by Lynn Shurr
“A persona, is it?”
“Yes, and if you don’t like it, you can get on outta here. I still earn only $150,000 a year fighting bulls.” Not counting interest from his trust fund and stock dividends, his prize money, some small endorsements, and gigs at bullfighting clinics. Clint raked a hand through his short, dark blond hair. He had no energy left to deal with Renee’s moods tonight. If she didn’t want his help, she could go, just go, and leave him to cope with his own pain. When he’d seen her all tricked out in those new clothes, flirting with another man in the stands tonight, he knew he’d never tame her, teach her the right way to behave. Bodey had pegged her as a man-eater, and she’d sure taken a chunk of out him tonight.
“Clint, I saw how you saved that rider’s life. You aren’t paid nearly enough. I’ll take the clothes back tomorrow, all except the outfit I wore. I squeezed my soda cup when the bull hit you and sort of ruined any chance for an exchange. You must be sore. Come over here and drop those pants.” Renee patted the mattress.
“Look, I’m a little tired and a lot bruised.”
Still, he took off his shirt and dropped his pants. Renee usually enjoyed the revelation of his tight, shapely buttocks, but tonight a “Eeuwww” escaped her.
“I had an eggplant in my refrigerator go bad one time. You’re that same color behind.”
“I didn’t need to know. I don’t want to be on the top or the bottom tonight, okay?”
“How about sideways? I’ll do all the work. You just enjoy.”
“Well, sex does ease the pain—or at least takes my mind off of it.” Enjoying her one last time wasn’t really giving in, right?
“Then let me take care of you.”
Clint eased himself down on his side. Renee slid a slim hand deep between his legs and stroked. She cupped and massaged his balls, working her way upward until he sprang erect between her fingers. She rolled a condom down, stroking as she went, placed one leg over his thigh, and eased herself on top of his penis. Working those marvelous internal muscles of hers, Renee milked him dry. Once she finished him off and withdrew, Clint moaned and rolled over on his front.
“I guess you didn’t get much out of that,” he said. He also guessed she’d be gone in the morning now that his thrusters were out of order. He almost wished for Renee to disappear so he could end the struggle and get on with his life.
“I got all that I wanted,” she answered. “Go to sleep, Clint.”
Chapter Seven
Sr. Inez got up from her place before the shrine to the Virgin with the use of her blackthorn walking stick. She helped Sr. Helen arise and handed her a brightly painted cane. They stretched, limped down the aisle of the nuns’ chapel at Mt. Carmel Academy, and exited into the thick, hot summer air.
“I saw Prudence Niles at Rainbow Liquor and Groceries today. She was stocking up on booze for the week. Doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.” Sr. Inez shook her head sadly. “She said she had a postcard from Renee. She and her cowboy went to Casper, Wyoming, to help with a rodeo for special kids.”
“That doesn’t sound like Renee. I was under the impression she only went to charitable affairs to meet rich men. Do you think our prayers for her are working?” Sr. Helen asked.
“I’m positive, but I believe we need reinforcements. The BVM cannot handle this alone. Tomorrow after dinner, we should go into the pine woods and pray to St. Mary Magdalene at her statue.”
“Ah, Nessy, I don’t think I can make it down that long and winding path anymore. With all the praying we’ve been doing in the chapel, even in the air-conditioning, my knees are killing me. I’m happy to offer up my pain to God, but if I collapse halfway there, you won’t be able to carry me back to the convent.”
“I’ll ask the Mother Superior to borrow the golf cart. She does approve of what we are trying to accomplish—the redemption of Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes.”
“Very well, then,” said Sr. Helen, her blue eyes twinkling, her white head nodding. “You bring a candle. I’ll cut some flowers for an offering. And BYOB—bring your own bug spray.”
They carried out their plans after the seven p.m. prayers and went into the woods smelling of candle wax, incense, and DEET. Sr. Nessy drove the golf cart, a gift from the father of one of their Academy girls who had given up the dubious pleasure of the sport. Her recklessness behind the wheel caused Sr. Helen to squeak each time they rounded a curve. Petals from the bouquet of white crepe myrtles she held scattered in the artificial breeze the turn created.
