Rodeo Dreams

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “What— Who— What—”

  “Oh, Girlie, it was all over the bar. Everyone had a slightly different opinion on what, exactly, happened, but the general consensus was that Travis was upset, Mort showed him your permit and he stormed off to find you.”

  She stared at him. “And?”

  “That’s all anyone knows. No one has seen you until about twenty minutes ago, and Travis wasn’t talking.”

  So no one knew about the argument in the parking lot? The best she could do was swallow down another sip of tea.

  “Now, it seems to me that you’re suddenly a little too guilty-looking for your own good, Girlie. You’re acting like Travis did, in fact, come looking for you and I’m just dying to know how it went down. The rumors were getting pretty wild there by closing time. Now, he thinks that Travis tried to talk you out of riding, and you told him to shove it,” Mitch said with a tilt of his head to the Brazilian. “But not me. I think it got physical. I’ve got money on you putting him in his place, just like you did Red. I know you didn’t break anything, because he rode the next night, but he didn’t make the time. He lost. And then he left.”

  “Holy crap,” she said in a rush. The mountain she had to climb suddenly seemed miles taller. Everything she was afraid of—summed up neatly by a cowboy in a coffee shop. People were already talking about her and Travis. About what had happened between them in the dark.

  No one here knew about her violent father or her mother, who’d spent most of the past twenty years blowing their welfare checks on beer. June wanted a fresh start. She had grand dreams of being June Spotted Elk, Professional Bull Rider—to have everyone know she was good at something, good for something.

  If people were already talking about her like this, her reputation on the circuit wouldn’t be any different from her reputation at home.

  How the hell was she going to do this?

  “You gonna tell me what happened?” Mitch prompted, his gaze focused on her face. “I like to get my gossip straight from the source.”

  This was all just gossip. She could handle gossip. She took a deep breath and gathered her wits. “How do I know I can trust you? I tell you, you tell Red, and the next thing I know, I’ve got my own personal peanut gallery of ill-wishers.”

  The Brazilian snorted in disgust as Mitch rolled his eyes. “Girlie, please. Like I talk to Red.”

  “So you tell me who I have to worry about. Red or Travis?”

  He didn’t hesitate this time. “Red. I’ve seen you twice now, June, and you are one hell of a rider—as good as anyone else out there, present company included.” The compliment sent her heart thudding. “Travis won’t like losing to a girl, but if you beat him fair and square without getting yourself killed, he’ll respect that.”

  It’d sure be nice to have Travis’s respect. To have him look at her with those beautiful brown eyes and know he was on her side.

  However, after last week, she didn’t think that would ever happen.

  “But Red won’t?” she asked.

  Mitch looked at the Brazilian, who rolled his hand as if to say go on. “When Paulo first showed up, his rope just happened to get cut right before his second ride.”

  Paulo? So he did have a name. “Red did it?”

  “No proof. It’s not like CSI makes arena calls for a busted rope.”

  Whoa. Cutting a rider’s rope was lower than low. “The funny thing is, Travis warned me to watch out for both Red and you.”

  Mitch snickered and then choked on his coffee. Yeah, the more time she spent with him, the more laughable that idea seemed to her, too. “Did he now? Well, I have a reputation to uphold. I am the Heartbreak Kid.”

  “I gathered.” She glanced to Paulo the Brazilian, but he was pointedly watching some blonde in supershort running shorts.

  As if he had to live up to his title, Mitch leaned forward and whispered, “Where are you staying tonight, Girlie?”

  “I’ve got a friend I’m going to crash with.” She hoped.

  “Oh?” His eyes danced.

  She felt the blush warm her cheeks. “Actually, a friend of a friend. I’ve never met them before, but they said they had a couch. You?”

  “All the finest that the Super 8 has to offer.” Paulo sighed.

  “Mitch? Mitch Jenner?”

