Paint My Body Red

by Heidi R. Kling

  “This will be draw four, exhibitor number 9, from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Paige Mason, daughter of local legend and rodeo champ, Augustus “Gus” Mason. She’s back at Eight Hands Ranch after some time away and we’re pleased as punch to re-welcome her to the Jackson Hole Rodeo in the challenging Freestyle Without a Bridle competition. Paige would like to dedicate this ride to her father and inspiration, Gus…” The announcer’s voice cracks as he continues my dedication, “who taught her to never give up on what she started.”

  I keep my eyes on Scout’s velvet neck.

  Don’t cry.

  Don’t cry.

  Don’t cry.

  Sucking in a breath, I hold my emotions back. Focus on the ride.

  I thought about riding to “Live Like You Were Dying” a heartbreaking song Stacey Westfall chose and dedicated to her father. But there’s no way I could do it. I’d be crushed. So I chose something upbeat, yet sentimental. Something that would make Dad smile instead of cry—“Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” Daddy sang it to me when I was a little girl, strumming his old acoustic guitar, substituting “Cowboys” for “Cowgirls,” and swinging my mom around the room. She’d laugh and duck out of the way and I’d giggle, “More!”

  Since Scout isn’t wearing a saddle, there are no stirrups. Jake gives me a lift up with conjoined fingers. “You got this, Paige,” he says.

  I flash him a nervous smile. “I hope so.”

  “You do.”

  I glance up and spot Anna and Dad in the sea of strangers’ faces as the music starts. Anna waves for both of them. A soft flinch of my thighs moves Scout into the center of the arena. I move her sideways, left first, then right. She moves easily and fluidly, then like Stacey’s routine, we do a full spin to the right, then to the left.

  The crowd goes nuts. I hang on to her mane, combing it with my fingers. We stride forward slowly at first then break into a trot. As her pace builds from a trot into a smooth canter, my hands tangle in Scout’s mane. Hot wind tumbles through my hair, my hat flies off and smiling, I try to catch it but miss and the crowd goes crazy again.

  We break into a gallop, flying around that dusty ring until I don’t know the difference between Scout and me, where she ends and I begin. I lean back and she slams on her breaks, coming to a fierce stop, which causes the crowd to erupt in even more uproarious applause.

  The lyrics boom through the arena “They never stay home and they’re always alone…” It’s invigorating and uplifting and nostalgic. I squeeze Scout again, and she moves into another trot, and from there, progresses into a swift canter.

  “Don’t let them play guitars and drive old trucks, make them be doctors and lawyers and stuff…”

  The crowd begins to sing along as we zoom around the arena.

  I have chills all over my body, the familiar notes blaring from huge speakers into the arena. My quick kick stops her short. Dust swirls around us, and I wait for the applause to die down before nudging her backwards. She goes 10 paces, stops, and then lurches forward, breaking into a wild gallop. Finally the music slows and we stop. I don’t dare try the Stacey Westfall trick of standing up on her back. She’d buck me the hell off. I mean, she’s a good sport, but she isn’t a saint.

  But we do manage the little trick we’ve been practicing. Not even Jake’s seen this one. I fall to my knees, and next to me Scout bends her front legs and does a little bow. I run into the center of the ring, where I find my white hat and toss it into the crowd.

  They go nuts, screaming and whistling.

  The metallic stutter of the announcer belts into the arena. “Now that was one heck of a ride out of Miss Paige and her pony Scout! Not sure if you remember her last performance ten years ago, but let’s just say this was a major improvement.” The crowd laughs, obviously remembering the damn calf story. “We’re proud of you, Paige Mason. Welcome back to Jackson Hole, Cowgirl.”

  This time I don’t bother fighting tears meant to fall.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  “Whoohooo!” Jake runs into the staging area, scoops me up, and swings me around. Then he kisses me soft and hard and perfect, right in front of everyone. “How’d it feel?” He cups my face in his hands, his blue eyes wild with excitement. “Huh? You were amazing out there! Just amazing!”

