by Laura Drake
After scheduling a date and time, they hung up. She put a hand to her stomach to calm the butterflies. “Like Daddy says, worrying is as useless as setting a milk bucket under a bull.”
JB leaned on the paddock fence of the feedlot’s outside corral. Junior had been a member of the high school rodeo team back in the day. When he bought the business, he’d built a covered arena for the team to practice and for competitions. Grateful for the shade of the pole barn’s roof, JB took off his Resistol and rubbed his forehead in the crook of his elbow. A breeze cooled his sweaty head.
Off work for the day, on his way to the truck, he’d stopped to watch. Besides, he was in no hurry. His next stop was the ranch, but he knew that Little Bit would be a harder sell than Junior had been. But he had to try one more time. Hopefully it would be harder for her to say no to a hat-in-hand, broken-down cowboy. Wouldn’t take much acting on his part either.
“Now, focus this time. Loosen up and keep shifting your feet for the entire eight seconds!” The coach of the high school rodeo team yelled from the other side of the ring.
JB leaned his forearms on the fence as the gate swung open. The practice bull crow-hopped out of it, landing with jarring thumps. From the rear of the chute, kids shouted encouragement. The rider stuck through the first few jumps, but when the bull twisted and kicked out to the side, the rider overbalanced. He hung suspended at an impossible angle off the side of the bull until his hand popped out of the rope and he landed in a heap in the middle of the paddock. A young boy on a stocky chestnut hazed the bull to the gate as the rider picked himself out of the dirt and dusted himself off.
“That was better. Anyone can get caught out by a wicked belly roll like that.” The coach walked to the center of the ring. “Do you see how you had more control when you shifted your feet? I know it seems counterintuitive, but the minute you clamp down, you’re as good as off.” He gave the boy a pat on the back, sending him limping off to retrieve his hat, ten feet away.
“Bubba Wanksta gorillas.”
JB hadn’t realized he had company. He did a double take. The lanky teen slouched on the fence beside him seemed to have dropped from some alternate universe. Skater shorts, crotch to the knees, black T-shirt, and backward-facing baseball cap. The nose and lip studs hurt to look at. As the boy turned his head to watch the next rider, JB eyed the tattoo on the back of his neck—a fish skeleton with a smile bristling wicked-sharp teeth.
“Say what?” JB asked.
The boy turned to him. “Very large assholes.”
JB snorted. “Big words from someone riding a fence.” He pointed to the young cowboys. “It takes stones to get on an animal that wants to rip your guts out and stomp them full of dirt.”
The kid puffed out his skinny chest. “I got the stones. Just don’t have the interest.”
JB glimpsed peroxide-white hair under the cap, a quick memory flashed. He’d seen this kid. Last week, when he’d been leaving the feedlot, splashing through puddles and sheeting rain on the way to his truck. The teen stood against the fence watching the bull riders, his back soaked by the rain the wind pushed under the roof.
No interest. Right. “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I?”
“Probably. I work in the feed store. Name’s Travis.”
JB stuck out his hand. “JB Denny.”
The kid looked him down, then back up. “I know who you are. I deliver feed out to your wife’s ranch.”
JB covered a wince with what he hoped passed for a rueful smile. “Well, you may have some stones after all.”
The kid finally shook his hand.
“Where are you from?” JB asked.
The kid just looked at him.
“Come on. You’re obviously not from around here.”
“Hardly.” His haughty tone made it obvious he thought that was a good thing. “Ohio. But my mom needed a job, and my Uncle Junior had one, so I got dragged to this—” He looked around. “—John Wayne movie set.”
“You’re wrong about them, you know.” JB tipped his chin at the bucking chutes. “Bull riders have more in common with gymnasts or ballet dancers than gorillas.”
Travis’s turn to snort. “Ballet dancers?”
“Yeah. I know for a fact that all those guys tried out for Swan Lake but couldn’t fit their stones in a pair of tights, so they wound up here.”
The pierced lips looked even more painful, smiling.
“If I followed your logic, the strongest guy would be the best. But watch this.” JB pointed to a slight cowboy even smaller than Travis, who lowered himself onto the next bull. The kid ran his hand up and down the rope to activate the stickum on the glove.
