For the second time in as many weeks, Travis watched a fellow bull rider stomp away from him.
* * *
“WHERE YOU STAYING TONIGHT, Girlie?” Mitch said from over the lip of his fourth beer. “You got a couch with your name on it, or did you upgrade?”
June felt the slim weight of the fifth-place check in her back pocket. Two hundred and fifty dollars wasn’t a whole lot of money, but it was enough for a motel room. If she took home any money tomorrow, she’d wire it to Mom on Monday. “I upgraded.”
“You’ve earned it,” he said. “Gotta treat yourself right, Girlie.”
The Brazilian nodded in agreement. They were sitting in the middle of what passed for a honky-tonk in Florida, surrounded by other riders in varying levels of intoxication.
Sipping her Sprite, she looked around. Travis was over at the bar, hat pulled low over his eyes. He was watching her. Not that she could tell but she had the feeling that, under the brim of his hat, his intense eyes were trained on her. She didn’t know if she was irritated or flattered, just like she hadn’t known if she should be irritated or pleased that he’d bought her rosin.
Was he watching her back? Or waiting for her to slip up so he could say, See? She doesn’t belong here.
Or was there something else to it? The same something that had looked a lot like him wanting to kiss her?
She didn’t know and he wasn’t providing a lot of clues. He hadn’t said a thing to her tonight, but he’d pulled her rope again. This time, when she’d thanked him, he’d nodded. Was that him respecting her? She couldn’t tell.
Mitch was buying—he’d pulled down second place tonight. “What about you two? Where are you at?”
“We’re continuing our tour of the lower forty-eight’s greatest fleabag motels. I’m betting that the cockroaches down here would eat the ones from Texas for lunch,” he said.
“Are you always this funny?” The Brazilian cocked an eyebrow at her question. “So that’s a no.”
“Hey!” Mitch slugged down the rest of his beer and stood, wobbling a bit too much for her comfort. “That’s it. I’m asking you to dance, Girlie.”
June looked at the Brazilian, but she got nothing—not even acknowledgment that Mitch had spoken. “All right, but I’m a strong lead, mind you.”
Which she had to be, once they were on the dance floor. She couldn’t tell if Mitch was drunk or just a bad dancer, but either way, her toes were taking one heck of a beating. “Who taught you to dance? A mop?”
“Now who’s the comedienne? Don’t look now, but we’re being watched.”
June swallowed. “By?”
“Everyone.” He spun her around, slow enough that she could see the thirty or so pairs of eyes on them. Travis hadn’t moved, but there it was again—the feeling that he was watching her. “People are getting the wrong idea about us.”
“Oh? And what’s the right idea?”
“That’s kind of a good question. Man.” He whistled low in her ear, the stubble from his cheek scratching hers. “Is Travis giving you as much crap as he’s giving me?”
She looked at the stoic cowboy sitting at the bar. He hadn’t spoken to her since Mesquite, really. That couldn’t count as giving her crap, could it? “What do you mean?”
“He was at the store when I went to buy you that shirt that looks so good on you,” he said, pressing her into his chest.
This was so flirting—but to what end? “Is he always at True West?”
“Always. It’s his sponsorship deal.”
“So you intentionally went there to poke him with a stick?”
Her choice of words hit the target, because Mitch had the decency to blush. “You needed a pink shirt....”
“I’m paying you back. I’m not letting you use me as a wedge for whatever pissing contest you and Travis have got going.”
“It’s not a pissing contest. He’s just wound too tight.”
June ignored the fact that Mitch might be right as he spun her around again. From where he sat, Travis did look like he was on the verge of cracking. “And you’re the expert at fast and loose? Maybe he doesn’t want to be like the Heartbreak Kid,” she shot back.
Mitch might not be much of a dancer, but he could waltz his way around a conversation. “I’m not in danger of breaking your heart, am I?” he said, his tone honey-smooth.
“Not a shot in hell, Mitch.”
He shrugged. “A guy can dream, can’t he?”
“But about what, hmm?”
“Visions of sugarplums.”
That was probably the best answer she could hope for as the song wound down. “Thanks for the drink and the dance.”
“You heading out?”
She shot another glance over at Travis. He made no move to get up, which did significantly reduce the odds that he would ask her to dance. Why did she care? Another attempt at conversation would probably be just another fight about why she shouldn’t ride bulls. And that was a fight she didn’t need to have, especially not in public.
“Jeff needs to get out before we turn in,” she said, leading Mitch from the floor.
“You’re alone tonight?”
“A girl is never alone when she’s got Jeff.”
They were back at the table. “You’ve still got my number, right?”
It should have sounded like he was desperate for her call, what with that whole Heartbreak Kid rep, but she just couldn’t hear it. All she heard was be careful.
“Yup. You’re in my phone.”
“Good.” He waited until she got her hat back on her head, and then he kissed her in the same spot again. No doubt about it. Everyone saw that. Including Travis. That bothered her, but she wasn’t sure why. “See you tomorrow.”
As June wove her way toward the exit, she felt Travis’s eyes on her.
Be careful. Was there anything more pointless to say to a bull rider?
