.
Excruciating. Now there was a word that described her expectations perfectly.
Stop it. She couldn’t think that way, or she’d never get through this.
Georgia closed her eyes. Could she watch Sol ride without feeling like she was on the verge of throwing up? How many times had he gotten on the back of a bull? Hundreds, easily. Thousands? Probably.
He’d ridden professionally for twelve years. If she considered only that—leaving out the high school rodeoing and the screwing around with bulls on the ranch—and calculated two bulls a week, that was 104 a year. Some weeks would have been more—three or four. The week of July Fourth—what rodeo people called Cowboy Christmas because of the number of rodeos—there would have been a lot more. But there were also weeks, even months, when he hadn’t ridden at all because of injuries or in that short gap between seasons.
So an average of two bulls a week, Georgia decided, knowing she was probably erring on the conservative side. Some quick some mental math gave her a total of 1,248.
She hadn’t seen even a tenth of his rides.
Even so, she’d seen him injured. Concussions, sprains, broken bones. But he hadn’t died. And he won’t die tonight, her logic argued.
Her logic wasn’t completely convincing, but her stomach felt less knotted. She could do this. She could watch him ride without her world collapsing around her. She pretended to believe that right up until the first bull left its chute and bucked the rider off. Then all her anxiety came flooding back.
The rider picked himself up and waved at the crowd.
Relief washed through her, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the adrenaline that had flooded her bloodstream the second the chute had opened.
She took a couple of measured breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth, as she listened to the announcer sum up the disappointing ride.
One down and . . . how many to go?
She shut her eyes and tried to find a happy place inside her head. The crowd around her buzzed while they waited for the next ride. With a little effort, she throttled it back until it became white noise.
This wasn’t so bad.
The announcer started talking about the second pairing of bull and rider, but she didn’t let herself register the words.
This was almost tolerable.
Then the noise from the crowd spiked.
I should open my eyes. But it was so much better this way, so she didn’t. She kept them closed for the next one, too. By the fourth ride, she’d learned to interpret the sounds.
The crowd got louder the longer the rider stayed aboard. The quality of the noise altering when the rider dismounted, changing from encouraging yells to appreciative noises if he made the buzzer. If he bucked off, there was a slight hitch followed by a rapid drop in volume that quickly stabilized into a contented drone when he picked himself up.
The crowd would let her know if something went badly wrong. There’d be a collective gasp, some prayerful “oh my Gods,” and a tension-filled hush. None of the rides induced those sounds.
Once she had it worked out, she figured out it was safe to open her eyes, but it was better if she didn’t. Maybe it was cheating, but staying calm was easier if she didn’t watch.
When the announcer said Terry’s name, she squeezed her eyes tighter, resisting the urge to peek because if Terry was riding, Sol would be hanging over the chute, pulling his rope. She s
hoved Sol out of her head, though he seemed reluctant to go, and focused on Terry. Would it make a difference that she knew and liked Terry?
Amazingly, it didn’t. She was too focused on interpreting the crowd noises to actually visualize what was happening with the bull. What a relief. This was almost easy.
After one more ride, she heard, “. . . Sol McKnight on Colonel Mustard,” and her heart started pounding. Something about the bull’s name made her palms sweat.
None of the other bull names had sounded familiar, so why did that one? Bulls developed followings just like the cowboys did, but she avoided rodeo news. She was still listening with half an ear, so when the announcer commented that Sol had met up with this bull before, right there in this same arena, the memory dropped into place.
She’d watched him get bounced off this bull, and the result had been a concussion. Somehow, she’d ended up taking him home with her to watch over him for those first crucial hours. That had been an interesting night, but what she remembered so vividly now was the sight of Sol on the ground, curling into a ball as the bull—the one Sol was about to ride again—went after him.
Georgia might have worked herself into a state if she’d had more time to think about it, but from the crowd noises, she knew the chute gate had opened and the ride begun. She squeezed her eyes tighter. When the buzzer sounded and the crowd cheered, she was stunned. The ride had felt like it lasted . . . eight seconds. Eight seconds instead of the usual eight years.
She opened her eyes. Sol slapped at his jeans, beating out the dirt, as he walked from the ring, but the bounce in his step told her how pleased he was. Moments later, his score was announced.
Ninety points was a great score in bull riding—impossible to achieve if the bull didn’t do his part—and Sol had scored ninety-four.
Pride tightened her chest and filled her eyes with moisture. He really was good at this. She took a deep breath and blinked back the unshed tears. It had been too long since she’d felt this way about Sol.
Chapter Thirty
The crowd was packed three deep at the bar with rodeo cowboys and buckle bunnies who needed something cold and wet to celebrate with. Everyone was yelling, trying to be heard over the country music blasting from the stage off to the right. Tonight, Sol’s spirits were so high, he didn’t even mind being sardined in the middle of the noise and the bodies.
“Hey, man, good ride,” one of the cocky bastards who’d called him and Terry old men at the secretary’s office yelled into his ear. Sol found the young cowboy’s words especially gratifying since the cowboy had landed on his butt only three seconds into his ride.
“Thanks,” Sol yelled back. “I owe it all to a diet of Rocky Mountain oysters and beer.”
The cowboy laughed as he plunged into the crowd behind Sol.
“Hey, Sol! I got us beers!” Terry had turned to fight his way free, three Lone Star long necks held high to keep the ambrosia from spilling as thirsty patrons jostled for his spot at the bar.
Tables were in short supply, and Terry’s future missus hadn’t emerged from the ladies’ room yet. They found a wall that looked in need of two cowboys to hold it up as far from the band as they could get. Sol took a long pull on his beer. It tasted better than any beer he’d drunk in at least a couple of years, the same way his ride tonight had been sweeter for how long he’d been waiting for it.