Atop the slab-sided Brahma, the kid looked about ten years old. If he weighed more than a hundred pounds, JB would eat his missing cap. “That little guy is the best rider on the team.” They watched as the rider wrapped the rope around his hand, effectively binding himself to the back of the plunging animal.
When he nodded, the tender opened the gate. The bull hung a horn in the fence, pulling his head around. When he freed it, he started spinning, bucking hard in a circle. Hand waving, the kid sat balanced in the middle, matching the bull’s moves, making it look easy. When the timer blew the whistle, he jerked his hand out of the rope and was thrown off to land, catlike, on his feet. He hadn’t even lost his hat. The cowboys on the chutes cheered.
“See what I mean? It doesn’t matter if you’ve got massive biceps and can bench press eight hundred pounds, you’re never going to be stronger than a bull.” JB turned to a gaping Travis. “He found the sweet spot.”
“Huh?”
“When you’re in the right place, right behind the bull’s shoulders, it’s like the eye of the storm. Gentle. Easy.
“Done right, it looks simple. But it takes lots of skill and a butt-load of luck to get into the sweet spot and stay there.” He settled his hat on his head. “See you around, kid.”
Travis slouched against the fence to watch the next rider.
Char flicked the oiled dust rag over the coffee table, wiped her hands on her apron, and surveyed the great room as the cuckoo clock chimed the half hour. Dust motes danced in the light of her clean windows. She heaved a sigh. The minute she turned around, it would be dusty again. And I still have to do something about those curtains. Her neck spasmed and her head jerked as a flashback of green plaid skittered across her vision. Fleeing to the kitchen, she dropped the rag in the box under the sink and washed her hands, trying to calm their fine thrum with warm water.
A Crock-Pot full of braised short ribs bubbled on the counter. Crossing to the refrigerator, she opened it, glancing over the gleaming, orderly interior, the bowl of inviting fresh peaches front and center. I could tweak that peach pie recipe for the fair. When she noticed the sound of the clock ticking and her nails beating a counterpoint on the stainless steel, she let the door fall closed. Junior had picked up her dad this morning, and the empty house was giving her the heebie jeebies.
“Well then, go outside, Charla.” She wanted to. But she’d made a deal with the new trainer when she’d hired him a week ago. He wasn’t happy about doing the heavy chores around the ranch, yet he’d agreed, providing she wouldn’t hover while he worked the bulls. He had a thing about that. Something about Red Gandy niggled at her during the interview. Nothing she could outright object to, but his language was a shade too familiar and his cold blue eyes a bit condescending. After he left, she convinced herself it was only a fit of nerves. After all, she’d never hired an employee.
She would have loved to have been able to call Jimmy. He’d know what to do. She remembered the days when Jimmy was home from the circuit and she’d look up and see him working the bulls through her kitchen window. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of comfort, knowing nothing would happen that Jimmy couldn’t fix.
Until it did.
She sighed. Wanting Jimmy back on the place wouldn’t make things right. However, she didn’t like Gandy forcing her indoors.
Trying to respect his request for not watching over his shoulder, she stayed out of his way but she missed the out of doors, the chores, and the cattle. Heck, she even missed Pork Chop.
I could finish that linoleum shelf paper project. The thought of dragging everything out of the pantry made her tired. No, not tired. An antsy, undone feeling set her fingers tapping again. What did I used to do with my days? Surely they hadn’t always been as boring as this?
Well, not always. Her mind conjured Benje, running through the kitchen, dressed in his Cub Scout uniform. “Hurry, Mom, we’re gonna be late!” She shook the echo out of her head.
What she really wanted was a nap, but the crawling antsiness precluded that. All right, a pill, then a nap. Her hand closed over the door to the garage before she realized she’d crossed the room.
“Gosh dang it, Charla, what is wrong with you?” She untied the apron, and pulled it over her head. “You’re not a prisoner, you’re the owner, and his boss!” Tossing the apron on the counter, she strode through the mudroom to the back door.