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MOTEL ROOM was about what her apartment had been in college—cramped, ugly and cheap. Still, better than the backseat. Hopefully, this was the first in a string of motel upgrades. She was in a good position to take home more than just another two hundred and fifty dollars.
With Jeff braced against the door, June called her mother. The conversation was short—Mom was proud of her, but like any self-respecting mother, she wasn’t fond of this bull-riding “thing.” Still, she was glad to hear that June was doing well and didn’t get huffy when June asked if she’d been going to her A.A. meetings. She even told June what groceries she’d bought with the money June had sent home. It sounded like Mom was being truthful.
June could only pray that Mom wasn’t backsliding. It made her a little nauseous to think that she might be putting her life on the line just to pay for more booze, but Mom had sounded sober, if quiet.
June felt hopeful when she hung up. Mom had five months of sobriety under her belt. Dad wasn’t due to be paroled for another sixty years. June was getting paid to ride bulls. Somehow, she thought after she’d changed into her nightshirt, things were falling into place. If she could have one good summer riding bulls, she and Mom could get off welfare and get out from under the shadow of her father’s crimes. June would know that she was taking care of her family instead of having to swallow her pride to cash a government check. One good season with no big injuries and they wouldn’t have to live hand to mouth anymore.
Things were going to turn out. She just knew it.
* * *
THE BULLS WERE in the china shop, except the china shop was her closet of an apartment from college. They were running rampant, grinding her books into the carpet and knocking her one set of dishes—
The howl pierced through the bulls destroying everything she’d worked for. Which was a relief, because June was damned tired o
f that reoccurring dream.
But the howling was real. Jeff was standing at the door, giving it his all.
Instantly, June was out of bed, peering out the window. She should have plunked down the extra cash for the hotel in the better part of town, but at the time...
“Jeff!” she whispered, afraid that his barking would draw the wrong kind of attention. “Wait!” He sat down on his haunches, but his ruff was still up and there was no stopping that growl.
Crouching down on the floor, she peered through a crack in the blinds. She couldn’t see a lot, but she could see the figures moving around her car.
What were they after? Her laptop was in the room; there wasn’t much besides a sleeping bag left in there. She traveled light. Maybe it was the whole car? “Crap,” she whispered, and Jeff pawed at the door, ready to take them on.
Were they armed? The lone streetlamp nearby barely cut through the inky darkness. But there were three guys, all wearing hoodie sweatshirts and droopy pants.
Not Red. Not cowboys.
The realization that this wasn’t personal was cold comfort. The fact of the matter was that it was the middle of the night, she was alone in a strange place and crooks were messing with her car.
If she were at home on the rez, she would know what to do. She’d sic Jeff on them as she followed up with Dad’s old shotgun, and then she’d call the mothers of whoever had been dumb enough to think they’d get away with petty theft.
June had only done that once. One time of June with a gun was enough for people to think that Mike Spotted Elk’s propensity for violence ran in the family, and that was a perception she chose not to correct. She would defend herself, no matter what. People didn’t mess with the Spotted Elks. Period.
But this wasn’t the rez, she didn’t have Dad’s old shotgun and she didn’t know who these people were.
* * *
A LONG, FRUSTRATING hour after calling 911, June stood in the motel parking lot. She’d managed to throw on a pair of jeans and her boots before the cops had pulled up. By that time, though, the criminals in question had been long gone.
“So, what you’re saying is, some guys were trying to break into your car?”
June fought to keep her cool. This was the fourth time this officer had asked her the same question, and he wasn’t writing anything down. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Did you see where the steering column had been jimmied?”
The officer shone his flashlight back into her car. The steering column hung by a thread, the CD player was gone and the whole thing was smoking. “Most car thieves can hot-wire a car without shorting the system. Are you sure this wasn’t just an old boyfriend?”
“I’m not from here,” she replied, pointing to the South Dakota license plate. “I’m just passing through.” Her mouth was starting to ache from her clenched teeth. She took a deep breath and forced her muscles to relax. “I’m riding in the rodeo.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, doubt dripping from his voice. Just then, a small “poof” emanated from the car. In short order, flames were licking at her dash.
Her car was dying before her eyes. The cops were more interested in making up a convenient fairy tale than doing their jobs and looking for the thugs who’d taken off the moment they’d heard sirens. June was beyond pissed.
The second officer pulled out a fire extinguisher and killed the flames. “You want us to call you a tow truck?”
What good would that do? It was clear that justice wasn’t about to be served, her car was dead and by the time she got it fixed—if she had enough cash to cover the repairs—she’d probably miss the next rodeo or three. “No, I think you guys have done enough. Thanks anyway, though.”
The officers gone on to bigger and better crimes, June found herself circling her dead car. She knew it wasn’t smart to be pacing around the parking lot of a questionable motel already proven to attract the criminal element, but Jeff had her back. If she had more than a few hundred dollars to her name, this wouldn’t be a problem. She’d get the car fixed or rent a new one or buy another old clunker. But she didn’t. God, she hated having nothing.
