Felicity jerked the camera aside, unable to zoom back fast enough to catch more than the whirl of color and movement that was Taggart and the bull. She clutched it against her breasts, forgotten. Her heart pounded as she watched the intricate dance of man and animal—the arch and thrust, the kick and leap of the bull, complemented by the movements of the man who sat on his back.
Having just seen twenty-three young men flung around like sacks of potatoes, then stomped and kicked in the dirt, Felicity had asked herself why anyone would do such a thing.
She got a glimpse of the answer now. It wasn't a simple answer, either; she saw that, too. Riding a bull the way Taggart was riding this one was both a test of courage and a celebration of life. It was a walk on the edge of disaster—a balancing act of beauty and terror, of power and grace. Well done, it was a compliment to both the man and the animal. It showcased the animal's force, his cunning, his strength, his determination. And it pitted them against a far weaker, but equally graceful, wily and determined human being. It was a ballet of stimulus and response, a waltz of twist and spin.
It lasted an eternity. It lasted eight seconds. Maybe ten. There was no whistle, no buzzer. Only at last, a ducking movement on the part of the bull, a hard backward thrust of his hind feet, a jerk of his head, a sideways twist, and Taggart's compensating moves weren't quick enough or far enough. He slipped, his free hand dipped. He tilted, loosed his hand, and as the bull bunched and thrust forward again, Taggart leapt away.
He landed flat on his back in the dust. As the clownishly dressed bull fighter distracted the animal, Taggart scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the fence, hauling himself up and over. Then, without so much as a pause, he took his cup of coffee back from the cowboy who'd been holding it, took a long swig and, finally, glanced over at her.
Felicity was conscious suddenly of clutching the camera so tightly against her that it was making grooves in her arms and pressing her breasts flat. She eased her grip, opened her mouth and sucked in a deep draught of dusty, bovine-scented air.
"Good goin', Daddy!" Becky yelled. She looked up at Felicity, a grin on her face. "Didja see him? Didja see that? Wasn't he great?"
"Great," Felicity echoed hollowly. She felt the strength beginning to return to her legs. "I—think I ought to go."
"Go?" Becky's face fell. "You can't! You gotta watch the rest of it. You don't really wanta go, do you?" She looked beseechingly at Felicity.
No, Felicity thought, she didn't. "All right," she said. "I suppose I can stay awhile longer."
Becky beamed. "C'mon." She bounded down off the bleachers, leaving Felicity to stumble after her. Felicity's knees wobbled as she climbed down, just as if she were the one who'd spent all that adrenaline, not Taggart.
"What next?" she asked Becky.
"Critiques."
Critiques, Felicity found, meant that the entire brigade trooped back to the classroom, where Noah handed the camera over to Taggart and flashed Felicity a grin before he disappeared.
"Gotta go check on my missus," he said as he headed for the door. "You wanta come and play with Susannah, Beck?"
Becky edged closer to Felicity. "No. I wanta watch."
Noah's eyes met Felicity's over Becky's head. He grinned and gave her a wink. "I'll be back."
Felicity sat in the back of the classroom with Becky at her side and listened to Taggart painstakingly critique each bull ride, playing the video in slow motion, freeze framing it to point out the good moves, then to point out where things began to go wrong.
"You don't hurt yourself with one big mistake usually," he told them. "It's a buildup of little ones. They're cumulative. A little slip here where you don't quite get set right—" he pointed at the frozen cowboy on the television screen "—and that throws you off for the next jump. Next thing you know you're flat on your butt in the dust."
The hats nodded. Taggart moved on.
"Here now," he said to one cowboy. "You got good form here when you come out of the chute, but watch—" the video moved forward a couple of seconds "—now you're sittin' back on your pockets. You're givin' him all the advantage 'cause you're off-balance and you can't grip him with your calves. This isn't bronc ridin', Danny. You don't have to mark 'im out."
There was a general chuckle at Taggart's reference to the bronc and bareback riders being required to have their spurs high on the horse's neck when they came out of the chute. The cowboy called Danny grinned, then nodded. "I'll get 'im next time."
Felicity watched Danny's ride end with him being flung hard against the arena fence. She winced at the sound of the clang and rattle when he hit. And he was going to do it again?
Apparently they all were.
Felicity was sure they'd take a break, instead they headed back to the arena for another ride. Only after they'd all taken another turn did Taggart call a break. Tess Tanner and Jenny Nichols had set up a table under the trees and were cooking hot dogs and ladling up bowls of chili. She was so hungry the enticing smells rendered her weak in the knees.
That was what did it, she assured herself, not a lean and still slightly dusty Taggart Jones, climbing over the fence, coffee cup in hand, to smile crookedly and say, "How about some lunch?"
After a quick meal, during which half a dozen guys came up to ask him specific questions, Taggart herded them back to the classroom and went over each cowboy's ride with the same thoroughness that he'd used on the first ones. Becky lost interest and went out to follow Jed and Mace around.
Felicity stayed in the classroom, watching the videos. She began to understand what Taggart was talking about when he pointed out somebody being too far back or being told he looked like he was waving to the crowd. She saw the little mistakes that led to bigger ones. She saw how the mechanics that Taggart was talking about came into play time after time after time.