Hope faded as she saw Pork Chop, in a halter and saddled, tied to the paddock fence. The trainer was nowhere to be seen. She understood the man needed a horse to work cattle, but why did he have to choose hers?
Probably because yours was the only horse in the barn, Charla.
She breathed in a lungful of fresh air. The day was too pretty for whining. She stepped off the porch and meandered around the corner of the house. White puffy clouds scudded fast, like sailboats in a regatta in the cerulean sky. Kicking stones, her glance fell on the strip of dirt between the graveled drive and the house that had been her and Benje’s garden. Only the weeds and a few hardy perennials had survived a year’s neglect.
For the first time since the accident, the garden didn’t remind her of the funeral. The rose bushes were only plants, not the source of casket blankets. Longing hit. Her fingers suddenly itched to get into soil. She wanted the smell of dirt in her nose, to feel the stubborn weeds give under her tug, to see the rich brown of freshly turned dirt. Whistling, she headed for the shed and her garden tools.
Two hours later, Char straightened and put a fist to her cramped lower back. Leaning on the hoe, she swiped her gloved hand across her forehead and surveyed her progress. She’d worked her way halfway down the length of the house. The cultivated red-brown soil eased something in her.
Lemonade sure would taste good. She’d bet Gandy would appreciate some too. She leaned the hoe against the wall, tugged off her gloves, and walked around the house to the back door.
The trainer was busy in the large front paddock, working to separate the bulls from the rest of the herd. Char admired Gandy’s easy seat as he darted in and out, cutting out the mama cows. A two-foot-long electric Hot-Shot dangled from a leather strap around his wrist, standard fare for a trainer working bulls.
Pork Chop seemed nervous. She fidgeted at the end of a short rein, her mouth working the bit. Char stopped, halfway to the door, realizing that Gandy had used a double curb bridle. Pork Chop had a tender mouth. The bit wasn’t only unnecessary, it was counterproductive, distracting the horse rather than getting her attention. Char winced as he sawed the reins. The horse threw her head up, eyes rolling.
Char knew he wouldn’t welcome her interference, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him ruin her horse’s mouth. She walked across the yard.
The herd milled uneasy in the paddock, stirring dust. Gandy ignored them, concentrating on the ten or so head remaining in the far corner. Char squinted through the cloud of dust. Only bulls remained, except Tricks and her calf. For some reason, the stubborn cow had gotten it in her head to stay with the bulls. She maneuvered to the middle of the pack to keep herself between her calf and the man on the horse. Gandy grabbed the cattle prod, Hot-Shot hanging at his wrist, and kicked Pork Chop in the ribs.
Oh, Tricks, you’ve gotten yourself in it this time. Dread laced with the anger in her blood. She did not have a good feeling about this. She climbed on the fence, looking for a place to cross, but the milling herd made the paddock dangerous for someone afoot.
Char glanced at the trainer. His lips were set in a grim line, anger plain in his jerky movements. “Stop!” she yelled, knowing he wouldn’t hear over the bawling cattle.
Gandy waded in, Hot-Shotting cattle out of his way. The horse stopped slightly crouched, facing the cow, ready to turn either way. Tricks feinted right, then left. Pork Chop shadowed her. But the calf wasn’t as nimble. As a space opened, Pork Chop shot the gap. Tricks bawled as he jabbed the Hot-Shot into her over and over, but she refused to run. He stood between her and her calf.
Char looked over the churning mob of cattle. There had to be something she could do. The gate to the pasture! Before she had time to be afraid, she was down and running fast, darting between the huge bodies, yelling and waving her arms to shoo them out of her way. She cleared the herd and sprinted for the gate. Chest heaving with sobbing breaths, she threw the latch and swung the gate wide open.
The cattle, sensing freedom, plunged toward the opening. Gandy was so intent with Tricks, he didn’t even notice the young bulls joining the fleeing herd. As the last cow went through, Char threw a look over her shoulder. Pork Chop, flinging lather from her mouth and steaming flanks, struggled to get her head and hold off the bawling cow. Gandy fought her and, leaning out of the saddle with the rod, Hot-Shotted the calf.
“No!” Anger shot through Char’s limbs like spewing lava. She ran, waving her arms and screaming. “Stop it!”
