The Sweet Spot

by Laura Drake

  She turned off the engine and looked around the messy cab for Jimmy’s work gloves as her father came around to open the door for her. Giving up the hunt, she stepped out, then hopped into the bed of the truck as the curious cattle trotted up. She had to admit, the infernal beasts were pretty. Their colors were as varied as their breeds: rusty reds, blacks, creams, brindles, and even a few speckled blues. All fat and pregnant.

  Char wrestled the cloth bag onto the edge of the tailgate and studied the sewn closure. I should have thought to bring a jackknife. “Why the heck don’t they make these things easier to open?” She worked a fingernail under the string. A spear of pain shot up her finger. “Oh, dadgum it!”

  She inspected the nail, broken below the quick. Something bumped at her backside. Whirling, she saw a heifer back away, breaking a string of drool that stretched from its snout to the rear of her jeans. “Yuk.” She glared at the offender. “Y’all just cool your jets, will you? None of you look like you’re going to starve to death in the next five minutes.”

  Her father chuckled as he pulled himself up into the truck bed. “That’s what you get when you hang your rump in the wind, Little Bit.”

  She met his gaze and grinned back. This was her dad.

  “Scoot over, I’ll do that,” he said.

  “No, I’ve got it, Daddy. I need to learn this.” She bent over and managed to tear a hole in the bag. Together, they emptied it out of the end of the truck. As the stream of golden feed spilled, the cattle jostled each other to get to it. Her father helped drag the second bag to the tailgate, then jumped down and walked to the front of the truck as Char emptied the feed bag.

  She straightened, a stiff breeze lifting her hair. The ancient oak and pecan trees looked dormant face-on, but if she squinted just right, they had a wash of green so delicate she had to look twice to be sure. Not a cloud marred the bluebonnet sky, and she inhaled crisp air, feeling like she’d hibernated the winter away.

  Wishing she had.

  A bull’s outraged bellow snatched her attention. Looking up, her heartbeat stuttered. Her father had wandered fifty yards away and stood staring down a yearling bull that pawed the ground between him and the truck.

  Before Char could catch her breath, the bull charged.

  “Check one, check.” JB tweaked the bass a bit and sang softly into the mike, “ ‘Women have been my trouble since I found out they weren’t men—’ ” Sound checks had always seemed lame to him, so a year or so ago, he started singing instead.

  He looked up, to where Jess’s sexy, knowing smile used to be, across the arena, among the riders’ wives. They’d met at an event in San Angelo, when his singing had prompted her to ask her friend for an introduction. The gravitational pull that hit when he’d slapped eyes on that innocent face and wicked little body hadn’t let go, though, Lord knows, he’d tried. She’d made him feel alive at a time when he’d forgotten what alive felt like.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised when Char hadn’t believed him yesterday. Jess may have gotten him through that horrible time, but his lies had cost him dear.

  The arena before him was anthill busy. Workers hung gates on the bucking chutes at one end, while more swarmed in the center, setting up the round shark cage that would house the camera crew. Its flat top would provide a haven from charging bulls as well as a stage for the arena clown.

  “Hey, big guy.” As if his thought conjured him, Wylie Galt, the arena entertainer of the event, simpered up, waggling his fingers. He hadn’t yet dressed in his signature baggy shorts and oversize hockey jersey, but his whiteface makeup and huge red smile were in place. And obviously he was playing the clown already. “Oooh, that song has me positively tingly.”

  “Put a sock in it, Wylie, you idiot. We’ve got work to do.” They’d worked events together, the past two years. Along with being the arena announcer at pro bull riding events, JB had played straight man to Wylie as they entertained the crowd during the breaks in the action. But Wylie was more than a coworker; he was a good friend. Most of the men on the circuit were single—JB and Wiley both knew what it was like to be on the road, missing a family back home. Well, JB used to know what it was like. “The PBR nixed your idea of bringing the fan of the night down on the dirt—too much liability.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got a better idea.” Wylie scanned the empty seats of the arena. “I’ll jump the fence and go to them. Can the camera follow me up there?” He pointed to the seats at the ceiling of the arena.

