At the second reference to hearing, her gaze flicked past him to Grayson, visible again as the truck cleared. But only temporarily, because a second truck crawled in behind the first. Just as long and just as stinky.
“You brought livestock,” she said.
If I ever have the chance to say, “I won the Nobel Peace Prize,” that’s the precise intonation I’ll use.
“Yes, ma’am, we did. First we thought we’d each send a few head, but that woulda meant an awfully long haul for ’em coming from the south. Instead, the furthest fellas will send a few head to the ones a bit closer. Second group will send that number plus a few on their own behalf on to another contractor closer still, and on, until it came to me, being the closest to Sherman, you see. I left a few of my stock, they’ll be supplemented with head from those other contractors down near the Colorado border where my assistant will run ’em real well to fill our contract for that there rodeo, and brought the rest up here to give Sherman the rodeo it deserves.”
The look she gave Belasque was one I would save for my acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize.
It disappeared beneath a new sheen of tears and a slow head-shaking. “All the withdrawals—Our entries don’t stack up—”
“Now don’t you worry none about that, ma’am. You know how fickle these cowboys can be. From what I’ve been hearing, a good number of those cancellations got uncancelled. A plane’s making it so roughstock boys can hit two rodeos a couple of the days.”
“A plane, but who—” Her gaze flickered toward Grayson, once more masked from us by a truck. “I don’t understand.”
“Understanding’s way above my pay grade, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see to getting these animals settled.”
The truck cleared, and there stood Grayson Zane, looking our way. Looking her way.
She made a sound. Low in her throat. It might have been from laughter or tears. Either way it came from down deep.
Slowly, still looking, he tipped his hat, the brim’s shadow reaching his mouth as another truck came past.
Linda colored. Fast and bright. “I, uh– I have to go see . . . I have to make sure all these animals are seen to and have everything they need. This is—It’s a miracle, isn’t it?”
She flashed a beaming smile in our general direction, jogged down the steps, and headed off in a path parallel to the trucks.
In a new gap, we saw Grayson turn to apparently follow the same route on the far side of the trucks.
I was aware of Mike beside me, of Tom looking at me, but I was watching Linda Caswell and Grayson Zane, wondering if I could watch them long enough to see their parallel paths converge.
Epilogue
THAT YEAR’S Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo, I am told by those who have been to many others, was special. Not necessarily better competition, but an appreciation for something that had almost been lost.
Word was that the rodeo made enough money for Stan Newton to avoid his personal fiscal cliff.
With Cas applauding heartily from the stands, Heather performed her queen’s ride with, no matter what Tom says about the word, panache. Her mother’s pride was as fierce as ever. Her roping tricks were as impressive as Needham Bender had promised. She did not rope anything over a beam.
For me, the highlight was watching Mrs. Parens, wearing a split skirt and a glittery cowboy hat, in the parade of past rodeo queens. Later, the fireworks added spatters of color to a sky already dazzling with stars. It didn’t hurt that I watched all this on a breeze-cooled evening while being warmed by the presence of Michael Paycik sitting on one side of me and Thomas David Burrell on the other, with Tamantha in front, informing us that it would all be done just a little better when she was queen.
~ THE END ~
(Please continue reading for more information about Patricia McLinn)
Acknowledgements
Like the continuing characters who are vital to this story, some acknowledgements are ongoing. Thanks so much again to:
Bill White, whose answers would be worth a thousand times his going rate.
Bill Beagle, who enters into tales of TV news with welcome gusto.
Pat Van Wie, who doesn’t falter in two challenging roles.
The author also gratefully acknowledges:
Robert Skiff, who taught a terrific class for writers on forensic evidence collection at Sirchie Labs as well as brainstorming scenarios. Also to Sirchie for holding the class and my fellow students for making it such fun.
The Cody Nite Rodeo in Cody, Wyo., which inspired the positive elements of the Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo and none of the negative ones.
Dan Morales of King’s Saddlery/King Ropes in Sheridan, Wyo., who was so generous with his time and expertise, and Don King who welcomed a nosy writer.
About the author
Patricia McLinn spent more than 20 years as an editor at the Washington Post after stints as a sports writer (Rockford, Ill.) and assistant sports editor (Charlotte, N.C.) McLinn received BA and MSJ degrees from Northwestern University.
McLinn is the USA Today bestselling author of more than 25 published novels, past president of the international writers group Novelists, Inc., and instigator of AWritersWork.com. The books—cited by reviewers for wit and vivid characterization—have topped best-seller lists and won numerous awards. McLinn has spoken about writing from Honolulu to Washington, D.C., including being a guest-speaker at the Smithsonian Institute.
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