The Hot-Shot delivered a high-voltage pulse. Used once on a full-grown cow’s hindquarters, it got their attention. The shock was too much for a two-month-old calf. Dirty Tricks stumbled to his knees. Pork Chop reared and Gandy had his hands full, collecting the horse. Tricks took advantage of his distraction and darted around them to her calf, who struggled to its feet.
Char felt the earth vibrate as the cow and calf thundered by her to the gate. On shaky legs, she ran to her horse and grabbed the bridle.
“You get your ass off my horse this minute!” she screamed up at the man’s florid face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Hot-Shotting a calf? There is no reason for that. Ever.”
Gandy’s face edged from florid to purple as he looked down at her. “You damn bleeding-heart owners, treating your livestock like they’re pets.” He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and jumped to the ground. “They’re dumb animals. You treat them different, you’re going to get hurt.” He stood, too close, his rheumy eyes leering. “And what the hell would the little woman know about it anyway?” Thick lips twisted in a sneer. “Why don’t you go back inside to your knitting and your vibrator?”
Shock hit Char like a slap across the face. She took a step back and stood for what seemed like forever, chest heaving, in stunned disbelief. “You’re fired! Gather your things and get off my land,” she ground from between her clenched teeth. “Now.”
He threw his head back and laughed. Then he raised his hand, the one that held the Hot-Shot.
The starch leached from Char. What have I done? Her knees threatened to buckle. This far out of town, her dad not due for hours, this man could do anything to her.
The deepest, most beautiful voice she’d ever heard came from behind her. “I think you’d better listen to the lady, Gandy. She’s fully capable of throwing a full-grown man off her property.”
CHAPTER
13
I believe we are solely responsible for our choices, and we have to accept the consequences of every deed, word, and thought throughout our lifetime.
—Elizabeth Kübler-Ross
Gandy gave her a disgusted look and brushed past her, grumbling under his breath. Char took a few moments to calm her lathered horse, and herself, before facing Jimmy. Crooning, she unbuckled the bridle and pulled the cruel roweled bit from Pork Chop’s mouth, holding the reins for control until she could get a halter.
Her stomach hit 7.8 on the Richter scale. How mad i
s Jimmy? There was only one way to find out. She turned to him.
It was worse than she’d thought. He had his father face on.
“You.” He pointed at her. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back as soon as I get that trash cleared off the place.” He spun on his heel and marched off.
Char clucked to the horse and they walked to the edge of the paddock and kept going, pacing the perimeter. Pork Chop needed a cooldown, and so did she. She practiced the breathing technique from her grief group: pull air through her nose, hold it, then release it slowly through her mouth. Picture all the tension going out with your breath…
Okay, so Jimmy had a right to be mad. She saw it again. The Hot-Shot reaching out, touching Dirty Tricks on the ear. The calf convulsing, going down. If Jimmy hadn’t shown up when he did, who knows what that man might have done to her. She shuddered, wishing she could use that thing to zap Gandy’s private parts. Take a deep breath, hold it…
The trainer was a cruel, awful man. But that didn’t absolve her. She’d brought him here. Why? Plain stubborn pride. An acid wave of shame washed over her. She wanted to show Jimmy that she could do it all. Let out the breath, slow, through your lips…
Pork Chop shuffled through the dust, calm now, walking at her shoulder. As they turned the corner, her heart stuttered. Jimmy stalked toward her. Over his shoulder, she glimpsed Gandy’s truck, shooting gravel and a plume of dust as it fishtailed down the drive.
JB paced in the dirt. If I’d have been an hour later… He stopped in front of Char. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He paced some more. What if I hadn’t come out today at all? Scenarios swarmed in his brain like wasps, each one worse than the last. Focus, JB, this isn’t helping. When he thought he could speak without yelling, he stopped in front of her again.
“What the heck were you thinking, Charla Rae? Every reputable owner in the business knows about Gandy. He’s been fired from more jobs than we’ve got mice in the barn.”
She stood all of five feet tall and stuck out her chin. “I checked his references first, Jimmy. I’m not stupid.”