“The intention of the winding path is to promote the contemplation of one’s sins, not serve as a Formula One race course,” she reminded her fellow nun tartly.
“I’d like to get there before the mosquitoes come out if you don’t mind. Good thing it stays light until almost nine this time of year, but under the pines the bloodsuckers rise earlier.”
Sr. Helen clamped her mouth shut and held on. God saw them safely to their destination at the rather lascivious statue of Mary Magdalene who reclined upon a couch, her long hair undone, her feet bare, her body lush and curvaceous. If the Blessed Mother Leontine hadn’t declared it a work of art and a true tribute to the Magdalene, surely some priest would have had it hauled away a century and more ago. She got down from the golf cart rather unsteadily and laid her tribute of flowers by St. Mary’s feet.
“Not much in bloom in the summer heat. Sorry we have nothing better to offer. The marigolds are meant for the Virgin, you know.” Whether Sr. Helen’s apology was intended for her companion or the saint was hard to say.
“The little spray of red roses is a nice touch though,” Sr. Nessy assured her.
“Yes, a tough variety of climber, it tries to bloom even when the temperatures hit ninety. The old roses Mother Leontine planted long ago do fare better than the modern hybrids, but this is all the bush had to offer right now. We’d better get started.”
Sr. Nessy set the squat pale yellow candle by the flowers and lit it with a cheap cigarette lighter she quickly stowed away deep in her habit again. She’d given up smoking long, long ago, but even possessing a lighter for a short time brought back the old urge to light up again. The scent of mosquito-repelling citronella filled the air.
“Practical and pleasant,” she remarked. Getting to her knees rather gingerly in the soft pine needles, she closed her eyes and folded her hands. Her strong voice filled the glade and scared off a plump raccoon just about to start its nightly marauding of the convent’s garbage cans.
“St. Mary, hear our prayer. We beseech you, who stayed by the grieving Virgin and went with her to into the garden to see the miracle of the risen Christ, to lend your strength to hers in bringing about another miracle. One of our Academy girls needs your help most grievously. She is called Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes. As you can tell from her excess of names, she has married often, but not in true love and happiness. Please show her the right path to travel in order to gain these most invaluable blessings.”
Sr. Helen continued in words so soft they did not so much as startle the flock of sparrows that had hidden in the bushes when Nessy began her plea. “Give the man she travels with strength and everlasting patience. I believe he is a good man, full of the type of kindness Renee has never known. He paid for our ice creams.”
“She doesn’t need to know that!” Sr. Nessy interjected with her usual force. The tiny birds took flight.
“It’s an example of his generous spirit if you please, Sister.” Sr. Helen continued gently, “He also has courage, great courage. He is a bullfighter, you know. He will need all that courage and whatever more you can lend him to help our girl. Please do not let him fail. Oh, I am sure if the task is too great for you and Mother Mary, our own Blessed Mother Leontine will lend you her great strength as well. She would never give up on salvation for a Mt. Carmel Academy girl.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” Sr. Nessy whispered as if the statue might overhear. “I mean we should not cast doubt on her ability.”
“I am not! This is
a great task we ask of her. Calling on Mother Leontine is simply a suggestion. She knows that.”
“I suppose.”
“St. Mary, hear our prayer,” Sr. Helen ended as Sr. Inez had begun.
The last shaft of evening sunlight speared through the pines and illuminated the white marble of the statue. Prettier than any dove, a snowy egret fluttered from the darkness under the trees and landed on St. Mary’s voluptuous hip. It wrapped its golden feet into her draperies to secure its perch, then turned one round, dark eye toward Sr. Helen, then Sr. Nessy. Its small head made a single bob, and it flew away to join a flock arrowing toward a night roost in the distance.
“Did you see?” asked Sr. Helen, her voice full of awe.
“Of course, I saw the bird. My hips and knees are going, not my eyesight.” Sr. Nessy put her hands on the base of the statue and heaved herself up. “They should put a handicapped bar right here. We aren’t the only old women who come here to pray.”
