Texas Fierce

by Janet Dailey

“You heard me, Jasper. I’m going back on the rodeo circuit for the rest of the season. It’ll last for about six weeks, but I’ll be gone only on weekends. The rest of the time I’ll be right here running the ranch.”

  “Hell, it’s not that I’m worried about.” Jasper spat a stream of tobacco into the dust. “I can run this place fine. But you were no hot-dog bull rider in the first place—I know because I saw you. Now you’re two years older and out of shape. You’re going to break every bone in your damn fool body! All for a woman—and not just any woman. She’s rich, spoiled, barely grown up, and kin to the Prescotts!”

  “Not blood kin. And she’s pretty much had it with the Prescott family.”

  “Have you forgotten how she made you kill Jupiter?”

  “She was a kid then. She made a mistake. I can’t fault her for that.” Bull looked back toward the house. “My dad had big plans for this house. Finished, it could still be a fine place. I figure I can make some rodeo money while the season’s on, then work on the house over the winter. When Susan comes back here next summer, I mean to have it ready for her.”

  “And if she doesn’t come back?”

  “Well, at least we’ll have a house for the next woman who happens along.” Bull made light of his answer. But the truth was, if he let himself doubt that Susan would come back to him, he wouldn’t be able to sleep nights—let alone have the courage to go back to the rodeo.

  “You’re a crazy fool, Bull Tyler,” Jasper said.

  “I know.” Bull shrugged. “Come on, let’s get breakfast. Then, after I make some phone calls, we can ride out to the creek and you can help me figure out where to lay the pipe and set up that water tank.”

  * * *

  The following weekend, Bull drove all night to Shawnee, Oklahoma, and parked behind the stands at the rodeo grounds. After a couple hours of sleep under the camper shell in the bed of his truck, he got up, swigged some coffee out of a Thermos, wolfed down a stale chocolate doughnut, and went back to the area behind the chutes.

  He’d registered over the phone, so they already had him in the lineup. All he needed to do was show up at the table, draw his times, and draw his bulls. After that he’d have a few hours to rest, eat, and warm up the muscles that cramped from the long drive. Then it would be showtime.

  Not much had changed since what he’d come to think of as the old days. Same sounds and cow shit smells; same flies, smoke, and dust. And at least some of the same people. A few even remembered him.

  Most of the bull riders he saw were so young that they barely looked old enough to shave. At twenty-two, Bull felt like a senior citizen among them. He’d bought himself a plug of chewing tobacco. Filthy habit, but it helped steady his nerves. He wasn’t out to win glory for himself. Just stay on the damned bull for eight seconds and avoid getting hurt on the way to the ground. That was all he needed to keep the money coming in.

  “Hey! Bull Tyler! Is that you?” Bull turned at the sound of his name. Tex Holden, a friend from the old days, was striding toward him, a grin on his freckled face. “Hot damn! Don’t tell me you’re back. I thought you’d quit bull ridin’ for good.”

  Bull shrugged. “I thought so, too. But I needed some quick cash, and so here I am. How about you?”

  “Same here. I got married last year. Bought me a nice little spread outside Abilene and quit the rodeo—for good, I thought. Then we had ourselves a sweet baby girl. Those hospital bills— man, they just don’t quit. It’s ride the bulls or take out bankruptcy.”

  “Well, congrats on the baby. And here’s wishing us both luck.”

  “Thanks,” Tex said. “I’ve been on the circuit all summer. Done okay so far, sendin’ money home. But there’s always that one bad ride just waitin’ to happen. I think about it every time I climb into that damned chute.”

  “Well, you’d best not think about it too hard. See you around, Tex.”

  “Yeah. Good to see you, Bull. Maybe we can have a beer tonight, after the rides.”

  “Sounds good.” Bull headed out to check his truck and put his paperwork in the glove box. He was too keyed up to eat lunch, but there was a bar down the block, and he liked the idea of a cold beer. After that he could walk off the stiffness in his joints or maybe find a shady place to park the truck and get a couple more hours of sleep.

  The bar was dark and cool, the chilled beer like heaven going down his throat. He sat alone in a booth, nursing his drink. This was his least favorite thing about bull riding—the wait, trying not to think about what could happen in the arena.