  “Incredible. Unreal. Insert every adjective you can think of?” I’m smiling, crying, totally exhausted, and elated, and everything all at once. When a girl walks over to take Scout back to her stall, I’m reluctant to let them go.

  “Let her go. She’ll be fine,” Jake says.

  I nuzzle into Scout’s neck. “You did it, girl. I knew you could.” She shakes out her mane and gives me a look that says, Like I had a choice, but yeah, I did. Then she smacks her lips against my shoulder. I laugh. “I’ll bring you a treat later, promise.”

  The girl leads Scout away and I turn back to Jake. He’s smiling so big, I think his face might break.

  “Damn!” He pounds his fist into his jeans. “Unbelievable. Did you hear that crowd? They were going nuts. Come on, let’s go check the scores!”

  He pulls me back into the arena where we look up at the scores. He doesn’t let my hand fall, just keeps on holding it tight, talking in a fast, passionate voice. We were the last entry, so this is it.

  “Stacey Westfall is a wizard, but she uses wheeled spurs. You did this with just your connection to Scout. Do you get how rare and special that is? Damn!” Jake pounds his thigh again.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that,” I tease, leaning into his shoulder, wrapping my arm around his waist.

  But I’m beaming, too, swiping tears of adrenaline and relief off my cheeks. I did it. We did it. Jake, Scout, and me.

  He ruffles my hair. He paces. We wait for the score.

  We’re clutching sweaty hands when we finally hear the crackle of speakers and a metallic voice. “Two hundred and sixteen points for Miss Paige and her horse, Scout.”

  “That’s…” Jake calculates the points, which, like the Olympics are based on individual aspects of the performance I don’t particularly understand, in his head. “That’s…second, no third place. Third place!”

  My heart falls to the floor, and I think my knees might give out.

  Third place.

  That’s only $10,000.

  It’s not enough. It’s not enough to save the ranch.

  All of this was for nothing.

  “No, no, no. Don’t look like that. Third place is fantastic! Paige, come on.”

  “It’s not enough, Jake.”

  He cups my face in his hands again, this time peering into my soul with those too blue eyes of his. Forcing me to stay with him. To stay happy.

  “You listen to me. You did good. No, you did great. Third place is fantastic.”

  I break away from his gaze and try to swallow the Teton-size lump in my throat. Glancing out at the crowd where Anna and Daddy are sitting, I see Anna clapping. Dad is sitting there, not moving, like always. I close my eyes and will him to move. I will him to clap. Just this once, please, Daddy, please. Move, Daddy. Just this once, please be okay.

  I look down at my scuffed cowgirl boots. I wonder if I can take them back. Can I take this whole outfit back, or, if not, sell it to a second hand shop? It was such a waste of money, all this sparkling suede of a charade. I’m so stupid for letting Anna stuff me into it. I feel like a clown. I want to rip it off and toss it the trash. “It’s not enough to save the ranch, Jake.”

  “We’ll think about all that later.” He puts his arm around me, and pulls me in close, a devilish look in his eyes. “Right now, we’re celebrating.”

  “I don’t have an ID, Jake. I can’t go into a bar.”

  I stop in front of the dusty steps of a loud saloon, complete with the kind of swinging Old West doors Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday used to fall out of. My proclamation stalls Jake for less than a millisecond. But then, as if he’s already thought this through and arrived at a reasonable en
ough solution, he says, “Trust me.”

  Grabbing hold of my hand, he tips his hat at the cowboy door guy who, dressed in a red plaid shirt, dusty blue jeans, and black cowboy boots looks not much older than Jake. The bouncer guy sort of checks me out without letting Jake notice he’s checking me out, which of course Jake notices (because he notices everything) and flashes the guy a look as he dabs our admittance ink on our overturned wrists.

  The stamp is a lovely image of a big buxom bikini-clad girl joyriding a cactus—charming—and just like that we’re in.