“Oh, offer up your pain to God! Didn’t you notice the bird wore its mating plumage, those glorious white aigrettes people used to kill them for?”
“Pretty, but what of it?”
“They don’t breed this time of year, Nessy, only in the spring. We have experienced a vision and must tell the Mother Superior when we return the golf cart.”
“If you insist, but I think your logic is shaky, even if I do back your word.”
“No more than your driving. Help me up. I know our prayers will be answered.”
Chapter Eight
Clint parked the Belly Nelle and The Tin Can in the huge ring of pickups and horse trailers fanning out around a plain dirt arena shaded by a metal roof. No hookups for water, waste, or electricity here. They’d have to run the generator if they wanted AC and take quick showers. Multicolored buttes rose up in the distance, but the rodeo took place in a small and sweltering valley with a trickle of a stream running through it and a line of heat-stunted cottonwoods as its only foliage.
Food stands had been set up far enough away from the dirt and flies drawn by the rough stock to be sanitary. A line of bright yellow portable toilets stood farther out in the desert. Way down at the intersection of the blacktop and the dirt road to the arena, the small oasis of a gas station was doing big business in fuel and snacks.
“Tell me again why we’re here and not in some nice, climate-controlled arena,” Renee said, tilting the raffia cowboy hat down almost to the top of her designer sunglasses.
Why in hell was she still here complaining more every mile they went away from Phoenix? He should have left her by the side of the road. A woman like Renee would have no trouble getting a ride back to the city. He simply couldn’t do it, no more than he would take a bitch pregnant with puppies by the wrong kind of sire and dump her in the country on her own. Certainly, Renee had survival skills the average dog lacked, but he didn’t have it in him to abandon her yet. He patiently explained again.
“Because this is my final year on the circuit, and I’m giving back. I got my start at places like this. Now, I’ve been Bullfighter of the Year three times, and this year I’m not working for points at competitions. Let someone else have a chance at the title. I’ll help the local boys learn their stuff, do a demonstration, put in a personal appearance. They don’t get many big names out here.”
“I can certainly see why. I don’t think this place is on the map.”
“People who live here know where the rodeo is. We’re still in Arizona if that will help you out any.”
“Not really. I guess I’ll stand in line for a drink and some food if you’re going to be busy.”
Renee shifted her satchel because its thick leather strap cut into her shoulder. This morning the lock on the door to The Tin Can had broken, and she refused to leave her most vital possessions inside to be stolen by anyone who came along. She wore wedge sandals, cropped white pants riding low on her hips, and an equally cropped yellow boat-necked top showing more belly than anyone else at the rodeo. Male eyes shifted her way as she passed, and female eyes squinted and judged. She could care less.
“I could eat first. What are our options for lunch?”
“The usual at these affairs—hot dogs, corn dogs, hamburgers.” Renee sighed.
“Look over there, an Indian taco stand. Get me two with extra lettuce and tomato. I’ll stand in line for some drinks while you do that.” Clint thrust a twenty-dollar bill into her hand and watched Renee move away, rolling those hips like the waves in an ocean out here in the middle of the desert.
What to do about Renee? Despite his backside injury requiring a pillow beneath his butt for the drive, he’d slept well last night. His brain felt sharp today despite that unsettling dream lingering in mind.
He’d fought a huge bull striped like a tiger with clawed feet instead of hooves. The creature almost had him, nearly devoured him with a mouth full of sharp teeth, when three women appeared between him and the slavering animal. One wore a blue veil, the next had unbound black hair that fell to her waist, and the third with pale eyes dressed like a nun. He tried to save them from the strange bull by shoving them to safety and offering himself to the vicious claws instead, but his hands passed right through the trio.
“No Clint,” the blue-veiled one said. “We have come to save you,” the second lady answered with an almost saucy look on her beautiful face. “You must keep trying,” the stern nun demanded. “We will give you extra strength and patience.” They disappeared and where the beast once stood scratching the earth, ready to charge, a tabby-striped kitten appeared. It bounded to his feet, rubbed against his ankle, begged to be picked up—and he did, holding it close to his chest.
