Good Time Girl

by Candace Schuler

  “You’re something else, Slim,” he said softly, his tone admiring and appreciative and awed. “Damn, you are just something fucking else.”

  Roxanne smiled beatifically, her confidence restored, and pursed her lips in a ripe, red air kiss.

  THEY HAD A QUICK LUNCH of beans and burritos at Pete’s Eats and took their coffee in to-go cups to save time and get back on the road more quickly. Roxanne added a precise half teaspoon of sugar to hers, stirring it thoroughly to make sure it dissolved.

  “Why bother?” Tom said, watching her as she daintily tapped her spoon on the edge of the cup and set it, bowl down, on the corner of a paper napkin.

  “Because that’s the way I like it,” she said, and snapped the plastic lid on with a firm click. She picked her purse up, slung it over her shoulder and held her hand out, palm up. “Key, please,” she said, and wriggled her fingers imperiously.

  Tom covered his shirt pocket with the flat of his hand. “You got some objection to my driving?”

  “Nope.” She reached over and slid her fingers into his pocket, snagging the key ring with the tip of her fingernail. “It’s my turn to drive, is all.”

  “This is Texas, Slim,” he said as he followed her out to the car. “Real men don’t let women drive ’em around in Texas. It ain’t manly.”

  “In case you didn’t notice, cowboy, we crossed the border into New Mexico more than fifty miles back. I think your manhood’s safe.” She tossed her purse onto floor behind the driver’s seat and opened the door before he could come around the car to do it for her. “Why don’t you close your eyes and take a nap,” she suggested breezily as she adjusted the seat and the rearview mirrors to her shorter stature. “You’re going to need your rest for tonight’s ride.”

  He slanted her a wry, wicked look out of the corner of his eye as he folded himself into the passenger seat. “Is that a proposition? So soon?”

  “For the bronc ride, cowboy.” She reached out and tapped the brim of his hat, tipping it down over his face. “Sleep,” she ordered sternly, and then spoiled the effect by shooting him a teasing sidelong grin. “The proposition comes later.” Her grin widened. “If you’re lucky.”

  “Oh, I’ve always been lucky.” He pulled his hat completely down over his face, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back, angling his body into the corner formed by the seat and the car door. “Especially lately,” he said from beneath the hat.

  Five minutes later, he was sound asleep. He didn’t wake up until she slowed down to take the exit ramp to the rodeo arena. As he had that morning, he woke slowly, a muscle at a time. His shoulders rolled under the pale-blue fabric of his shirt. His arms unfolded. His legs shifted. He lifted the hat from his face, ran his other hand through his hair, and resettled the hat.

  “We make it on time?” he asked, yawning hugely as he extended his arms straight out in front of him, fingers laced, palms turned outward in a bone-popping stretch.

  “You tell me,” she said, as she turned the Mustang into the parking lot and began circling, looking for an empty spot among the Volvos, BMWs, and bright shiny sports utility vehicles that dominated. Unlike most rodeos, which drew fans from surrounding ranches and small towns, the Rodeo de Santa Fe was an uptown, upscale affair. The fans were mostly big-city tourists and the artsy locals who’d made Santa Fe a style as well as a place. Beat-up pickups and dusty “ranch” cars were few and far between. Her glossy red rental car fit right in. “The lot’s pretty full,” she said anxiously. “And I can hear someone singing the national anthem. Does that mean you’re too late to compete?”

  “Not if I hustle.”

  “Well, hustle, then. Don’t worry about me,” she said, when he hesitated. “You go on and do what you have to do. I’ll find a parking place, get a ticket and a soft drink, and be in the stands in time to watch you ride. Go on.” She waved him away. “Go.”

  “YO! TOM! Over here.” Tom’s bandy-legged traveling partner hailed him as he came out of the rodeo secretary’s office with his draw and his competition number in hand. “I didn’t think you were gonna make it in time.” The man grinned lasciviously. “That little blonde you were with last night looked all lathered up and hot to trot. I’ll bet she gave you one helluva ride.”

  Tom ignored the comment. “Pin this on for me, would you?” he said, and turned around so the other cowboy could pin his number to the back of his shirt.

  “Well, come on, pard. Give. Was she as good as she looked?”