For the first time, he’d stayed on that son of a bitch Colonel Mustard until he was ready to get off. And he hadn’t just ridden him; he’d ridden him with style to a score of ninety-four, cinching first place.
Maybe he wasn’t too old or broken down for the sport he loved. And he did love it. That moment of triumph in the arena—that perfect moment when he’d seen his score—was magic, a joy so pure, it felt almost holy.
Terry grinned broadly then leaned in close to Sol to be heard. “You still quitting?”
The words hell no leaped to Sol’s tongue, but he caught them just in time. He’d said he would, and he’d meant it. His brain still understood why he’d said it. He knew the frustration and futility would come back all too soon, maybe even after his next ride. It was all still there inside him. He understood that, but at the moment, he couldn’t even imagine feeling it. Not with all the adrenaline of a great ride and taking first place coursing through him.
So was he still quitting?
“I don’t know,” he yelled back. “Ask me tomorrow.”
Three feet away, the tightly packed crowd ejected all five-foot-nothing of Terry’s woman. Molly’s short, dark hair, usually smoothed in a short pageboy style, was mussed from navigating the room. She took a half step toward them, turned, and walloped the grinning cowboy behind her with her purse. “Watch those hands, Bubba, or you’ll be a steer when you get on your next bull.”
Terry pushed the beers he was holding at Sol as he shoved himself off the wall. Sol barely got his hands around the bottle necks before Terry reached for Molly.
“Hold on, dumplin’. You don’t need to be causing mayhem tonight.”
Molly glared into the crowd as Terry drew her back to the wall with him. When he dropped a kiss on his pixie-sized woman, she seemed to forget about the handsy cowboy and leaned back, sandwiching him between her and the wall.
Sol stared at the seething mass of bodies. The music’s volume built a cocoon around Terry and Molly, excluding Sol from their conversation. In the room full of rowdy, partying people, he couldn’t help feeling isolated.
If Zach had come with them, instead of heading for the motel, Sol would at least have had a wingman, but his brother acted like an old, married man these days; without his wife there to dance with, he didn’t find bars interesting anymore.
Dancing, yeah, that would help. Sol looked around. There were plenty of buckle bunnies who’d be happy to dance with him, but he didn’t really enjoy dancing when it was this packed.
Ten years ago, he’d thought crowded and loud was how a bar was supposed to be. When had that changed?
He wasn’t really looking for anyone as he watched the crowd. Out in the middle of that sea of people, a white cowboy hat bobbed toward the bar. It reminded him of the one Georgia wore when she was out on the town. His heart pinched a little. He glanced at Terry and Molly. With Molly’s back pressed against Terry’s front, his lips whispering in her ear, they were practically melded into one body.
If Georgia were here, he could hold her like that. The packed bar would be all the excuse he’d need.
Less than a minute later, the white hat bobbed through the crowd again. Sol leaned a little, trying, for no particular reason—because after all, he knew it wasn’t Georgia—to see who was under it, but one cowboy after another blocked his view. The hat disappeared toward the restrooms.
He’d nearly forgotten about it when the hat appeared again. This time, it was closer to the edge of the crowd, and he caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair. The band started playing Chris Ledoux’s Hooked on an Eight Second Ride. The noise level went through the roof as every cowboy in the place whooped, and Sol lost sight of the white hat.
Two nearby cowboys distracted him further when they started swing dancing together. One nice thing about bull riders. Nothing threatened their masculinity.
And then Georgia was there, standing in front of him, and Sol’s world went sideways.
###
She’d found him. That small miracle had been in serious doubt since she’d stayed in her seat, sorting through her emotions, until most of the other spectators had left the arena. By the time she’d found one of the rodeo staff to ask, Sol and Zach had both vanished. Luckily, the arena employee had suggested a few of the more likely watering holes, which had saved her hours of looking.
She’d thought about calling his cell phone, but she needed to get this right. For that, she needed to see his face and read his body language.
And there was one other reason. One she’d barely let herself consider.
Buckle bunnies loved bull riders, especially when
they won. Sol could easily be with a woman. If she caught him with one, she’d feel like a fool. And if he managed to hide it, somehow that felt even worse. As if not knowing made her an even bigger fool. An unwitting fool.
It was better to know, so calling Sol had been her choice of last resort.
Instead, she’d cruised the parking lots until she found Terry’s pickup with its My Other Ride Is a Bull bumper sticker, knowing, if Sol was out on the town, he was with Terry.
And here he was, looking at her as if she’d been conjured by a magician.
His lips moved, shaping her name, but she couldn’t hear it over the music, nor whatever he said a second later. It was probably something like, What are you doing here?
“Can we talk?” she yelled, knowing couldn’t hear her any better than she’d heard him.
He frowned and tilted his head then grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. A moment later, his hand found hers, and he started threading his way through the crowd, towing her behind him.
The crush didn’t let up until they were outside and stepped away from the door. It wasn’t as stuffy as the bar had been, but it was still August, and it was still Texas, so the air was warm and heavy with humidity. They ended their sojourn at the corner of the building.
“What’s going on?” Sol asked as he pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “Is Eden all right?” Before she could answer, he shoved his phone back in his pocket. “It’s not Eden, is it? Someone would have called me.”
“It’s not Eden,” Georgia said. She’d thought of a hundred different ways to open this conversation while she’d hunted for him, but they all deserted her now.
“What are you doing here, then?” Sol asked.
Georgia licked her lips. How did she start? She leaned against the building. Having something solid against her back felt reassuring, as though it wouldn’t let her run. “I never told you how I felt about you riding bulls.”
Sol blinked a couple of times in rapid succession. “I thought you had. You don’t want Eden worrying about me getting hurt.”
