by Roxie Noir
I squeeze her hand and then rush down the stands before she can protest. Both men look up. I recognize one as Wayne, and the other as Travis, one of the other organizers.
Wayne frowns.
“Jackson, what are you doing here? This is closed off.”
I smile and saunter down the last few steps, even though my pulse is racing.
“Sorry,” I say. “I come here sometimes to get away from everything and think.”
Travis looks me over head to toe, then shrugs. Wayne looks annoyed, but not like he’s all that upset.
“We were just checking that the barriers are all up to code,” he says. “You remember that incident in Tulsa a few years ago. Better safe than sorry.”
A barrier failed when a bull knocked into it, and a kid on the other side broke his leg. His parents sued the Tulsa Fair and won a lot of money.
“They looked pretty solid today,” I say.
They both nod, but Wayne still looks worried. I realize again how seriously he takes this, and how badly he wants Pioneer Days Rodeo to make the leap to the big time. How much he wants ESPN and SportsCenter to care about rodeo.
If he found out I was just canoodling with the photographer and making his chances at all that worse, he might kill me.
“I’ll help you two check,” I say.
We split off the arena into thirds, and I walk my third, shaking and kicking and rattling the barrier the best I can. I’m not worried about that. I know that under his Good Old Country Boy demeanor, Wayne’s ferociously driven and detail-oriented, not the kind of guy who’d let something like this slip.
Every thirty seconds, I glance up at the stands. I can’t see a thing, but I can’t get my mind off of her, up there, watching me. It feels like tiny sparks are skipping along my nerves, and I’m all keyed up. I want to get out of there so Mae can leave, because if I’m nervous, she must be dying.
Finally we meet in the middle of the arena.
“I do believe we’re good,” Travis says, his hands on his hips, his belly just sticking out past his belt buckle.
Wayne nods.
“Thanks for indulging me,” he says. Then he looks at me. “You too, Jackson.”
“I’ve got a vested interest in not plowing through a barrier,” I say.
“You feeling good about tomorrow?” he asks.
My eyes flick up to the stands, where I know Mae’s watching us.
“Yessir,” I say.
“When’s the bull drawing?” asks Travis.
“Twelve-fifteen tomorrow,” Wayne answers before I can.
Each rider gets assigned a bull by lottery, so I can only hope for the roughest bulls. If I get a cupcake like Screaming Heat, it’s harder to win.
“You hoping for Crash?” Travis asks.
“You know it,” I say. “Go big or go home.”
Travis just shakes his head. He used to ride — most of the organizers did — so he knows what I’m hoping to get myself into.
“Good luck, son,” he says. “You’re gonna need it.”
We leave the arena, and I go out last. Just before I leave, I look at the stands one more time, give Mae a thumbs up, then hit the light switch. The arena goes dark again.
Pioneer Days has a couple attractions besides the rodeo. One is the carnival, which runs all day and into the night. It’s got all the usual rides, games, and attractions: you can eat funnel cake and then spin around on the Scrambler until you puke, then try to toss rings onto a bottle and win a giant stuffed bear.
It’s got a fair, with prize-winning pies, tomatoes, chickens. All that 4H stuff.
And it’s got Wild West Town. I don’t know where they get this stuff, but it’s about two blocks of fake wooden storefronts, hitching posts, saloon doors, and all. Every day at noon they act out a gunfight. People eat it up.
The bull riding lottery is right after the gunfight. I guess they did it that way to get a crowd, but it just means that I have to stand around in a crowd of tourists while two actors point fake guns at each other.
I keep looking through the crowd for Mae, because this seems like the kind of thing she’d photograph, but maybe not. I just want to know she snuck out okay and didn’t get caught.
That’s the worst reason for her not to be here: Bruce found out she’d snuck off with me, told her bosses, and they pulled her from the job. I tell myself that can’t possibly have happened.