  His number fastened on, Tom turned around to face his friend. The other cowboy appeared to be made mostly of barbed wire and bone; he stood a mere five-six with his boots on and weighed a scant hundred and thirty pounds, flak jacket and all. He was a championship-caliber bull rider, currently number eight in the rankings, which put him squarely in contention for the finals in Vegas come December. He and Tom had been friends since they were just a couple of snot-nosed troublemakers on the Second Chance Ranch in Bowie, Texas. For that alone, Tom was willing to cut him some slack.

  “You didn’t dent my truck, did you, Rooster?”

  “’Course not. It’s parked over yonder, all safe and sound.” He jerked his chin, indicating the direction. “On t’other side of the hay barn where there ain’t too many other cars ’cause it’s so danged out of the way. So—” He waggled his eyebrows. “How was she? Hotter than a firecracker, I bet.” His eyes sparkled with vicarious pleasure. “The kind that rides a cowboy real hard and puts him away wet, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Keys?”

  “Got ’em right here.” The wiry little cowboy dug into the front pocket of his jeans. “You’re not gonna share any of the juicy details, are you?” he complained as he dropped the keys into Tom’s open palm.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, hell,” he groused. “I don’t know why you’re bein’ so mean-spirited and close-mouthed about some buckle bunny you picked up at Ed Earl’s. It ain’t like she’s anything special or—” The look in Tom’s eyes had him reconsidering. “Or is she?”

  ROXANNE FOUND A PARKING place between a gleaming BMW convertible and an equally gleaming Cadillac Escalade SUV. After retrieving her purse from the back seat, she made her way across the tarmac to the ticket booth. The air was brutally hot and dry, despite the lateness of the day. The sky was a bleached-out blue, as if it had faded in the unrelenting glare of the sun. The hillsides surrounding the rodeo grounds were barren and brown, except for the expensive new homes—most of them Spanish-style adobes—nestled among their folds.

  The ripe smell of livestock permeated everything, mingling with the scents of popcorn, beer and cotton candy from the concession stands, enlivened by drifting hints of sagebrush and hay, overlaid by the somehow fertile smell of the sun-baked land. It was nothing at all like the cool green smell of Connecticut, or the chalkboard-and-glue smells of her regular daily life in the classroom at St. Catherine’s. She took a deep breath, savoring the differences, finding them exciting and exotic even after two weeks of constant exposure.

  The singer had long since finished her rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” by the time Roxanne had paid her entrance fee and entered the rodeo grounds. As she strolled toward the arena, she could hear the announcer extolling the virtues of cowboys in the upcoming steer-wrestling event. Knowing she had plenty of time before the bronc riders would be competing, she stopped to buy a cowboy hat to protect herself from the sun and help her blend in with the crowd, and then she lingered a little longer, selecting just the right hatband to go with it. The one she chose was bright red, like her boots and tank top, a narrow, braided lariat of leather. The ends dangled down over the edge of her hat brim and were finished with flashing silver beads and fluffy little red feathers that nearly brushed her shoulder. She felt like a sure ’nuff cowgirl with it decorating the crown of her straw cowboy hat as she wandered toward the arena through the labyrinth of concession stands that surrounded it.

  Besides the usual food and souvenir stands that could be found at ne
arly any rodeo, there were miniature clothing boutiques and art galleries meant to appeal to the uptown, upscale patrons that frequented the Santa Fe rodeo. In quick succession, Roxanne found herself plunking down her credit card for a snug little denim vest decorated with silver conchas and leather fringe that fit her like a glove, a pair of soft butterscotch leather chamois pants cut like a pair of jeans, a turquoise and silver lariat necklace, a Western-cut shirt with pearl snaps, and a completely impractical white-eyelet skirt with a ruffled hem that she didn’t even try to resist. Her purchases just about busted her vacation budget, but what else was a vacation for, if not overindulgence and mindless extravagance? And, besides, she—or, rather, Roxy—needed the clothes.