Maybe the other bull riders were in it for the money or the fame or the buckles. Maybe all of that. But June was here because riding bulls was her God-given talent and she wanted to stop scraping by on nothing.
Which had just gotten that much harder to do. She felt more alone than when Mom and Dad would head out for a night of drinking, and the night would stretch into a weekend—or longer. Even then, she hadn’t been truly alone. Uncle Dave had always had a couch and a television with cartoons, and when she’d gotten older, he’d always had a spot at the barn and a horse with her name on it. And when Dad had gone to prison, Joseph had shown up and invited her to the big ranch house for dinner, where she’d been welcomed and trusted.
Joseph and Uncle Dave hadn’t told her she was stupid when they caught her riding bulls. They hadn’t told her she was worthless, either. It hadn’t mattered that she was barely surviving on whatever part of the welfare check her parents didn’t drink away. They’d trusted her with the animals, believed her when she said she could ride. They’d believed in her when she said she could earn her way onto the circuit. No doubt about it, a girl was never alone as long as her tribe was there for her.
But there was no one here she could lean on through a rough patch. It didn’t matter who she was to the thugs, the cops or most of the guys riding against her. She had no one to back her up. Except a coydog. Which counted for a lot, but didn’t get her car fixed.
She was a young woman alone, in a dark parking lot, in a bad part of town.
This was a stupid thing for you to do, sweetheart. Out here, all alone—you’re just asking for it!
The sound of Travis’s voice floated out of a week ago and rammed itself into her ears. This was stupid. She was out here, all alone. She was asking for it—and if “it” was trouble, she’d asked and received.
She might be able to ride a bull, but she couldn’t do this alone.
With Jeff guarding her, she salvaged what she could out of the backseat and trucked it up to her room. All told, she didn’t have a lot, just a backpack and a duffel’s worth, plus the sleeping bag. She wouldn’t take up much room. Someone would have enough space to give her a ride.
Travis rode alone. Part of her thought this idea had some legs—lean, muscled legs that looked good in chaps. She could call him, and he wouldn’t let another stupid thing happen.
But Travis considered riding a bull a stupid thing to do, sweetheart, she reminded herself. He’d probably pack her up and send her home under the pretense of keeping her safe. She needed someone else.
An idea began to form. She needed Mitch.
His number was in her phone.
* * *
“YOU OKAY?” MITCH said with an awkward hug as the Brazilian inspected the damage.
“Sure. Tired, irritated and carless, but okay.” At the sound of her voice, Jeff loped out of the bushes he’d been hiding in and sat beside her.
Mitch kept a wary eye on the coydog. “Did he get a shot at them?”
“I couldn’t tell if they were armed or not. Better to lose a car than the dog,” she replied. The thought of losing Jeff to a random act of violence was more than she could handle. Her throat caught.
The Brazilian came over, shaking his head. “Dead,” he said, ignoring the tears she was blinking away furiously.
June smiled as she wiped her eyes. He only talked in parking lots. At least this time, it was English. “Completely?”
He just nodded.
“Get your stuff,” Mitch said with a yawn. “We’re not leaving you alone here.”
Music to her ears. “I don’t want to intrude,” she said as she picked up her bags.
“We’ll work on that tomorrow.”
&nb
sp; * * *
TOMORROW CAME ABOUT 9:30 a.m.—far later than June normally slept, but last night hadn’t been normal by any stretch of the imagination. She rolled out of the queen-size bed and looked at the men in the room.
Mitch was curled into a ball on the floor, his head buried beneath a pillow. The only part of him she could see was his bicep, just peeking out from underneath the sheet he was wrapped in. It was a nice bicep—a little on the lean side for her taste, but she could see where women, and Paulo, would find it attractive.
The Brazilian was slouched in the side chair, his feet extended straight out and his cowboy hat tilted down low over his eyes. He looked like he was catnapping, but he hadn’t moved since she’d closed her eyes last night. The picture-perfect prototype of the strong, silent cowboy.
They’d given up the only bed after their sad little party had made it back into the room around four. She decided that breakfast was the least she could do.
Fifteen minutes later, June snuck back into the room juggling three cups of coffee and four bagels. Mitch was still snoring from his position on the floor but the Brazilian was awake. “I brought breakfast,” she offered.
He smiled—a good smile, the kind of smile that should, by all rights, melt the average woman. But even as he grinned at her, he rubbed Mitch’s shoulder with his foot.
“Mornin’, Girlie,” Mitch muttered, his head still under his pillow. “I’ll marry you if that’s coffee I smell.”
“I got a better deal for you.” The butterflies stirred in her tummy. She had no idea how what she was proposing would go down. “But your nose is correct—it is coffee.”
“I’ll take what’s behind Door Number Two.” Mitch sat up.
He looked like hell, but then, after last night, June was willing to bet they all did. She looked at Paulo. “I thought you said he wasn’t always funny.”
Paulo shrugged, as if to say, Eh, what can you do?
“Hey!” Mitch looked at her. “So, what’s on your mind, June?”
She took a deep breath and started the spiel she’d rehearsed while picking over what was left of the continental breakfast. “I’d like to offer you a partnership.”
Rodeo Dreams Page 8
