It was 2:00 when he called for the taxi and that was amid a bevy of people offering to take them to their hotel, along with a few whistles after she’d told them he’d booked a night at the Radisson and that she intended to spend part of the next day sitting on the beach even if it was cold.
The digital clock rolled up an even 3:00 when he sat down with his laptop and began to record the names of both riders and bulls and the results of the evening. Sunrays streamed through the crack in the draperies by the time he emailed the stories. He yawned and stretched at the same time Jodie knocked on the connecting door.
“Come in!” he yelled.
She threw the door open. She wore soft pink sweat pants and a matching hooded, zip-front jacket over a darker pink tank top. She was still barefoot and her hair hadn’t been brushed. He thought she was even more beautiful than she’d been the night before in her tight Western-cut black slacks and matching rhinestone studded jacket.
“Have you had any sleep?”
“Not yet but my stories are done and sent. Have you slept?”
“Four hours. I’m going to the beach to read a book. Want to join me? You can sleep in one of the reclining lawn chairs.”
“Sure,” he said and wondered if he’d really agreed. There was a king-sized bed not five feet away. Why should he sleep in an uncomfortable chair?
“The sun is bright but there’s a nippy breeze. I reckon you’d freeze in those silk pajama bottoms. You got any sweats or . . .”
“I brought a sweat suit to exercise in,” he said.
“Then put it on while I find my shoes.”
It wasn’t the first time Jimmy had pulled an all-nighter writing an article and getting it out to press. It was the first time he’d lain outside in the warm sun afterward. The tension eased out of his aching back, and he slept as soundly as if he’d been in his own bed in Austin, Texas.
Jodie opened a big thick romance novel. She had never read the author’s writing before but Stella had given her several books to tuck into her baggage for days like this and it was among them. The back of the book said the writer would bring her fans a story with all the promise and passion of forbidden love.
The front of the book had calla lilies on it, at least until she’d opened the cover to find the man of her dreams looking deeply into a red-haired hussy’s eyes, his lips only inches from hers, one hand on her hip and the other around her waist. She sighed and opened it to the beginning paragraph; it said that from the first time the gorgeous hunk of man saw the woman he knew she’d never be anyone’s bride, or something like that. Jodie looked over at Jimmy, snoring ever so softly. Heavy lashes rested on his high cheekbones. His blond curls falling around his ears and down to his shirt collar reminded her of a little boy she’d seen in television commercials. For someone so into style when it came to his clothing, he looked as if he needed a haircut all the time and never needed to shave.
She sighed. Too bad he couldn’t look like the man on the cover of the book. Not exactly Fabio but a good substitute. But then she wasn’t a buxom redhead with porcelain skin wearing a blue dress with a ripped bodice. She fell asleep about the time she finished reading about the hero having a well-furnished library. She wondered if Jimmy had a room lined from floor to ceiling with books of his liking. Did he read mystery, westerns, thrillers? Or was he one of those nonfiction readers?
His grumbling stomach awoke him just before noon. For a moment he couldn’t get his bearings. He sat straight up, staring out at endless water and sky of the same color, wondering how he got outside. Then he remembered and yawned. He looked across the space at Jodie, who had an open paperback book over her eyes.
Great God in heaven. There was an ounce of femininity in the lady after all! She read romances. He carefully lifted the book to see what it was about. One of those bodice-rippers he’d seen advertised. He smiled and opened the book. Does she really like this kind of folderol? He would have bet she read true crime or mysteries.
She awoke with a start, sunrays blaring down into her eyes. “Where’s my book?”
He handed it back to her. “Right here.”
“Guess I dropped it,” she said.
“Guess so.”
“What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “Eleven thirty.”
“Time to get it together and check out,” she said.
“This is insane,” he grumbled as they trudged through white sand toward the hotel. “We can keep the room another day even if we aren’t planning to spend the whole night.”
“It’s saving money for a later day when we’ll want to stay somewhere nice again. No sense in overdoing the expense account. Besides what are you going to do all afternoon? Do you need a place to send anything on the computer?”
“No,” he grouched.
“Then we’ll check out, have lunch, spend some time in the town and find a McDonald’s so I can change in their bathroom for tonight’s event,” she said.
“And I suppose all the riders do this kind of thing?”
“Hell, no. The riders can’t afford to stay in a Radisson on the beachfront. They’ll be living in a trailer they’re pulling behind their truck or a cheap hotel as close to the fairgrounds as possible. This is a treat, not the norm. I don’t expect this kind of expense account, really, I don’t. We might even go visiting among the trailers this afternoon so you can see that side of the business. I bet one of the gals will let me change in her trailer. Now that’s an idea. Go pack up your things. Think you can get it done in half an hour? I’m hungry. Let’s eat at Cracker Barrel. When we leave tonight after the ride, we’ll probably only stop for fast food or sandwiches until we reach Denver. You’re fixin’ to find out the joys of riding for thirty hours, pard’ner.”
They had one minute to spare when he handed the room keys to the lady behind the checkout desk. Jodie had already put her suitcase in the truck but his were loaded onto the baggage cart. The lunch rush was almost over by the time they reached the restaurant on I-95. She ordered chicken and dumplings, red beans, fried okra, collard greens, hash brown casserole, and sweet tea.