  “Buy me a beer, cowboy?” The girl who slid across from him looked too young to be legal, but that wasn’t his problem.

  “Sure.” He caught the attention of the waiter, who brought her a Bud Light and a glass. The girl was pretty enough, with dyed black hair and an American flag tattooed on her bare shoulder. Two years ago, before Susan, he might have been interested. Now, not even a spark . . . and hell, she was just a kid.

  “So, are you riding this afternoon?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Bull sipped his beer.

  “Bulls?”

  “That’s right.”

  She smiled, showing a gap between her front teeth. “Meet me here after the rodeo, honey. I’ll give you a different kind of ride.”

  Bull sighed. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough.” Her mouth assumed a childish pout.

  “That’s what I figured.” Bull drained his beer, laid a couple of bills on the table, and left the bar.

  He showed up early at the arena and checked his times. He had two rides scheduled in the afternoon. If he placed high enough, he’d be riding again that night for first place. The bulls he’d drawn were new to him. Too bad. Knowing what to expect from an animal could make a big difference. This time he would have to trust his instincts.

  To finish in the money, he would have to qualify for the finals. Otherwise, his time and effort here would be wasted.

  He checked the rest of the list. He would be riding third. Tex would be riding second, his bull an old acquaintance—the irascible Sidewinder.

  The rodeo had already started, but the bull-riding event would be last. Bull buckled on his chaps and spurs and waited with the others, stretching and bending to keep loose, walking off nervous energy. The bulls were in their chutes. He studied the one he’d drawn, remembering what he’d learned from other riders. Nitro, a young animal, was big and full of spunk, but short on experience. Probably not a high scorer. Just stay on him this first time, Bull cautioned himself. Go for the high points later.

  Sidewinder was in the neighboring chute. Bull recognized the brindled hide and the way the huge animal snorted, tossed his blunted horns, and body-slammed the sides of the chute in an effort to get out early. Tex had lucked out, drawing him. Sidewinder was getting old, but he’d been a champion in his day, and his performance in the arena could still rack up points for his rider.

  “Hello, you old bastard.” Bull spoke softly. “Nice to see you’re still around. We’ll get together one of these times, and when we do I’ll show you who’s boss. That’s a promise.”

  Loud cheers from the stands signaled the start of the bull-riding competition. Bull took his old leather glove out of his pocket, slipped it on his left hand, and secured it at the wrist with tape. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

  The first rider, a rookie, fell off at five seconds, landing unhurt in the dust of the arena. By the time the safety riders had driven the bull out through the gate, Tex was in the chute, ready to drop onto Sidewinder’s back. The big bull was in a foul mood. He exploded out of the gate, bucking and spinning like a tornado. But Tex stayed on him like a champion, riding with style and control. The crowd cheered as the eight-second bell rang. Tex vaulted off his bull after a great ride.

  Then something went wrong. As Tex landed, his leg gave way, and he went down. Before the clowns could move in, Sidewinder wheeled and was on him. A gasp went up from the crowd as the huge animal butted the cowboy with t
he weight of his massive head and hooked him with his blunted horns.

  Already in the chute, with no way to get to his friend, Bull could only watch in horror as the clowns drove Sidewinder away and, with the aid of the two mounted safety riders, forced him out of the gate. As Tex lay sprawled in the dust, a team of paramedics rushed out with a stretcher and lifted his inert and battered body onto it. From outside the arena came the wail of an ambulance siren.

  On with the show. That was the rule of the rodeo. The loudspeaker was already announcing Tex’s score—an outstanding 86 points. And now Bull, still numb with the shock of what he’d seen, heard his own name. Settling his weight on Nitro’s back, he gripped the rope handle, raised his right arm, and nodded.

  Afterward, he remembered little of the eight-second ride except that he’d stayed on the bull and made it out of the arena on his feet. When he asked, repeatedly, how badly Tex was hurt, the only replies were shrugs and head shakes. Nobody knew.

