Coming Home to Texas--A Clean Romance
Page 15
But was it? They’d known each other all their lives. Hadn’t they waited long enough? They had enough missed opportunities behind them—at least, she thought so. Did he think it, too? She wanted to know, but she wasn’t about to ask.
He smiled. “Thanks. I like who you are, too.”
He brought her hand up to his face and kissed the back of it.
“Don’t you just love talking to people like Ray and Syndra?” he said. “They’re old enough to have lots of knowledge and experience, but they have so much energy and drive still, and they’re so in love and not afraid to try new things. That’s how I see us down the line.”
The last sentence took her off guard. Did he really say it? Did he mean it the way it sounded? Or was it just a half-baked remark that he’d tossed out before thinking it through?
Then he gave her a quick sidelong look.
“Yeah,” she said. “So do I.”
Maybe they didn’t have to wait until they were old enough to retire. They were young and strong and debt-free—at least, Dalia was debt-free. She wasn’t sure how solvent Tony was, and this probably wasn’t the best time to ask. But he’d spent the past several years running a successful small business, and he was respected and well liked in the community.
Just as important, they already had land access.
Was her mom up for a new agricultural venture? Dalia knew she would love the fluffy, sweet-faced Angora goats. Starting a mohair operation would be a lot of work—building new pens, acquiring a herd, learning about a whole new species, dealing with shearers and mills.
But she wouldn’t have to do it alone.
What if Dalia actually did it, moved back to Limestone Springs, maybe back to La Escarpa itself?
What if she and Tony got married after all? It could happen. Stranger things had happened. So what if they’d been interrupted, if things weren’t quite like they’d planned? Things were better now. They were better now, grown up. Tony wasn’t a professional football player, but he was a responsible community member, a business owner. He’d messed up, suffered for it and come out stronger, and so had she.
She kept the thought inside her, warm and glowing.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THEY SHOWED UP in what they thought was plenty of time for the rodeo, but the general-admission area was already packed. Dalia would have been all right with it, but Tony grandly swept her back through the gate and upgraded them to the fancy seating in front, which still had plenty of room. They each got a different, bigger stamp on the back of their hands from the richly mustachioed man who stood guard at the gate, ready to pounce on anyone who might try to sit in the fancy seats without paying for them.
“Oh, yeah,” Tony said as they took their new seats. “This is much better. Only problem is, there’s no back to the seat for me to rest my arm along as an excuse to put it around my girl.”
He mimed the action, stretching both arms over his head with an exaggerated yawn and then bringing one slowly down behind Dalia with a comical expression of round-eyed innocence on his face as he looked pointedly away from her.
She took his hand as it landed on her shoulder and pressed it there.
“Do you need an excuse?” she asked.
He kissed her. “Well, no. I guess I don’t.”
It had been years since Dalia had been to a rodeo. It was hard to pay attention now, hard to look at anything besides Tony, all that lean strength of him, sitting there in his perfectly faded jeans. He kept in near-constant motion. Sometimes he picked up her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed the back of it in that swift, natural motion of his. Sometimes, when the rodeo clown was especially witty, he put his arm around her and squeezed her close to him, and she felt his big laugh booming through his chest. The clown’s routine wasn’t that funny, but Tony’s laugh was so irresistible that she laughed, too. She’d forgotten how much he liked slapstick. It was oddly endearing. She’d glance over at his eager, attentive, grinning profile as he waited for the next comedic gem, and she loved him so much her throat ached.
There was lots to talk about, like where the competitors came from—Buda, San Antonio, Wyoming, New Mexico, Australia—or how well they performed, or how they were going to have to visit the chiropractor the next day. Every so often, one of the calves had figured things out, and stopped just outside its chute instead of running, so the competitor rode right past it in a burst of momentum. Then the calf trotted smugly off to the pen.
Just after team roping, Tony suddenly said, “All right, listen. I gotta go do something. You wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise. But I’ll be back. You just sit tight, okay?”
He said it all in a rush, like he had to get away fast before she dragged the truth out of him, which probably wouldn’t have been all that difficult if she’d tried.
“Okay,” she said. She’d let him have his surprise, whatever it was.
He kissed her and was gone.
She chuckled. Alex was right: in the ways that really mattered, Tony wasn’t like their dad after all. He could never be a gambler; he was too transparent.
What was his surprise? She couldn’t remember seeing anything she’d particularly wanted at any of the booths. Maybe it was something nice to eat. She was getting hungry again.
She made herself stop thinking about it. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to figure it out and spoil it for him.
It was a clear night with a deep blue sky. When they’d first taken their seats, the golden crescent moon had just started rising above the bleachers opposite them. Now it was sailing high, and the stars were coming out.
Tony hadn’t made it back by the end of saddle bronc. He’d be sorry he missed that; he loved all the rough stock events. He must be stuck in a line somewhere.
Tie-down roping began, and ended, and still Tony didn’t come. By the time barrel racing started, Dalia was getting annoyed. Where was he? Did he get caught up in a conversation somewhere and lose track of time? It was no fun sitting here by herself. She wanted him here beside her, wanted to hear his comments and see him laugh at the clown.
Barrel racing ended. It was time for bull riding now. Surely he’d be back for this; it was his favorite event. Dalia found the whole thing pretty terrifying. Exciting, sure, but so much could go so wrong, so fast. Vests offered some protection to internal organs, and some competitors wore head protection, but most didn’t.
Seeing Tony compete during their senior year had been eight seconds’ worth of mingled excitement and terror, with a big dose of pride. He’d looked so good. But she’d been relieved when Coach Willis had found out about it and put a quick end to Tony’s bull-riding career.