“And bring biscuits and cornbread before the meal with some honey and blackberry jam,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, and you sir?” the waitress asked.
“I’ll have grilled chicken tenders, carrots, and green beans,” he said.
Jodie rolled her eyes at him. “You won’t make me feel guilty.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“After I finish this, I’m ordering an apple dumpling for dessert,” she said.
“Have at it,” he said. The woman was going to break a three-hundred-pound scale if she didn’t slow down.
“So tell me about judging. How do you score the riders?”
“You wrote an article about bull riding and you don’t even know that?”
“I wrote from the spectator’s view. Don’t get so up in my face about it, Jodie,” he said.
She sipped the tea and buttered a biscuit. “I did, didn’t I? I’m sorry. Okay, it goes like this at the PBR events. Three judges are hired. Two judges have 50 points to distribute for each ride. That’s 25 points for the bull, and 25 points for the rider. The third judge is the one who’s on the back of the bucking chute where the ride starts out. He keeps score in the event that a tie-breaker is needed. Four judges officiate the PBR Built Ford Tough Series World Finals held in Las Vegas.”
“What would make you take off points to the rider or the bull?”
“If the rider touches himself or the bull with his free hand—that’s the one up in the air—he’s disqualified. Other things he would be docked for would be poor body position or loss of control. We give points for spurring the bull and call them style points. The bull points come from how hard it is to ride the critter. We look for bulls with speed, power, drop in the front end, kick in the back end, and those who can change directions and roll the body. The more of those characteristics he displays, the higher his score, which brings up the t
otal score. Serious riders want a mean bull.”
“Did you?”
“The meaner, the better. If he kicked and threw him a little hissy fit out there, it just made more points for me.”
“What would scare you?”
“Down in the well. Thinking about that gives me the hives. I had it happen twice. Had some fine bullfighters or I’d be a thing of the past right now. Once it was with Demon Twister. He could’ve cost me the rest of the rounds.”
“What is down in the well?”
“It’s a bad situation when a bull spins in one direction and the force of the spin pulls the rider into the motion’s vortex. The rider often gets hung up to the bull.”
“What do you mean, ‘hung up’?”
“It’s when the rider isn’t able to free his riding hand from his bull rope and is literally hung up to the bull. Thank goodness for bullfighters when that happens. They move in and help get it untangled.”
“Did it cost you points?”
“Yep.”
“How in the devil did you get back on another one?”
“I got a reride and drew a meaner bull than Demon Twister. Figured it was like falling off a bicycle. If I didn’t get on that critter and show him who was boss, I’d never get over the fear.”
“You do that with all things that scare you?” he asked.
“Mostly. Face it down or have it control me. I don’t like things that control me,” she said.
“What does it take to be a professional bull rider?”
“You got to be 18 years of age to purchase a PBR membership. Then you can get your riding permit, which lets you enter the PBR’s U.S. Smokeless Tobacco Company Challenger Tour events and the PBR’s Enterprise Tour events and the PBR’s Discovery Tour events. Once you win $2,500 in prize money, they upgrade your permit status to cardholder status. Then you’ve got to win that much every year to keep up the cardholder status. I barely made it the last five years. I won the buckle in Las Vegas six years ago when I was just twenty years old. I was all gung ho to do it again the next year but living got in the way. I thought I was ready this year, then this happened.” She held up her arm.
“How long have you been riding?”
Their food arrived and she started eating, talking between bites. “I rode my first mutton when I was three. Didn’t win a prize but I did the next year after I’d practiced all year. Went to bulls when I was about nine.”
“I’ll have to ask these questions again when I have my notepad handy,” he said.
“Oh, you mean you don’t have one of those remember-everything memories?”
“Not quite,” he said.
“It’s because you don’t eat right,” she teased. “Your poor little fat cells are empty and starving. It depletes the ability to remember what you’ve been told. In the future, researchers will find that hungry fat cells are what cause Alzheimer’s.”
“Then you should have a good memory when you are a hundred and ten years old,” he said.
“I plan on giving it my best shot. Here, help me eat this apple dumpling and then we’ll go visitin’. All you’ll get for supper is what you can find at the fairgrounds so you’d better eat well.”
She knocked on trailer doors, and they visited all afternoon. He picked up enough bull-riding lingo to fill pages and pages in his notebook. Everyone was eager to tell their stories and answer questions. Jodie had truly given him entrance into another world, one that would enhance his book for sure, but would also give his press releases a beating heart and breath. Tonight’s article would include the human element of trailer life and the bologna sandwiches they shared with one of the up-and-coming female riders, the camaraderie away from the chutes as well as the competition inside the arena among the riders.
He was ready for the opening ceremony that night. An extravaganza within itself, it featured a multimedia production incorporating props, stage lighting, a video, loud music, and pyrotechnics. After he researched it more he intended to write about the fifteen minutes of show that cost more than ten thousand dollars. Jodie sang again, and his heart stood still. She had a professional-quality voice. It amazed him that she wasn’t in Nashville rather than playing in the local honky tonks around southern Oklahoma.