  He made it through the second round, with marks high enough to qualify for the finals that evening, which meant he’d be going home with cash in his pocket. He thought about the house and what the money would mean for his future plans. But when he closed his eyes, he could see only Tex’s limp and beaten body lying on the ground.

  With time to spare before the final event, he drove to the nearby hospital and found his way to the emergency room. The place was busy, but he finally found a nurse who was willing to talk to him.

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “We did everything we could, but your friend never regained consciousness. He died on the operating table. We get quite a few cowboys here when the rodeo’s on, but we’ve never lost one before. Were you aware that he was competing with a broken fibula?”

  Shaken by the news, Bull managed to recall that the fibula was the thin bone in the lower leg. “God, no,” he said. “He looked fine. Had a great ride. Then he jumped off and just went down.”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I’m guessing the leg gave out on him. It should’ve been in a cast. He had it wrapped with duct tape.”

  Bull thanked her and made his way back to his truck. How many times had he taped his own broken bones and gone back into the chutes? How many other riders he knew had done the same thing? It was against the rules to ride injured, but desperate men were capable of desperate acts.

  He couldn’t stand the thought of carrying the tragic news back to the arena. He would keep his mouth shut and let word get around some other way. It would be all he could do to ride in the finals, collect his prize money, then drive back to the ranch. There was no way in hell he’d be able to sleep tonight.

  When he got back to the arena, the times and bulls had been drawn. Bull would be riding last—and he’d be riding Sidewinder.

  “We can get you a different bull if you want,” the official said. “We’d have taken him out of the drawing, but somebody upstairs thinks it would give the crowd a thrill to see him out there again. It’s up to you, Tyler.”

  “I’ll take the bastard,” Bull said. “And I’ll ride him.”

  Six cowboys had made the finals. Tex would have been one of them. But Bull couldn’t let himself think about that now. Nor could he put too much blame on Sidewinder. He was just an animal, following his nature. Tex was more at fault, doing a dismount on his broken leg. But how many times had Bull taken equally foolish chances? Life was nothing but a crapshoot. Some won, some lost. And usually there was no rhyme or reason why.

  By the time he climbed into the chute, Bull had cleared his mind. Nothing existed except him, the animal under him, and eight vital seconds. Left hand on the rope; right hand high; knees gripping; spurs digging into Sidewinder’s thick, loose hide. A nod, the gate swinging open, the clang of the heavy bell between the bull’s thick front legs. Shift and balance. No fear. No emotion. Sidewinder bucked and twisted, putting on a good show. When the bell rang and the crowd erupted in a roar, Bull knew he’d won. What surprised him was, he didn’t care.

  He rolled to one side and hit the ground on two feet. By the time the clowns rushed in, he was safe.

  His score was decent—not as high as Tex’s but enough to win. As the crowd poured out of the bleachers, he went back behind the chutes to collect his prize—$5,000, most of it in hundred-dollar bills. The wad of money felt leaden in his hand.

  Seeing the grim faces around him, he knew that the riders had gotten word of Tex’s death. The man behind the table held out an open shoe box with a few bills in it. “Some of the boys are taking up a collection for Tex’s wife and baby,” he said. “Anything you’d care to contribute—”

  “Oh, what the hell!” Bull tossed the bundle of cash into the box and walked outside into the summer night.

  CHAPTER 13

  FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS BULL WORKED HIS RANCH MONDAY through Friday and spent weekends on the rodeo circuit. He was doing all right, winning cash every time, but never again finishing in first place. It was as if seeing a good man get pounded to death by a bull had taken something out of him. He rode with a cold detachment that kept him in the money, but the passion to make it as a champion rider was gone.

  The weekend rides were taking a toll on his body. He was nursing cracked ribs, a wrenched shoulder, and strained muscles that screamed with every move. Ignoring the pain, he would tape whatever could be taped, gulp down a handful of over-the-counter pain pills, and go back to the chutes.

  His next event would be in Atlanta—a long drive, but it was a big rodeo, and the prize money was excellent. Unfortunately, so was the competition. Some of the top bull riders in the country would be there. He would be lucky to make the finals.