  June looked up to see Running Shorts standing over them, her hands full of coffee. She had a look on her face that walked the line between shock and fury. Then she glanced down to June. By the time the woman had swept her eyes back to Mitch, the shock was gone, and there was nothing left but fury. “You’re back?”

  “Bobbi Jean!” Mitch was already out of his chair, trying to spin her away from Paulo and June. “Wow! You look really—”

  Bobbi Jean wasn’t having any of that. “You dared to show your face in this town again after—after—after—”

  After what? Apparently, this was the Heartbreak Kid in action. And Bobbi Jean in her short shorts was not the sort of woman who took kindly to having her heart broken.

  “Baby, let me explain,” Mitch managed to get out just before two cups’ worth of foam and espresso shots hit him full in the face. June waited for the screams of pain, but instead, Mitch said, “Aw, Bobbi Jean, honey—your iced mochas!”

  “You—you—you!” Bobbi Jean couldn’t even get out a proper curse word. She hauled off and slapped him with enough force to send Mitch boots-over-butt onto the wet floor.

  Bobbi Jean spun to face June. “He’s nothing but a lying, cheating bastard. Save yourself the heartache before he starts talking about taking you home to meet his mother.”

  “We’re not—”

  But June’s defense of Mitch was wasted on empty space. Bobbi Jean was peeling out of the parking lot as the rest of the patrons looked on in shock.

  “Mitch! Are you okay?”

  “I knew there was something about that girl I liked,” he said as June and Paulo hefted him up off the floor. “Her right hook!”

  “Yeah, you’re fine,” June replied as she looked at his face. She didn’t see a red mark. “Didn’t she hit you?”

  “She tried,” Mitch answered as they headed out to the Bronco. “I learned long ago that it’s best to roll with the punches. And the slaps.”

  “You fell on purpose?”

  “Sure did.” He grinned as Paulo popped the trunk, and Mitch stripped off his sodden shirt. “You don’t get to be the Heartbreak Kid without picking up some tricks.”

  From his position in the backseat a few spaces over, Jeff whined. He wanted out. People tended to cower in fear at the sight of him running free in broad daylight, so June dug out his leash.

  “That’s your mutt?” Mitch sounded properly impressed as he tucked in and buttoned up. “That’s a dog?”

  “I said he was a mutt. I didn’t say what kind,” she replied as Jeff wagged his tail. Sheesh, fifty pounds of dog had Mitch more scared than eighteen hundred pounds of bull. “He’s a coydog. Part coyote, part something.” Maybe a coyote and a German shepherd, because Jeff had that long, thin nose and thick, shaggy fur that both animals sported, but everywhere a German shepherd was dark, Jeff was white and red. He was about thirty pounds lighter than most German shepherds, but close to the size of the coyotes that slipped through the Plains grasses in the dark, like Nagi spirit animals.

  “Is he tame?”

  Jeff answered the question by planting his paws on Paulo’s chest and licking him to within an inch of his life.

  After he regained his footing and the shock passed, the Brazilian actually smiled. He pulled Jeff’s paws off him and set him on the ground, but then crouched down to eye level. “Oi, garoto,” he said as he rubbed Jeff’s ears.

  She’d never heard Paulo speak before. His voice was soft and gentle, the mark of a man who knew how to handle animals.
“He likes you,” she said, hoping to hear his Portuguese accent again.

  “Or he’s just tasting you,” Mitch added from a safe distance.

  “Trust me, I know the difference.”

  Mitch’s eyes swept over her again with a look that she now recognized. She braced herself.

  “But does Travis?” Mitch asked.

  Travis did, but she didn’t think that “afraid of coydog” would do the man any favors. She needed Travis to be as much on her side as possible, and keeping the gossips at bay was the best way to do that. If Travis wasn’t going to talk about what had happened the other night, then she wasn’t, either. End of discussion.

  “I guess you’d have to ask Travis that, wouldn’t you?”

  The Brazilian looked up at Mitch and nodded his head to Jeff.