It was just after eleven o’clock when they reached the lot where Jodie’s pickup was parked. Using the remote key she unlocked the doors, but instead of pitching the keys to Jimmy she opened the driver’s side and crawled inside.
“Making a mistake there, aren’t you?” He waited.
“Not tonight. I’m too wired to sleep, and you’ve got an article to write. You can do that on a laptop while I drive. We’ll pull into a place that has an Internet hookup come daylight, and you can send it. We’ve got at least thirty hours, so we’ll take turns. I’ll get the first shift. You can do the second one.”
“Jodie, you aren’t superwoman. Your arm is broken.”
“My wrist is broken. I could ride a bull if they’d let me. It’s my free arm.” She held it up. “I can drive with my right hand. Promise. Get in and go to work. You are about to experience the real thing that the crew was talking about when they said they followed the circuit.”
“If you get tired . . .”
“I won’t,” she said.
He opened up his laptop. “Okay, then tell me again what it means to be seeded. I heard that word a lot when we were in the trailers this afternoon.”
She started the engine and backed out, glad to be doing something other than sitting in the passenger’s seat. Driving calmed her; always had. One time that neither of her parents knew about, she’d made the drive from Ft. Pierce to Denver alone, without stopping at a motel. It hadn’t been wise but she’d been in one of her superman moods.
“Seeded means the rider is ranked among the top forty-five bull riders. He or she will go to the PBR’s major league tour, a 30-city Built Ford Tough Series presented by Wrangler. The top forty-five bull riders who earn the most money in regular season PBR competition qualify to the season finale, the World Finals held in Las Vegas. The rider has to win enough money to maintain his ranking among the top forty-five riders or he risks being replaced by a rider who earns more money in the Challenger Tour.”
“What’s a Challenger Tour?”
“It’s like a minor league baseball game. It gives up-and-coming riders a chance to compete in sanctioned events while they earn enough money to qualify them for the Tough Series.”
He typed as she talked. “Just learning the lingo is a full-time job.”
“What else?” she asked.
“Nothing right now. When you get tired, I can stop and take over.”
It didn’t happen until daybreak when she stopped at a Love’s to refill the gas tank. She picked up two large coffees, a quart of milk, and a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, using his credit card to pay for them, while he sent his article out to his editors.
“You too tired to drive a couple of hours?” she asked.
“I’m still wired after that story. God, I’ve never felt so alive,” he admitted.
“We’re just getting started,” she said. “Doughnuts for both of us. Coffee for you. Milk for me.”
“Decaf?”
“Hell, no. You need a jolt to stay awake while I catch a nap,” she said.
“Why’d you buy two coffees then?”
“I’ll drink the other one cold when I wake up.”
He shuddered.
“You’ll get the hang of it. By the time we get done, you’ll be drinking it leftover from the day before and stone cold.”
“I doubt it.” He waited until he was back on the highway before he held out his hand for a pastry.
They finished the whole dozen, and she drained the last of the milk before she grabbed her pillow from the back seat and curled up against the window. In seconds she was sound asleep. He stole glances at her. She was the grown-up version of that little girl who’d taken up for him on Rodeo Day at the ranch. The little girl he’d been obsessed wi
th for more than twenty years.
By mid-morning Jodie had just finished a four hour stint and nosed the truck into a parking space at a roadside rest. Jimmy had driven four hours that morning before his coffee, doughnuts, and energy played out. She’d taken over the wheel and made it on energy the first three. After that it was an hour on sheer raw nerves. She couldn’t believe she’d ever made the trip without any sleep at all. Jimmy stirred and mumbled, but he didn’t wake. She reached down and pushed the lever that laid the seat back, locked the doors, and shut her eyes.
A slow drizzle had started when Jimmy opened his eyes to find they were sitting still in a rest stop parking lot. So she wasn’t superwoman after all. He checked the time and realized he’d been asleep six hours. “Hey, sleeping beauty,” he whispered. “Wake up enough to slide over in this seat, and I’ll drive.”
“Mmmm,” she mumbled and rolled toward him.
He barely had time to unlock and open the door before she claimed his side. He was already on the wet pavement when he remembered he’d taken his shoes off. He wasted no time getting around the truck and into the driver’s seat.
“Yuck!” He snarled as he took off his cold, wet socks. The suitcase with dry ones was on the very bottom of the stack behind Jodie. He could drive barefoot but his feet were cold. He started to put his shoes on without socks but then he noticed that Jodie had removed both shoes and socks before she went to sleep. Her knees were tucked up under her and a hooded sweat shirt covered her feet. So what if her socks were hot pink trimmed in turquoise—they looked warm.
He drove through the rain, into the sunshine, nibbled on crackers he found in her sack for lunch, and kept driving. Talk about an education in the rodeo circuit; he was getting one first-hand. He had an idea and flipped open his cell phone to see if it was even a possibility. When Cathy answered he spoke softly, hoping that Jodie wouldn’t wake at the sound of his voice.
To Hope Page 3