  The opposite side of the swinging doors is chaos, country music blaring from huge speakers on either side of a little painted black stage. And when I say “blaring,” I mean ground-shaking-can’t-hear-a-thing blaring. Thick clouds of cigarette smoke, the scent of tangy spilled beer, and the crunch of peanut shells under our feet, tells its own story as Jake pulls me through the shoulder-to-shoulder post-rodeo crowd to the long bar. He waits until I sit down to do so himself. His lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying so he leans in, the side of his face almost grazing mine, and I lean in, too. Before I know it, my hand is pressed on his thigh and his mouth is so close to my ear I feel the heat of his breath as we struggle to communicate in a way that is hardly a struggle at all.

  “Beer?”

  Um. I’m not sure if I should, but I nod.

  He nods. Grins. Flips my wrist over and his fingers linger on my stamp much longer than they need to simply point it out. “Any kind in particular?”

  I shrug again, and tell him anything is fine.

  We hung out with Dad and Anna after the rodeo. They were both so happy, so proud. I knew if I let on how disappointed I am, it would take away from their moment. I’m damn proud of Scout. She couldn’t have done any better. After spending some time with her, cooling her down, giving her a nice drink, some sweet oats, and then heading back to the ranch to shower and change, I feel a bit better. The relief of it just being done has left me in a state of cool, mellow exhaustion. The ride to the bar with Jake was nice, too, though I haven’t let go of my other goal of the night: to tell him what happened back at home. A beer or two might help with that.

  He hollers our order at the bartender, a very pretty woman I’m guessing to be in her late 20s or early 30s. She has two-toned layered hair—black underneath and light bleach-blonde on the top. She fills them and then sets the frothy glasses down in front of Jake, smiling at him in a way that makes my previously admiring hackles stand on questioning edge.

  How well does he know her?

  They chat for another minute before she says something in a very flirty voice while shooting him a little wink. Her zebra hair floats into the air when she spins back toward a group of rowdy guys and says in a sexy drawl, “What can I get you, cowboys?”

  Their tongues practically drag on the bar as her cleavage pops over her tight pink tank top and she scribbles their order.

  I peek at Jake to see if his tongue’s wagging, too, but he’s watching me.

  “She’s pretty,” I say, gesturing over his shoulder.

  “Yep,” he says. Honest Jake is honest even about this, but then again the fact that she’s pretty is not really a question.

  “Do you know her…well?”

  “I know her a bit.”

  Define “a bit,” my head asks, but that’s awfully pushy, so I just shrug and bounce my knee to the music. I need a plan for tonight. It’s not like I can just charge into a conversation about everything that happened in California. In the hayloft I mentioned a bad relationship back home, but he’d obviously translate that into a regular high school kid with a regular high school kid. Someone as wholesome and honest as Jake knowing the full story of Ty? What happened with us and what happened after? How could he look at me the same way he’s looking at me now if he knew the whole truth? Telling him the truth risks losing him. I know that. But I have to tell him. That was tonight’s plan as much as the rodeo was today’s. I would not chicken out.

  I cup the tall glass stein, looking at it like it’s the Holy Grail of liquid courage. I feel the cool moisture dripping down its side, before holding it to my lips and sucking down half of it in one long sip. I rarely drink, and I’m so small that it’s not long before my legs numb, my brain lightens, and the song I swear they have on repeat is not the worst song I’ve ever heard. I can do this. I’ll tell him.

  “Um, Jake?” I start to say.

  “You have a…” Jake reaches out his fingers toward my lips.

  My eyes flare open.

  “Beer mustache.”

  “Oh.” I look down shyly, wiping my mouth on my short sleeve.

  Jake hands me a napkin. “Why do you keep using your pretty shirts for beer rags?”

  I love his reference to our picnic in the hayloft at sunset. I was too scared to get close then, but now I don’t feel scared. I feel the opposite. Jake feels it, too—I can tell. We exchange a knowing smile. Today has been the best yet, and it’s getting better by the second.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You look good, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” The slow flush crawls up my neck again. It’s hot in here. The beer is making me even warmer—not to mention the close proximity to Jake. I did put extra effort into my outfit for the night. I chose a lacy short-sleeved shirt, a swirly white skirt, and lace-up sandals.