Clint shook his head to get rid of the vision, but it remained firmly lodged in his memory unlike any other dream. His mother, a devout Catholic, would say he’d been visited by the three Marys. He wondered what she’d think of Renee if he ever brought the woman home. Just couldn’t imagine doing that unless Renee’s behavior improved considerably. For that, he’d have to go with his plan and bend her to his will, not break her, but teach her to mind her manners. “Ladies, you’d better deliver on that patience and strength you promised,” he mumbled to himself.
Clint took his place in a loose line moving along far more quickly than the one for tacos. The man in front of him paid the cashier, thrust his wallet back into a hip pocket and attempted to grasp six long-neck bottles of beer in his two hands. Quick as a sidewinder, a small brown hand lifted the wallet as the man started back to a group of friends who had staked out a space with a beach umbrella and a few folding chairs.
Clint ignored the woman asking for his order. He left the line and followed the child who had the sense not to bolt and call attention to himself. The kid ducked behind a large SUV. When Clint came up on him, he was shoving the folding money from the wallet into the pocket of worn, blue jean shorts covered by a plain, white T-shirt. As Clint’s hand descended onto the small shoulder, the boy ditched the wallet under the SUV and dug in his sneakers to take off. Clint secured him, clamping a hand around the kid’s neck and forcing him down into the pebble-studded dirt.
“Get the wallet. Now put back the money. All of it!”
“I found it, Mister. Yeah, I shouldn’t take the money. But me, I got two baby sisters who need milk.”
The boy was all wide, innocent, dark eyes and thick, black hair cut in bangs across his forehead. He wasn’t scrawny enough to be starving, either. He probably had at least one parent and maybe both his sisters also working the crowd. Clint double-checked his own wallet, which he had the sense not to keep in a hip pocket.
“I’ll see this gets back to the owner.”
“You gonna let me go, Mister?” the kid said in a small, pleading, pathetic voice that had most likely worked before on softer hearts.
Clint would bet the child often left with donations and a pat on the head. Baby sisters, my ass. “I might if you’ll do me a favor first.”
The boy looked wary. “I don’t drop my
pants for men. I seen that Brokeback Mountain movie.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have, but that’s not what I want.”
Clint began to frogmarch the small thief back toward the arena through the messy maze of trucks parked any which way. In the process, he returned the wallet to the group under the beach umbrella, saying he’d found it by the beverage stand. By this time, he held the boy’s hand like a loving uncle.
Clint spotted Renee. Bent over inspecting a display of intricately beaded necklaces and turquoise bracelets set out on a blanket by an enterprising Navajo woman, Renee and her nicely rounded ass were hard to miss. She held a cardboard carrier filled with three tacos.
“See that beautiful woman over there?”
“The Anglo lady with the big muchachas? Si.”
“Watch your mouth. I want you to steal her bag. Might be hard. She’s got it crosswise over her breasts now.”
“No problema.”
“I’ll chase you into the parking area. You meet me back there on the far side of that old trailer and hand over the satchel. I know for a fact she doesn’t have much money in there, so don’t even think about really taking off with it. I can catch you, and I will turn you in this time if you cross me. Do what I ask, and I’ll give you enough cash so your daddy will let you take the afternoon off to enjoy the rodeo. Deal?”
“You want to be a hero, fine by me.”
“Go.” Clint released the boy, who bore down on Renee like a cattle dog on a stubborn cow.
As she straightened up, shaking her head, “no” regretfully, and turned away, the kid circled behind her back. Coming on fast, he knocked her face first into the ground. The tacos went flying. The thief neatly stripped the satchel over Renee’s head as she struggled to get up and tore off into the parking area.
“Clint, he has my bag!” she shouted.
“I’m on it!”
Clint sprinted after the boy, who put on a good show, ducking down and weaving among the vehicles. Both of them breathing hard, they rendezvoused behind The Tin Can. The kid handed over the satchel, and Clint dug two-hundred dollars out of the money belt Renee had no idea he owned. They made the transfer.