  It hadn’t escaped him that he would be within driving distance of Susan. The hunger to hear her voice and hold her in his arms had kept him from sleeping nights. He’d imagined storming her parents’ house, kicking down the front door, and carrying her off in his truck. But he knew better than to act on his fantasies. She’d warned him not to contact her. And she hadn’t called him since the night she flew home.

  Was she all right? Had she abandoned her promise to wait for him? The questions chewed on him day and night. But pride and caution kept him from seeking answers. Whatever happened next would have to be up to her.

  Meanwhile, he had a ranch to run.

  * * *

  Jasper tossed a shovel full of dirt out of the wide pit they were digging to hold water for the cattle. “Hell’s bells, you didn’t tell me this was going to be so much work!” he grumbled.

  “We agreed that this was the best option.” Bull straightened and massaged his aching shoulder. They’d talked it over and made the decision together. Hiring the backhoe would’ve been expensive, and the noise would have attracted too much attention from the far side of the creek. The same with having a prefab tank delivered. The safest and cheapest choice had been to dig the tank and the trench for the pipe by hand—at night, when the air was cooler and the work less likely to attract attention.

  They’d chosen a low spot near the edge of the old McAdoo property, upstream from the open crossing where they’d been watering the cattle. Willows would screen the spot where the three-inch PVC pipe, now in place, emerged from the bank.

  After digging the shallow trench and laying the pipe at an angle to carry water downhill, they’d started on the tank, which they’d planned to line with plastic sheeting. Digging out the mesquite, hauling rocks, and breaking the drought-hardened ground had been exhausting work, even without the beating sun. Bull and Jasper had taken turns with the two young hired hands, digging by night, tending the ranch by day, and, when their strength was spent, sleeping. But now the tank was almost finished. It needed only some leveling and the plastic liner. Then it would be ready to fill with water.

  “You know they’re gonna find out over there, if they haven’t already.” Jasper nodded toward the Prescott side of the creek. “Old Ham isn’t gonna like it one bit. He’ll raise hell any way he can.”

  “Let him,” Bull said. �
��What we’re doing isn’t illegal. We’ve got as much right to the water as the Prescotts have. As long as we have a witness who can pin him to the wall, Ham’s agreed not to interfere.”

  “Maybe.” Jasper spat in the loose dirt. “But I wouldn’t sell the old son of a bitch short if I was you. And Rose is gettin’ anxious. She keeps askin’ me when the sheriff is gonna arrest the man who shot her grandpa. If somethin’ don’t happen soon, she’s liable to light out and go lookin’ for him herself.”

  “She still doesn’t know who Ham is?”

  “Nope. But she’s a sharp little cookie, and as tough as a rawhide ribbon. You can’t keep her in the dark much longer, Bull.”

  They were talking in low voices. Only as they paused did Bull hear the rustle of willows from the far side of the creek. As he turned, something large crashed away in the dark, headed back toward the Prescott Ranch. Had it been a cow, a horse . . . or a man?

  They waited in the silence that was broken only by the rush of the creek and the chirr of nighttime insects. Nothing. But by now they were both nervous. Bull’s pistol was in the truck. He retrieved it and tucked it under his belt. But nothing happened. They finished their night’s work and left.

  * * *

  The next morning, after a late breakfast, Ferg climbed into his red Thunderbird and headed for the Rimrock Ranch. He was in a good mood. Over the past weeks, he’d become impatient with his father’s refusal to turn him loose on Bull Tyler. Now, while the old man was at the Cattlemen’s Association conference in Fort Worth, and planning a three-day hunting trip at a friend’s ranch on the way home, Ferg was boss. He planned to make the most of it, starting with a visit to stir things up at the Rimrock.

  As he drove he hummed a tune. Last night he’d picked up Edith a block from her father’s house, parked on the side of a quiet country lane, and had himself some rip-roaring fun in the backseat. It hadn’t taken much time for Edith to come around. The hint that he just might decide to marry her had done the trick. They’d been a regular thing for more than a month. And it didn’t hurt that she really liked sex. She’d liked it at fifteen when he’d knocked her up, and she liked it now. She even let him do it without a rubber, some nonsense about birth control being against God’s will. Ferg wasn’t worried. His father was already paying for Garn. No big deal if it happened again.