  “The camera can, but it’s gonna look bad if you collapse of a heart attack on national TV.”

  Wylie puffed out his chest. “That might be tough for a lesser man.” At JB’s snort, Wylie leveled a gaze at JB’s midsection. “Shee-it, cowboy, you’re the one gone soft as a girl’s hands. Either Jess was blind, or you’ve got the biggest squash in the garden under that bushel.” He pointed to JB’s crotch.

  “You know, you picturing my gourd makes me a little squeamish. I’d wonder if you were going vegetarian if I didn’t know Dana was home with a new baby. Now, can we get to work here, so we can trick the fans into thinking you’re clever one more time?”

  His production manager hollered, “JB, we’ve got some things to go over.”

  JB didn’t realize how many things the manager referred to until he looked out over the stands and realized they’d filled. Standing behind the sound boards, he shrugged into his Western yoked suit coat and breathed in the excitement and electric pulse of anticipation rolling off the audience. Another packed-to-capacity crowd. He looked out at the colorful swath of humanity: families, cowboys, buckle bunnies, old men, and babies. He felt most alive here, in the arena, his voice the focus of thousands of people. Time to go to work.

  He flipped the mike. “Hello, Abilene!” The crowd cheered. “I’m JB Denny, and we’ve got a heck of a show for you tonight. Just like in the olden days, the best bulls in the country have converged on Abilene, and the cowboys waiting to ride them are tougher’n a two-dollar steak.

  “We’re going live on national TV in a few seconds, so let’s show the rest of the country what a Texas crowd sounds like.” The crowd murmured as the lights went down. JB went silent, letting the anticipation build. Roadies ran out to light kerosene poured on the dirt in front of the bucking chutes, spelling out P B R.

  The evening’s potential fizzed under his skin as JB whispered into the mike. “We’re live in 3, 2, 1…” His voice boomed. “Welcome, professional bull riding fans, to the toughest sport on earth! This is not a rodeo, this is the one, the only, Peee Beeee Rrrr!” Two of the crew touched torches to the kerosene and the advancing flame revealed the letters in the dirt. Pyro booms concussed the air, flashes of flames and a fountain of sparkly fireworks shot from tubes on either side of the chutes.

  The lights came up and the cheer of the crowd lifted and swept him forward in a wave.

  The night had begun.

  Between calling the rides, reporting stats, and quipping with Wylie during the TV time-outs, two hours passed in a blur.

  JB thumbed the mike. “The final ride of the night is the guy with a target on his back, the points leader on the tour, Colby Marcos. He’s drawn the bull, Mighty Mouse, from CJ Denny Bucking Bulls. And, in the spirit of full disclosure, yes, that is my bull.” JB eyed the small cowboy lowering himself on the bull and timed his commentary to end with the opening of the chute.

  “Mighty Mouse is a son of the legendary Yosemite Sam and has shown some promise here lately, with a ninety percent buck-off ratio.” The rider took the taut rope from his buddy and wrapped it around his fist, effectively tying himself to the bull by one hand. “Colby needs a ninety-point ride to regain the lead. What do you say, Abilene, let’s cheer that cowboy on!”

  The crowd roared as the cowboy nodded his head, and the gate swung open. The small gray-and-white-spotted bull burst from the chute, lunging forward before settling into a dizzying left-handed spin. The rider balanced in the middle, taking away the force of the bull’s buck b
y matching it, jump for jump.

  If his bull bucked well and advanced to the final round, JB would earn a good bonus. His heart fell as the cowboy started spurring with his outside leg; if he felt in control enough to loosen up and spur, the Mouse was going down.

  But at 6.5 seconds, the bull stopped stock still and, as if switching gears, spun in the opposite direction. Colby was caught out of position, and his hand popped out of the rope. The cowboy was ejected to fly ten feet, landing face-first in the dirt. Three bullfighters moved in to distract the fired-up bull by making a better target than the downed rider.

  One tapped the Mouse between his formidable horns and danced away. Another shouted and waved his hat. The third stepped up and slapped the bull’s tail. Colby scrabbled in the dirt, trying to get up and run at the same time, but not managing much of either. Luckily, the confused animal gave up and trotted to the exit gate.