It was past five when he finished the critiques and said, "Not bad. You're gettin' the hang of it." He gave them a thumbs up, and Felicity, glancing at the clock, started to pack up her things.
"Okay—" Taggart clapped his hands together "—back to the chutes. Get on, get set, get out. We got plenty more stuff to cover 'fore we go home tonight."
Felicity stared, dumbfounded. But the cowboys, some of them stiff, a few of them bloody, all of them far dirtier and dustier than they had been in the morning, hauled themselves to their feet and headed out the door.
Taggart followed. "You don't have to stay," he said to her.
"You're going to go through another entire round?"
"Yep. I'd rather do this in three days. But we've only got two, so we're makin' the most of it. Shut off the light when you leave."
Felicity got to her feet. "I'm not leaving."
They didn't finish until almost ten—after another full round of rides and critiques. Then Taggart showed a video of little kids riding sheep. The oldest couldn't have been more than five or six. One of them, the last one, was barely three or four.
"See that?" he said as the little girl clung and rode … and rode, then waved her hands in triumph when she landed on her bottom and bounced up again. "That's my daughter."
There was a giggle from the doorway. Felicity and those cowboys who still had enough cooperative muscles to turn around looked back to see Becky grinning.
"What's the word?" Taggart asked her.
Becky grinned even more broadly. "If I can do it, you can do it," she told the assembled cowboys. "See you tomorrow."
* * *
He wouldn't see Felicity tomorrow. She wouldn't be there. He was surprised she'd stayed so long today.
Taggart felt uncomfortably flattered. Julie's attention span where his bull riding was concerned was barely longer than the eight seconds it took for a qualified ride. He didn't try to kid himself that she would have been happier if he'd stayed home and taught bull riding instead of going down the road.
Marrying him had been a whim. Most girls felt the same way about even dating him. He didn't inspire commitment. Most women weren't as
crazy as Julie, though, so they never even pretended otherwise. And frankly, he'd never cared. Which was why Felicity Albright made him uncomfortable.
She made him want to care.
He wished she'd left. He'd thought maybe seeing him ride the bull would send her on her way. Some women got passionate about men who did stupid, dangerous things for a living. He seriously doubted that Felicity was one of them.
But she hadn't left. In fact, her mind didn't even seem to be wandering. She didn't paint her nails or read a magazine the way Julie had. She taped him talking in the classroom, making him feel awkward and like he ought to be dropping pearls of wisdom instead of just talking about where to put your free hand so you had the best balance and why you shouldn't try to second-guess bulls. That was bad enough. But at other times, she'd simply sat watching him. And that was worse. He felt like he ought to wipe his face or check to see if his fly was open.
He'd tried not to look at her. She wasn't important.
Yeah, sure.
He knew that for the lie it was Sunday morning in the middle of reviewing mechanics and talking about role models, when the door opened and Felicity slipped in.
She gave him a quick, almost guilty, smile and slid into a seat at the back of the room. He kept right on talking, but his voice felt suddenly stronger, as if his earlier words had been mere rehearsal, as if it was Felicity he'd been waiting for.
Get your head on straight, he commanded himself. Focus, damn it.
He tried. "Take your time," he told his students. "Practice. Every day. Every movement. Even if it takes you ten minutes to get something right once, get it right. Give your muscles something to remember. I can teach you the movements. But I can't teach you try. That you get on your own, from inside. You put the two together and you'll be just fine." He looked at them steadily. "Now, let's go ride some bulls."
They were out the door almost before he finished speaking. Felicity, however, moved more leisurely, as if she was waiting for him, and he fell into step beside her, trying to mask the eagerness he felt.
"You're back?" He made it a question.
She favored him with a smile. "I couldn't stay away."
He tripped over his boot. "What?" He shot her a quick sideways look.
Her smile widened. "I love watching you teach. You're so good at it. You inspire them. You make them understand. They're getting kicked and stomped and run over in the dust and they love every minute of it."
He laughed. "Yeah, well, nobody said bull riders were real bright."
"Some of them are very bright, and all of these guys are very dedicated. The dedication they're showing is something that will carry over no matter what they go on to do."
He nodded. "That's the point, really. If they learn how to apply themselves to bull riding, there's no reason they can't do it wherever they want."
"Dirk used to say the same thing to his students," she said softly. "My husband," she added, when Taggart's head jerked around.
"I remember." The comparison surprised him. He didn't think he could possibly have anything in common with her cello-playing husband.
"He loved teaching, too. He was good at it, just like you are. He reached different people, but he taught them the same basics. You're really very much alike."
They'd reached the arena by that time and she left him to climb up and perch at the top where she'd sat yesterday. He started to climb the fence. His foot slipped and he whacked his chin on the top rail.
"Been walkin' long?" Noah grinned from his spot on the platform.
Taggart swallowed blood from biting his tongue. He tugged his hat down and tried the fence again. "Come on," he shouted to the first cowboys in the chutes. "Let's go."