  “Fine,” Mitch snorted, sounding unhappy with June’s answer. “Paulo wants to know where you got a half coyote like that.”

  They had to be a couple. They were too much in sync, too easily understood with quick glances and quicker nods.

  “Um, he found me—when I was twelve.” On the one-year anniversary of Dad being arrested for murder and the same day June got her first period, actually, but those were the sorts of details that made men green around the gills. “I trained him, and he’s never left me, not even when I went to college.”

  “They let you keep that in the dorm?”

  “Mitch. Don’t think coyote. Think mutt. A well-trained mutt.” To illustrate her point, she dropped the leash and snapped her fingers. Within seconds, Jeff was seated at her side. Another snap, and he was back in the car, patiently waiting in the front seat. “And they didn’t let me keep him in the dorm. He lived in the bushes around campus for a year until I got my own place.”

  The Brazilian grinned, his normal reserve completely gone. Maybe it wasn’t too hard to understand a man who never spoke, because his eyes seemed to be saying, Can I pet your dog again?

  June let out a low whistle and Jeff came bounding back out of the car. “Go on,” she said. He didn’t need another invitation. He and the Brazilian hopped up onto the Bronco’s tailgate and began to play-wrestle like they were childhood buds.

  “He, uh, he ever bite anyone?” Mitch asked, cautiously moving in to pat Jeff.

  “No one who didn’t have it coming.”

  She imagined they made quite a sight, the Indian woman, the Brazilian and the Heartbreak Kid, all standing around a dog who looked like a wild animal and acted like a puppy in a coffee shop parking lot. Good people-watching, June noted with a smile.

  “We’re getting dinner,” Mitch said as Jeff licked his hand. “You want to come?”

  Dinner sounded good, in an expensive kind of way. She needed to keep her cash to get her through the rest of the weekend. “Nah. I’ve got dinner waiting for me.” She hoped. Still no messages on her phone. “You guys go on.”

  “You going to be here tomorrow?”

  “Probably. But I might swing by the True West store down in Dallas.” Mitch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I want to get a better shirt for the Real Men Wear Pink thing—every Friday night, right? You want to come?”

  Mitch’s mouth flopped open with the “yes” on the tip of his tongue, but the Brazilian shook his head no as he slapped Mitch on the shoulder. At the sudden movement, Jeff let out a low growl.

  “That’s all right, Girlie. But if you find anything good, you tell me.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?”

  Paulo stuck out one hand, even as the other one was getting in a last rub on Jeff’s ears. They were all still friends.

  Which Mitch confirmed when he said, “Super 8, Girlie. If you need anything.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU CAN DO THIS,” Travis said for the fortieth time since he’d dragged his butt out of bed that morning. “Just doing your job.”

  A job he despised more every day. Once upon a time, personal appearances at True West Western Wear were ego trips that paid well. Now, showing up at the store nearest to wherever he was riding that weekend and doing his time felt more like a prison sentence.

  Travis Youngkin In Person 1-5, the True West sign announced to passers-by.

  Youngkin. He’d been doing appearances at this store in Dallas for five years, and they still couldn’t spell his name.

  “Tough biscuits,” he scolded himself. A job was a job. And he was lucky enough to have a job that allowed him to follow the circuit. All he had to do was show up at the nearest True West store and press the flesh. And for that, they gave him five thousand dollars a year with the option of a minimum-wage desk job during the off-season. And they put him on the company health plan.

  Before the wreck, when he’d been at the top of his game, he’d been pulling down twenty times that in sponsorship deals. But those days were long gone. He was in no position to be picky.

  If he could get back up to the bigs, things would be different. Oh, he knew he wouldn’t get the deals—or the women—he’d gotten back in the day. But he wouldn’t be scraping by, basically living in his truck. He’d be comfortable again, and when a man was as shattered as he’d once been, comfort was worth a lot. Almost as much as a health plan.

  Travis parked in the back row and put his game face on. The Dallas store was one of the biggest True Wests around. Most were crammed into strip malls, but this one was the size of a big-box store. It had everything the average cowboy could ever need—including bull-riding supplies.