  The crowd groaned. JB looked up at the ride clock. “Seven point three seconds. Looks like the round win goes to Travis Byrd, and Mighty Mouse advances to the short go tomorrow.” Thank you, Lord. He could really use that bonus check.

  After all the drama and pageantry that led up to the event, it ended simply. The quieted crowd filed for the exits as the winner stood in front of the chutes to accept his placard check and be interviewed. The other riders strolled around the edge of the arena to sign autographs and meet the fans. Wylie stood next to JB’s platform, joking and talking to a clamoring bevy of kids waiting to meet him and get him to sign their programs.

  JB smiled and turned to shut down his laptop.

  “ ’Scuse me, sir?” JB ignored the voice until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and his lungs seized, midbreath. No, not Benje. Though the boy didn’t have similar features, he somehow had the look of his son—a seven-year-old with red hair and freckles, and the same earnest expression.

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  JB reached for the program with shaking fingers. “Sure, son.” Scrawling a jerky rendition of his signature, JB thrust it back at the kid and turned to his work. He was drained. It had been a long day.

  “Hey, JB!” He turned as Mitzi bounced up, excitement shimmering off her. “Everyone’s going to dinner, then to this great bar Angie’s sister told her about. I thought you could squeeze probably five in your truck. What do you think?”

  He thought being in a crowded bar all night was the last thing he wanted, but a night out after the event always helped him sleep. Besides, what else did he have to do? Sit and stare at the TV all night and catalog regrets? “Okay. Let me finish up here, and I’ll meet you at the truck.” He knew once he got to the bar, he’d have a good time.

  “Daddy!”

  Char’s father ran for the fence, moving fast but hindered by the gimp in his arthritic knee. The bull thundered behind. He threw a look over his shoulder. Char put her hands over her eyes and looked from between her fingers. As the bull lowered his head to hook a foot-long horn into his back, her father dropped low and cut left. The bull tried to follow but slipped in the damp grass. Reaching the fence, her dad scooted between the barbed wire strands. Char’s head pounded with adrenaline. When she jumped from the pickup bed her legs gave way, landing her on her hands and knees in mud churned up by the cattle’s hooves. Up in a flash, she tore open the door, hopped into the cab, and cranked the engine.

  She drove to the fence, then jumped out and ducked under the wire to where her father leaned, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.

  “Daddy, are you all right?” she said, panting, though she hadn’t run anywhere.

  Her father looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Shoot, Honey, I’ve been doing that since before you were born.” He straightened, puffing out his skeletal chest. “Ain’t a bull alive gonna catch Benjamin Enwright, bad knee or no. I may be a bit slower now, but it doesn’t matter; all I need to be is smarter’n him.”

  Char put a hand to her chest, to hold her heart inside. Dad seemed fine, but what if his mind hadn’t been clear in that few seconds? What if he’d forgotten that cut-and-run move?

  As she drove them back to the house, recriminations pecked at her like a roadrunner on a stinkbug.

  What if I lost him too? The full ramifications of her edict to Jimmy bloomed in her mind as the weight of unwanted responsibility spread over her.

  She pulled up next to the house, took the truck out of gear, and pulled the parking brake. “Daddy, I’ve got to go get my purse, then we’ll head into town and buy feed, okay?” She opened the door and glanced over. Her father’s blank profile told her he was gone again. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.” She cranked up the heater for him and slid out of the truck.

  The orange prescription bottle on the window ledge called to her as she entered the kitchen. She strode to where her purse hung on a dining room chair. Glancing down as she slung it over her shoulder, she noticed her muddy knees. No time to change, but she could at least wash her hands.

  Everything outside the house was now her responsibility, and she had no one to blame but herself. The siren call of the pills wailed as she sidled up to the sink. Surely after this morning she’d earned a break.

  Char ground her teeth. “No. I committed to this only three hours ago.” The words echoed hollow in her ears as the aching want rose, dwarfing every other thought. Yeah, but that was before I almost got Daddy killed.