* * *
There were four steps up to the entrance to the classroom. By six o'clock Sunday evening very few cowboys were taking them two at a time. Two or three even had to use the handrail to pull themselves up. The grimaces Felicity saw on their faces betrayed feelings their words would belie—if anyone asked how they were, which no one did.
They were fine. They were cowboys.
Would that Dirk had seen the same dedication from his cellists, Felicity thought. One or two had actually shown a similar determination, but she doubted if even they would have turned as a group to shush the EMT talking loudly while he sewed up one guy's leg in the back of the classroom after the final bull ride Sunday night, just so they could hear what Taggart was saying.
Felicity knew she had never seen that kind of dedication among any of her students! She'd never, ever, heard one of them say, "Be quiet so I can hear Ms. Albright explain how to divide whole numbers." Not once had any of them said, "Shut up! I want to hear Ms. Albright tell us the difference between proper and common nouns."
Ah, well … maybe if she taught them how to ride bulls.
And they had hushed and paid attention when she got them interested in studying the history of the valley they lived in, when she told stories of the Indians who'd hunted there and the white settlers who had come to ranch and to farm. That meant something—just like Taggart's instructions meant something to these guys—and when she was lucky, she got in the division and the nouns through the history they read and the stories she told.
He ended with a pep talk that she taped so she could listen to it over and over. "Dedication is what it's all about," he told them. "You got to want it. If you want it, you can make it happen. And that's what you have to think about—making it happen, believing it can happen." His gaze moved slowly from one cowboy to another, connecting with each and every one of them. Then he nodded slowly. "Believe in yourself. If you don't, you not only won't finish, you won't even start."
Felicity sat in the back and watched the cowboys straighten up slowly. They were aching, all of them. Sore muscles, scrapes, abrasions abounded. They'd ridden five or six bulls in the past thirty-six hours. Every fiber of their bodies hurt. But they straightened anyway, they sucked in their breath, nodded their heads.
Taggart watched them; his eyes traveled over them once more and a slow smile spread across his face. "You all got what it takes," he told them. "Good luck."
* * *
She stayed till the bitter end. The last cowboy had climbed into his truck and rumbled down the road, and Felicity was still sitting in the classroom watching the video he'd left running. Taggart stood in the doorway, watching her, just enjoying the view. She was writing something in a notebook, her head bent, her wavy golden hair obscuring his view of her profile, but he didn't need to see it to know exactly what she looked like.
Suddenly she seemed to realize he was there because she turned guiltily, then jumped to her feet.
"I was just … digesting."
"Enough to give you indigestion, was it?"
She smiled, shaking her head. "No. It was wonderful. You were wonderful."
He dipped his head. "Thanks, but I don't do it alone. Noah, Mace, Jed, Jenny, Tess. There's a whole lot of people involved. I'm only as good as my cast and crew."
"And bulls."
He grinned. "Them, too."
He waited while she packed up her camera and put away her notebook, then started to slip on her jacket. Automatically he reached around to help her. Easing it up her shoulders, he touched her hair. It was as soft as he'd imagined it. He let it curl through his fingers, rubbed his thumb against a strand. Then, reluctantly, he stepped away and followed her out into the cold October night.
A canopy of stars and a sliver of moonlight showed in the ink black sky overhead. It was the sky he saw every night, and yet tonight it felt different, new.
Felicity's shoes made a scrunching sound on the gravel as they walked down the path toward her car, and Taggart was suddenly aware that they were alone. Becky had long since gone in to bed, and Noah had just left for home. In fact Taggart could see his taillights disappearing over the rise right then.
It was just him … and Felicity Albright.
A shiver slid up his spine that had nothing to do with the
cold. All sorts of ideas began swirling in his head—ideas as inappropriate as they were unlikely. It was Becky's fault, he told himself. If she hadn't said…
But it wouldn't have mattered what Becky had said. He was perfectly capable of appreciating a beautiful woman without the help of his daughter. The question was, What was he supposed to do about it?
The answers that occurred to him made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't seem to say a word.
They stopped beside her car.
She turned to him, so close he could smell the soft flowery scent of her shampoo. He sucked in his breath. She smiled up at him. "Thank you for letting me come."
He swallowed, shifted from one booted foot to the other. "My pleasure. I hope Becky didn't do too much arm-twisting."
"Becky had nothing to do with it."
"What did?" The question was out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop himself. Your job is to react, not to think, he told his bull riders. Yeah, sure, he thought desperately now. And look where that gets you.
"Because I wanted to come," Felicity said quietly. "I was enthralled. I wanted to watch them learn." She hesitated. "And I wanted to watch you."
Before he could think or react to that, she went up on her toes just enough to brush a quick kiss across his lips. Then she opened the car door, got in, started the engine and drove away.
Taggart was still standing there five minutes later when her taillights vanished over the rise. His knuckles rubbed against his lips.
For the first time in memory he was scared.
* * *
Six
« ^ »
She should never have kissed him.
Heavens above, what had she been thinking?
Well, she hadn't. That was precisely the problem. She'd simply reacted—to the man, to the moment. And now she felt like a robber stealing off in the getaway car, half expecting the propriety police to be blaring their sirens and racing down the road after her to haul her in.
She had kissed the father of one of her students!
The Cowboy and the Kid Page 8