  This would be four hours of smiling and signing and posing. He could do this.

  The walk in wasn’t too bad. His joints were feeling good today, which was a positive sign for tonight. His shoulder had recovered from the abuses of a week ago, and his hip was quiet.

  The store seemed empty. Finally, he located a guy wearing the True West store vest. “Hi, I’m Travis Younkin.”

  “And...? Did you need help with a size or something, mister?”

  “No, I’m Travis Younkin.” All he got was a blank look from under pierced eyebrows. “I’m the bull rider who’s doing a personal appearance here today.”

  “Here? Are you sure?”

  Had the guy not seen the billboard outside? It was going to be a long day. “Ask Todd about it. He knows who I am.”

  If only it were that simple. First, the clerk asked another clerk, and then those two geniuses asked a third guy, all while shooting suspicious glances over to where Travis stood. He tried to keep the friendly smile on his face, like he enjoyed mistrust and doubt. Finally, the third guy came over. At least he was wearing real cowboy boots.

  “Mr. Younkin? Todd’s out today, but we’ll get a table set up for you, okay?”

  “Sure,” he said, forcing a smile so big that he felt the wire mesh in his jaw pull. “I’ll be looking at the boots. Let me know when you guys are ready.”

  The boot section was like coming home to Travis. Sure, most riders coveted the famous bull-riding buckles—and the bunnies that went with them—but for Travis, a well-made pair of boots in an exotic animal skin were the ultimate sign of success. He could stand here and admire the ostrich-skin boots for hours.

  Four hours, if it came to that.

  Once, he’d had several nice pairs of ostrich-skin boots, but those had been sold off to help cover his medical bills, along with most everything else he’d owned, including his buckles and what was left of the family farm in Nebraska. All he had left from before the wreck was his truck and his beat-to-hell camper.

  They had the Lucchese boots. He picked up the cognac-brown boot, his hands tracing over the stitching on the shaft with appreciation. If only the stitches that held him together had been done with this much care.

  “Say, those are nice,” a voice said behind him.

  Travis turned to see a Johnny-come-lately cowb
oy. The stuff on his back was all good—Travis recognized the Stetson hat and the alligator-skin boots—but on this guy, it all seemed a bit off, like an SUV that had never seen a dirt road. “They are. Top-of-the-line. Full quill on the foot here, and that’s lemonwood construction. These are designed to last a lifetime. Well worth the cost.”

  Johnny-come-lately whistled in appreciation. “How much do they run a fellow?”

  “The Lucchese brand runs four hundred to twelve hundred dollars. These are the high end of that.”

  “Boy, I bet not just anyone can afford boots like that,” the guy said.

  “That’s the truth,” Travis agreed. But with a little luck, he’d be able to afford them again. He just had to keep his head on—

  “Well, if you’ve got them in a thirteen, I’d love to try them on.”

  Travis froze. If he had them in a thirteen? Humiliation burned down Travis’s throat. “Well, let me get someone who works here.”

  He found the clerks in back, arguing over which crappy card table to haul up front. Handing over the boots, Travis took his chances with the table and hauled the lighter one out himself. No way he would let some pretend cowboy think he was a salesman. He was a bull rider, damn it, and a good one, too.

  Even so, he knew he couldn’t do this much longer. There had to be a better life out there for him. Maybe he could get a job at a ranch, go back to being a real cowboy again.

  The hours passed with only the Johnny-come-lately cowboy apologizing to break up the monotony. To make up for the mix-up, he asked Travis to sign both of his Lucchese boxes.

  The longer Travis sat here, the worse things seemed. Red had won last weekend, and had assumed first in the rankings as a result. If Travis couldn’t make it back into the bigs this year, he was done. His body couldn’t take another season of hitting the ground. The single, nightly Percocet he limited himself to didn’t seem to be taking the edge off the pain anymore.