  CHAPTER

  3

  A rumor without a leg to stand on will get around some other way.

  —John Tudor

  Squeezing the gas nozzle, Char turned her face to the sun. The cold metal stung her bare hand, but the feed store sheltered the gas pumps from the wind, creating the illusion of a warm summer day. Her mind meandered, content listening to the gurgle of fuel as the tank filled. Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. All the pills did was knock the sharp edges off life, allowing her to walk around in it without getting bruised. And she’d only taken a half dose. She was driving, after all.

  Ignoring the crunch of gravel when another car pulled to the only other pump, she kept her eyes closed, hoping whoever it was would respect her reverie.

  The engine died, and a car door opened and closed. “Oh, Char, dear, it’s so good to see you.”

  Lately, she cursed living in a small town. She opened her eyes at a touch on her sleeve and yet another solicitous, assessing look. “Hello, Salina. How are you?”

  “The question is how are you, Hon?” Salina’s gaze flicked over Char, her delicate brows furrowed.

  Char squirmed inside, blood rushing to her cheeks. “We’re doing just fine, Sal.” She sniffed the air, hoping mud was all that caked her jeans. Dang it, how dressed up do you have to be for a trip to the feed store? It figures she’d run into Salina; her obvious concern was worse for being heartfelt.

  In a former life, Salina and her husband, Larry, had run in Char and Jimmy’s circle, a part of the group of former schoolmates that played cards together, each couple taking turns hosting. Of course, they’d invited her, after. But the thought of sitting in the middle of all those prying eyes, alone, was part of the reason Char hadn’t answered the phone for months. Thankfully, it didn’t ring much anymore.

  Jimmy was a pariah with their old crowd now; they’d circled the wagons, and he was Cochise. Her girlfriends had sniped about him, thinking commiseration would make her feel better. It didn’t.

  But what Jimmy hadn’t destroyed of her good name, Char’d done herself.

  Salina took a step to the driver’s door, glancing into the dim interior. “Oh, hey, Mr. Enwright. How you gettin’ on?” Char knew from her father’s owlish stare that he didn’t remember the girl who had practically lived at his house during Char’s high school years.

  Salina turned from the window. “You’re going to need some help here soon, Sweetie. I know, from what my mother went through with my grandma.” Her stage whisper could have been heard from the road. “I have the name of a good facility. You just let me know.”

/>   The pump clicked off, releasing Char. She hung the nozzle with jerky movements and stepped to the cab. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Sal. I’ve really got to get moving.” Opening the door, she scooted inside before her friend could give her a hug. She started the engine and pulled out, not looking back at what she knew would be a hurt look.

  Char pulled to the front of the store, hands shaking on the wheel. Maybe Salina could put her grandma in a facility, but if they came to take her daddy from his home, they’d better come with a gun. She parked, shut down the engine, and turned to her father. “Daddy, will you go in with me?” She patted his cold hand. “You can drink coffee with your buddies while I order feed, okay?” He nodded and fumbled with the seat belt.

  They walked to the blond, brick-fronted building. The cowbell on the glass door clanked when she pushed it open. A blast of heat and the familiar smell of grain, cigarette smoke, and dust would have told her where she was with her eyes closed. Her father removed his cowboy hat as he stepped onto the dirty linoleum of the showroom. Sacks of goat chow, cartons of sheep dip, and bales of chicken wire lined the walls. Bulletin board flyers ruffled in the breeze from the open door.

  “Well, look what the wind kicked up!” Ben was hailed by the gaggle of old men who lounged around a scarred linoleum-and-chrome table from the 1960s, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.

  “Hey, Ben,” the feed store owner, an obese, grizzled old-timer in overalls, called out. “Get yourself over here. I can’t be the only voice of reason in this group of jackasses.”

  Her father broke into a huge grin. “Well, Junior, you should know not to socialize with polecats and Democrats.” He ambled to the table and dropped into a rickety chair.

  “I’ll be in the back, okay, Daddy?” Her father waved her off, already sucked into the spirited argument of local politics. Funny how some faces clicked for him and others didn’t. The doctors had warned her the disease would progress, in spite of the medicine.