  He touches my elbow. “You were great in there today, Paige.”

  I don’t know if it’s the beer or if I’ve adjusted to the level of sound in here, but I can suddenly hear him—really hear him—like we’re the only two people in the bar and the music playing is soft as a breeze. I zoom in on his face and it sticks.

  “Thanks.”

  “Really. And I’m not just saying that.”

  “No, I know. You wouldn’t mean it if you didn’t mean it. I mean, you wouldn’t say it if you didn’t mean it.”

  His eyes widen, light, as he listens.

  “That’s why I like you, Cowboy Jake. You aren’t full of shit. Sorry if that’s not very lady-like.”

  A soft smile plays on his lips. “You know I don’t care about any of that.”

  “Another reason I like you.”

  “So you like me, huh?”

  “For someone smart, you are pretty daft sometimes.”

  “But you said…” He swallows. “In the hayloft, you said that it wasn’t a good idea, you and me.”

  “It’s not a good idea. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it.” Shit. I know where this line of reasoning is heading. I have to talk to Jake. I have to. But we’re here, together, at a Jackson cowboy bar. What if Jake hates me after I confess everything? I need to have this memory.

  So while he looks at me quizzically, I gulp down the last of my giant beer, before setting down the glass hard. Then I grab Jake’s hand and shout into his ear, “Let’s dance.”

  He’s looking at me in that half-amused way of his, but he lets me pull him through the crowd to the slippery dance floor that’s packed with cowgirls and their cowboys, dancing in this jovial swing-dancing style of dipping and swinging and twirling. And suddenly we’re doing the same thing, and it’s not awkward or jarring at all. In fact, Jake and I are in perfect stride with one another. We’re laughing and he’s swinging me around and I’m just going for it until the music changes, slows, and the cowboys are pulling their girls in close.

  Jake pulls me in tight until I feel his belt buckle—and what’s under the tight stretch of his jeans—dig into my hipbone. I don’t back off. I don’t back off at all. It’s dangerous and I know it and I don’t care. My inhibitions fall to the floor to play with the peanut shells. My fingers nestle in the wisps of hair on the nape of his neck, and soon my head is on his shoulder and his mouth is brushing the back of my neck and we’re swaying back and forth, back and forth, our hearts beating fast. I’m thinking about dances before this and how this is different. How this is a dance for grown-ups, or for people like us who may not be officially “g
rown up” but who feel like they’ve lived a few lifetimes enough to be up for consideration.

  I never want this dance to end. I want to dance with Jake until the end of time. But the slow song ends, as all songs end. Jake leads me by the hand back toward the bar, and we get another drink. And another. And we’re leaning into each other and he’s telling stories, animated, his hands flying through the air with inflection. On the bar stool, his legs are spread in that cowboy casual way and my sandals rest on the lower rung of his chair and I’m moving closer, listening—listening and laughing and we’re both laughing. For storytelling emphasis, he rests his hand on my thigh. For storytelling emphasis, I squeeze his forearm where his denim shirt is rolled up, exposing one badass forearm…until, suddenly, I’m pulled from the moment by the bartender’s unfriendly stare.

  Who are you? her expression asks. How did you manage to capture Jake’s attention in a bar full of cowgirls?

  When he follows my eyes to her questioning face, she smiles at Jake, then gets back to rubbing down the bar with a wet dishrag.

  I don’t want to share him with her. I don’t want to share Jake with anyone.

  Suddenly I’m way too brave.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To your truck.”

  His forehead crinkles. “You ready to go home?”

  “No.” I lean in closer. “I’m ready to go to your truck.”

  The booze. It’s making me say things. Want things. Want things I shouldn’t.

  He raises an eyebrow like oh and then ohhhhh. He spins back toward the bartender and holds up two fingers.

  Two dripping bottles of beer arrive. She pops the tops. “Careful with this kid,” she warns Jake. “This is the last one she gets.”

  He puts a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. She presses it back toward him. “On the house, Jake. You know that. Y’all need it more than we do.”