  The barrel racers were doing their thing by the time she finally made her way to the stands, guiding their quick little cow ponies in figure-eight patterns around barrels set up in the arena, the fringe on their Western-cut shirts and their long hair—most of them had long hair—flying as they raced the clock. Roxanne stood at the base of the bleachers, her purse and a bulging plastic shopping bag looped over her shoulder, a large Dr Pepper clutched in one hand, a glossy rodeo program in the other, shading her eyes as she searched for a seat in the jam-packed arena. Spying one about halfway up and off to the far side, she made her way up the metal steps, sidling past a pseudo cowboy in electric-blue, lizard-skin boots with a cell phone pressed to his ear, past the trio of stylish pseudo cow-girls in beaded buckskin blouses, past an artsy couple in gauzy pastel linens and elaborate turquoise jewelry, to a seat next to the metal rail that separated the stands from the bucking chutes and the staging area just beyond them.

  The area was bustling with activity. There were wranglers—people who handled the animals and made sure they were where they needed to be—rodeo bullfighters in their outrageous clown outfits, contestants readying themselves for their individual events. Roxanne had been following the rodeo long enough to know that most cowboys had their own special rituals before an event, just like any other athlete. Some wouldn’t ride without a picture of their wife or sweetheart tucked in the breast pocket of their shirt; some always wore the same hat or the same pair of socks; some checked and rechecked their gear; others paced, or sat quietly, staring into space, or praying, or just repeating a special mantra over and over.

  Roxanne craned her neck, searching the area for a glimpse of her good-looking dangerous cowboy. The saddle-bronc riding event wasn’t for a while yet, but she knew Tom’s routine from having surreptitiously watched him for the past two weeks.

  First, he would sit down, right in the dirt beside one of the pens if there was nothing else to sit on—and, often, there wasn’t—lay his saddle in his lap, and go over it meticulously, inch-by inch, checking the cinches and webbing for wear or weakness, brushing off dust, picking off bits of straw, polishing the smooth leather seat with his bandana until it gleamed. A bronc rider’s saddle was his most precious possession; he carried it from rodeo to rodeo, the only constant on every go-round. The horses were different each time, the venue constantly changed, but the saddle was always the same. A smart cowboy took good care of it.

  She finally spied him, sitting on a wooden bench near one of the pens. He’d changed his shirt—that’s why she hadn’t seen him at first glance. It was beige now, instead of the blue she’d expected. The Western yoke and pocket flaps were outlined in dark brown, making his shoulders look impossibly wide, his hips impossibly narrow in contrast. His head was bent over the saddle, his face shielded from her sight by the brim of his hat, but she could see his hands, moving slowly, almost caressingly over the saddle, giving it the same undivided, single-minded attention he’d given her when she was under those hard, competent hands. She gulped audibly, her throat suddenly dry, her pulse suddenly pounding, her face flushed from more than the heat of the sun. She took a long noisy sip of her soft drink in a useless effort to cool off, and wondered how soon they could steal away and find a motel room.

  6

  SATISFIED WITH the saddle’s condition, Tom rose from the wooden bench, slung the saddle over the blanket on the top rail of one of the unoccupied pens, and ambled on over to view the action in the arena. The barrel racers had given way to the calf ropers, who would soon give way to the bare bronc riders. And then it would be his turn.

  Saddle-bronc riding wasn’t the glamour event of the rodeo anymore, not the way it had been back in the early days—bull riding held that spot now, thanks to ESPN—but it was the classic rodeo event, the one everybody thought of when they thought of rodeo. Style mattered just as much as staying on, and it took years of practice to do it well, which gave the older, more experienced cowboys the edge. Tom wasn’t the top-ranked cowboy in the event, but his score in yesterday’s rodeo in Lubbock had pushed him to number eighteen in the rankings, close enough to the magic fifteen to make a place in the finals in Las Vegas a distinct possibility.

  He glanced up toward the stands, wondering if she would still be with him then. They’d agreed they’d only be together until the end of summer, and the finals were in December, so it wasn’t likely. Not that he wanted her to be there, anyway. That would make his life way too complicated because he’d already halfway decided that if he made the finals, he was going to ask Dan Jensen’s daughter Jo Beth to come to Las Vegas and watch him compete. Dan was a neighboring rancher, with a nice little spread that ran right alongside the Second Chance, back home in Bowie, Texas. Jo Beth was Dan’s only child. She was a nice-looking little gal, sweet-natured and hardworking, knew her way around a barn the way most women knew their way around a dance floor. And she’d had a crush on him since she was sweet sixteen. Not that he’d ever looked her way back then; at twenty-four he hadn’t been the least bit interested in sweet little girls. But she was a woman now, “full-growed and haired over” as the saying went, and she was back on her daddy’s ranch after four years at Texas A&M with a degree in animal science, and marriage on her mind. Her folks had thrown a big shindig to welcome her home and halfway through his first two-step with her, he’d begun wondering if maybe it wasn’t time to start thinking about getting married himself. A man could do a lot worse than to marry a woman like Jo Beth Jensen. Especially when the man in question was a rancher who was retiring from the rodeo circuit and settling down to raise cattle and kids. He had a good start on the cattle, but for the kids he needed a wife. And Jo Beth had been tailor-made for the role.