There’s some plot to the gunfight — someone’s the Sheriff, someone’s the outlaw, there’s a twist in the middle when a woman comes in and hollers at them to stop — but I’m not paying attention until it’s over and someone’s lying in the street, pretending to be dead.
“All right!” an announcer says, his deep voice booming over the PA. “If y’all could just step into the Gold Strike Amphitheater over here, we’ll be doing the bull selection right now.”
I head over, trying to look casual. Before I know it, Raylan’s fallen in next to me, and he nods. I nod back.
“Who you hoping for?” he asks.
“You know who,” I say.
Raylan laughs.
“Of course you are,” he says. “I’m going light. Got my fingers crossed for Train Robbery. If I can get above a seventy average, I make the finals.”
I don’t need to ride Crash Junction to make the finals, but I want to. He’s the biggest and the baddest, and I want to conquer him. It’s that simple.
“I think you got this in the bag,” I tell Raylan. “Me and you are gonna be sipping whiskey in the high-stakes poker room this time next month.”
He laughs.
“So I can lose all my money the minute I make it?” he asks. “You know what my father always said? ‘Son, the best way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it in your back pocket.’”
“Smart man,” I say.
It’s like the other night never happened. That’s how our friendship goes: sometimes we have to rough each other up a little, but it’s the nature of the beast. Can’t be around someone too long without wanting to do that.
“I ought to listen to him sometimes,” Raylan says, and then Wayne’s on the wooden stage, getting everyone’s attention.
Raylan and I are standing in the back. Up front, they bring out a bulletin board on wheels and a folding tables three boxes with holes cut in the top. The bulletin has the bull riders’ names in a line down the left, with three slots to the right of each.
Pioneer Days isn’t exactly a high-tech enterprise.
“Ladies and gentlemen, now begins the bull selection for Pioneer Days bull riding!” Wayne says, trying to stir up as much enthusiasm as he can. He gets polite applause.
“Well, what do you say we get this started?” he asks rhetorically.
Across the amphitheater, I see Bruce walk in. Mae follows a second later, and my heart does a flip in my chest.
At the very least, she got back to the motel without getting caught. Her eyes rake the crowd, and when they find me, we look at each other for a long moment before she looks away.
“Day one,” Wayne says. “First cowboy is Trevor Anderson, and he’ll be riding...”
Wayne reaches into the cardboard box and swishes his hand around.
“...Muscle Grunt!”
He pins a piece of paper that says MUSCLE GRUNT onto the board next to Trevor’s name and moves on to the next one. I’m a ways down the list, but I pay attention anyway. Someone else gets Crash Junction, but then Wayne calls out my name.
“Jackson Cody,” he says, dramatically swishing his hand in the box again. “...Train Robbery!”
I nod, but on the inside I’m pumped. Train Robbery’s good, and besides, I don’t want to ride Crash Junction first and get all tuckered out for the next two days. I’d rather save the best for last.
On day two, I get Mr. Torque, who’s okay but nothing special. I might have to lean into him some with the spurs to really get his blood up, but that’s okay.
I’m being optimistic, of course. The very best rid
ers get thrown more often than not, and I know it’s more than likely that either Train Robbery or Mr. Torque is gonna get the best of me. I just get up and get back on the next day.
The bull selection for day three feels like it takes about a year. Time crawls at a snail’s pace, and with every name they call, I’m afraid that Crash Junction’s gonna go to someone else and I won’t get my chance.
That is, right up until Wayne calls my name. He reaches into the box and looks at the slip of paper for a moment before looking up and right at me.
“...Crash Junction!” he says.
I let out a whoop, and next to me, Raylan laughs.
“Never seen someone so excited to get his ass handed to him,” he says.
“Just you wait,” I say, grinning as Wayne pins Crash Junction next to my name on the board for day three.
On the other side of the small amphitheater, I see a camera move. As she lowers it, Mae smiles at me for half a second, and then looks away.
I crack my knuckles, the adrenaline already spiking through me the way it always does. There’s five hours until the rodeo starts and I ride Train Robbery, Mae watching.