  He hadn’t asked her, though. He hadn’t even hinted that he was thinking about it. And now he was damned glad he hadn’t. It wouldn’t have set right with his conscience to be engaged to one woman while he was rolling around on motel beds, tearing up the sheets with a different one. Once the summer was over, that would be the time to get things settled with Jo Beth. In the meantime…

  He glanced up at the stands again, looking for a tall blond glass of water in a red tank top but couldn’t pick her out of the crowd—until she suddenly stood, a big smile on her face, and waved frantically. He started to lift his arm to wave back when he realized she wasn’t looking at him. He turned his head, following her line of sight to the young cowboy who sat perched on the top rail of the arena fence with his boot heels hooked on the rung below. The cowboy touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, returning her wave with a jaunty salute and a gallant dip of his head.

  A sharp sliver of something very like jealousy pricked Tom as he recognized the other cowboy.

  Clay Madison was an up-and-comer, a good-looking young bull rider who was already making a name on the circuit while still in his first year of professional competition, and giving Rooster a run for his money into the bargain. Despite the hot-pink and black-striped shirt and the elaborately fringed and inlaid chaps, which might suggest otherwise to the uninitiated, he was as tough as nails. He was also pretty enough to have more than his share of buckle bunnies panting after him when the rodeo was over. A few of the bolder ones pursued him shamelessly, to the point of hanging around outside the cowboys’ locker room like a bunch of cats
in heat, waiting for him to come out so they could pounce.

  Tom didn’t like to think that Slim might be one of them. He didn’t like it at all. He was thinking seriously of marching up into the grandstand to tell her so, in no uncertain terms, when the announcer broadcast the news that the saddle bronc event was next up.

  ROXANNE FORGOT ABOUT Clay Madison between one breath and the next, turning her attention toward the bucking chutes as she sank back down in her seat. The announcer was reeling off the lineup, extolling the virtues of each horse and man, waxing poetic about the contests to come. Roxanne was only interested in finding out which horse Tom had drawn. The horse counted for half of a contestant’s score. A lack-luster performance on the part of the horse could bring the score down no matter how well the cowboy rode. A good bucker, on the other hand, could push the score up into the winning numbers, provided, of course, that the cowboy managed to stay on for the full eight seconds.

  Tom had drawn Hot Sauce. The two had been paired up several times before, and Tom was a little bit ahead in the win column. He’d managed to ride her to the horn more times than she’d managed to toss him on his butt in the dirt. She was a good bucker, a worthy opponent, a horse who would do her part to put points on the board.

  Roxanne watched, her hands curled around the rolled-up program, as Tom climbed up onto the platform behind the bucking chutes and leaned over the rail to gently place his saddle on the mare’s back. Most injuries occurred in the chutes where the narrow confines left little room for maneuvering if a horse panicked and started bucking prematurely. But Hot Sauce stood calmly, as much a pro as the man who was saddling her.

  She was already wearing the flank strap, a sheepskin-lined, beltlike apparatus that fit loosely now, but would be pulled tight when the chute opened, providing added encouragement to buck. The added weight of the saddle didn’t seem to concern her in the least. Tom made a small, careful adjustment to the way it sat on her back, then used a long, hooked pole to fish for the cinch hanging down the other side of her barrel. He pulled it under her belly, drawing it up her side until he could reach down with his free hand to bring it up the rest of the way. Handing the pole to a waiting wrangler, he leaned into the chute to feed the end of the cinch through the O-ring and tighten it down to secure the saddle. The mare tried to swing her head around to see what was going on as the cinch tightened, but she was restricted by the narrow confines of the chute. She kicked out with her back feet to show her displeasure with the situation, and rattled the lower rail. The sound startled her. She whinnied in fear and temper, kicking again, and then tried to rear and lost her balance.