Bring it the fuck on. I got this.
The hours crawl by, then fly, then crawl again. It feels like a high schooler sings the National Anthem for two hours, but the first block of bull riding is over in thirty seconds. I watch as much of it as I can, hanging over the barriers, looking at how each bull moves and kicks and spins, judging how each rider handles them. It’s good practice to always watch the competition.
Across the arena in a gated-off press area are Mae and Bruce. She’s snapping away, talking to him, and he’s taking notes. I keep thinking that she’s looking over at me, but it could be my imagination. Even as I’m watching, I can’t get that kiss out of my mind. Her hands in my hair. The feel of her heartbeat underneath my lips when I kissed her neck.
Then there’s just a couple of rides until it’s my turn, so I jump down to get ready. I put on the protective vest that keeps me from getting gored. I’ve got my glove and my chaps and my hat, and then I’m just hanging around the bull pens, jumping out of my skin from nerves.
I watch another cowboy get on his bull, wrap the rope around his hand. He nods and the gate man swings the gate outward and the bull launches himself out of it, kicking and bucking and spinning. The cowboy’s off in six seconds and he lands in the dirt and rolls.
The rodeo clowns come in and chase the bull toward the exit chute. Once the rider’s off, the bulls are more easygoing, and this one trots to the exit chute without causing any trouble.
The cowboy stands up, grabs a gate, and climbs over, and then it’s my turn.
I’ve done this a thousand times, but it’s impossible not to feel like my whole body’s on fire with anticipation and nerves. Eight seconds isn’t long, but it’s long enough.
I jump onto Train Robbery’s back, and even in the confined space of the bucking chute, he’s not happy about it. The handlers hold him steady for a moment while I get situated, wrap the bull rope around my gloved hand, and take a deep breath.
In that last moment, I find the blond head above the camera, and I smile at Mae.
Then I nod at the gate man. He opens the chute, and Train Robbery flies out.
13
Mae
When I watch bull riding, I feel like I’m watching a horror movie. Roping events aren’t that bad: some men ride horses, tie up cows, and then let them go. That I can handle, no problem.
But bull riding? I want to watch through my fingers. Every time someone falls off, I gasp despite myself.
Even when a rider can stay on for the full eight seconds, there’s no graceful dismount from a bull. It’s not like the bull stops and someone comes up to it with a stepladder.
The rider still has to jump off a bucking bull and land in the sand. Every time someone gets up, I take a deep breath of relief, because right now all I want is to not watch someone die today.
Of course, I’m the one person in this arena who can’t close her eyes. I photograph rider after rider, cringing every single time. Even the rides that go well look painful.
Then the announcer calls Jackson’s name, and I start to sweat. Next to me, Bruce leans forward onto the barrier, and I look down into the viewfinder of my tripod-mounted camera.
Jackson jumps onto the bull he drew — Train Robbery — and even in the chute, the bull’s not happy about it. My heart thumps in my chest and my mouth goes dry.
He’ll be fine, I think. This is what he does.
I watch him situate himself as the crowd cheers. There’s a knot of women down in the front of the stands holding up signs and screaming for him, and I grit my teeth and ignore them, but the sound of cheering and screaming and people stomping in the metal stands is almost deafening.
Nobody got this excited about the last cowboy.
At the last second, Jackson looks over at me, and I think he smiles. My heart clenches and I break out into a cold sweat.
Please, God, I think, and then he nods at the gate man and the bull bursts out of the gate.
Train Robbery leaps forward, kicking his back legs into the air, and Jackson lurches forward over the bull’s shoulders but keeps his seat, arm waving in the air. My heart is in my stomach and I can’t watch, so I look through the viewfinder. Anything to make this seem less real.
I don’t think I breathe. I keep hitting the shutter, but I have no idea what I’m capturing. My eyes are just on the clock at the other end of the arena, counting up to eight as Train Robbery bucks and twists and spins and somehow, miraculously, Jackson stays on and in control.
A buzzer sounds. Train Robbery doesn’t stop bucking, but after another second, Jackson flies off, like he’s half jumping and half thrown. He lands hard on his side and I tighten my fists against my palms, but then he rolls over and runs a couple of steps.
The rodeo clowns are already shooing Train Robbery to the exit chute, and the big bull is lumbering along. He doesn’t look worse than annoyed.
The crowd goes crazy, cheering and stomping and screaming, and I finally take a deep breath, unclenching my fists.
“A qualified ride from Jackson Cody!” the announcer shouts. There’s more screaming, more stomping.
Jackson picks his hat up from where it fell and puts it back on his head.
He turns toward me, breathing hard.
Our eyes lock. Even halfway across the arena, I feel like his gaze is burning into me, scorching me from inside out. I swallow hard.
He touches the brim of his hat, just barely tipping it, our eyes locked the whole time. I think I actually go weak in the knees. It ignites something inside me the size of a bonfire, and I want him right now, so bad it hurts.
Then he turns and pulls himself over the gate, disappearing into the pens. The next rider’s announced.
I grit my teeth and look into the camera again, hoping I got some good shots. I force myself to breathe normally, to pay attention, and to act like one look from Jackson Cody didn’t just liquefy my insides.
I spend the rest of the rodeo agitated. I can’t get that look out of my head, and to make matters worse, after a few minutes he pops up on the opposite side of the arena to watch the rest of it.
Except every time I look over, he’s looking at me.
When it ends, everything is a flurry. Jackson is answering reporter questions from Bruce as well as the local TV station, the paper, and a couple rodeo magazines. Every time he takes a step, there’s a flock of women asking for his autograph, and he signs every single one with a smile on his face while I take pictures and stand around and act like I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing.
After a while, Bruce and I decide we’re finished, and we leave Jackson standing in the arena, still smiling away and signing autographs for cowgirls wearing a whole pile of sequins.
I wish I could stop thinking about that look, and I wish thinking about it didn’t make me feel like a pile of jello. I wish I wanted to sl
eep with anyone else, even Bruce, but I don’t. Just Jackson.
I try to watch TV in my motel room, but I’m too worked up. I can’t sit there and half hope that Jackson knocks on my door and half hope that he doesn’t, so I grab my jacket and camera and head for the fair. At least I can get some shots of kids eating ice cream and those big, spinning rides throwing neon light into the Oklahoma night sky.
I don’t make it to the fair. As I walk through the gates to the fairgrounds, waving at the guy in the booth, I see Jackson walking toward me.
For a second I panic and tell myself to just keep walking, because I’m certain that if anyone sees us talking, they’ll know. Not that there’s much to know. Not yet.
He walks up to me and stops.
“Hey there, Mae,” he says.
“Hey there, Jackson,” I say. I try to sound flippant, even as my stomach feels like a balloon filled with bats.
“I was just coming to see you,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows and try to look casual, even as I look around. There are people swirling and streaming around us, but I don’t know any of them.
That’s not the question, though. The question is whether any of them know him.
“What for?” I ask. “Haven’t you gotten your picture taken enough?”
“I wanted to make sure you got my good side today,” he says, and he grins that cocky grin he has. “So I can know which side to show you tomorrow.”
“That assumes you’ve got a good side,” I tease. “Could be it doesn’t matter which side you show me.”
“So they’re both good sides,” he says. “Good to know.”
I laugh, and Jackson looks behind me. I turn. There are two young women standing there, both in tight jeans and tank tops, cowboy boots, cowboy hats.
“You’re Jackson Cody, right?” one of them asks, standing nervously.
“Sure am,” he says. “How can I help you?”
“Will you sign this?” the other one asks, thrusting a rodeo program at him.
He takes it, then searches his pockets for a pen. I grab the pen I use for taking notes and hand it over, and he signs a messy Jackson Cody on two programs.