The pickup riders and even the clowns seemed to have a more watchful, serious air now, as they waited soberly to do their part. Rodeo was fun, but there was always the risk that a rider—or a worker, for that matter—would get injured, maimed or killed.
A screen showed a close-up of each competitor in his chute before he rode, poised just above his bull, waiting. A couple of them wore helmets, but most just had their hats. Typical cowboy vanity.
It must be a tense time for them, that wait in the chute. All that preparation and training, years’ worth in some cases, and in a matter of seconds the whole thing would be over, one way or the other.
Dang it, where was Tony? She wanted him here, with her, commenting on the over-the-top names of the bulls. Bruiser, Demon, Cochise, Frequent Flier. Now the announcer was introducing one called Dust Devil.
Then he said the competitor’s name.
Antonio Reyes.
* * *
TONY HELD TIGHT to the top rail of the chute, keeping his weight off the bull and his toes tucked in so he wouldn’t poke him with his spurs. Dust Devil was a red, tiger-striped brindle, a Brahma-Hereford cross, nineteen-hundred pounds. Ton
y had checked him out earlier, just after bronc riding was done, when the rodeo workers first started rolling the bulls up the alleyways and into the chutes.
Dust Devil was a massive, meaty animal. He’d even made eye contact with Tony as he passed him. His eyes were small and angry, set deep in the sides of his head with fleshy rolls and wrinkles above them—like he was raising his eyebrows at Tony, like he was sizing him up and didn’t think much of him.
Now the bull was puffing and snorting, unable to look at Tony but communicating just fine with him all the same. I know you’re there, bud, and you’re goin’ down.
All the metal pipes that formed the chute had advertising on them, bumper stickers for the various rodeo sponsors. Tony had his left hand over an ad for Justin Boots, and his right hand gripped the rope that circled the bull’s girth—his own rope, which he’d retrieved from his grandparents’ place yesterday, along with his chaps, spurs, vest and gloves. The equipment had been stored indoors in his riggin bag and was still in good shape. His gloves felt just right, grippy and flexible at the same time.
He had a weird, gone sort of feeling in his stomach. Things were about to get pretty wild. Anything could happen. Every bull had its tendencies; some were north-to-south buckers, some were spinners, and there were other, individual quirks besides. It was up to the rider to do his research and prepare himself.
But preparation could do only so much. Once the chute opened, it was anyone’s guess. You couldn’t make a strategy, really, because you couldn’t dominate the situation. The bull was going to do whatever he was going to do, and everything you did would be some sort of response to that. Like when the other team changed up its alignment in the last moments before a play, and you had to adjust. Only, this was not a defensive line but an animal, an angry animal that weighed not much less than a 1979 Volkswagen Beetle. And instead of seconds, you had fractions of a second to react, and there were more serious consequences if you failed.
There was no time to think. Your body had to act on instinct.
And underneath that feeling in his stomach, Tony felt something else, a cold calm certainty that said, I got this.
He nodded to the worker. The chute opened.
Almost the same instant, he was pitching forward, the name of a motor oil manufacturer suddenly huge before his eyes. Not even out of the chute yet, and the bull was trying to brain him against an iron pipe.
Then the bull left the chute, and Tony was jerked backward and spinning hard to the right. A slamming jolt shuddered through him, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and then he whipped around fast to the left, feeling the twist in his spine.
He was laughing. No fear now, just a savage joy.
Another jolt, another twisting jerk. He held tight to the rope, but it was slipping out of his grip. He saw his left leg passing over the bull’s back to the right. It spun around like the spoke of a wheel, like something not connected to him.
Something hit him hard on his left hip. The sky rolled past in a blur of stars, and the ground rushed toward his face.
* * *
DALIA’S FIRST THOUGHT was Huh, how about that, there’s another Antonio Reyes here and he’s competing tonight.
She wished Tony would hurry up and come back already so they could laugh about that together.
And then she saw the screen that showed the competitor in the chute ready to come out.
Tony’s hat. Tony’s shoulders. Tony’s everything.
The resolution on the screen wasn’t great, and he’d put on a different shirt since she’d last seen him, but she’d know him anywhere.
Ever since she’d learned the truth about spring break, she’d played through the hotel pool incident a hundred times over in her mind. She saw his fool self, twenty years old and convinced he was bulletproof, stoked on adrenaline, hungry for excitement and attention. Saw him diving—diving—off the balcony. Saw his open-eyed face hit the water with enough force to tear loose a membrane from the back of his eye.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Sometimes she saw what might have happened—saw him off-balance, with his beer-dulled senses, saw him hitting the masonry edge of the pool instead of the water. Breaking his neck or cracking his skull.
And now...
Now he was on the back of an angry animal that weighed just under a ton. Which was bad enough for an able-bodied man with perfect vision, let alone one who was half-blind.
She heard herself whisper, “Wait, no.”
And then the chute opened and there wasn’t time to think anymore.
Dust Devil started fighting before even leaving the chute. One instant Tony was being driven toward the rails as the bull’s hooves hit the ground in a juddering impact. Then the bull bucked, flinging Tony up and out, his raised left hand like the end of a whip. All his vertebrae, all the separate bones and muscles and ligaments in his body, were being alternately stretched and compacted at intervals of fractions of seconds.
That was all bad enough, but it was nothing compared with what the bull could do to Tony once he got him off his back, with his skull-crushing, rib-shattering hooves and blunt-tipped, cudgel-like horns.
It was starting now. The bull was shaking him loose. Tony lost his seat. Except for the hand gripping the rope, he was completely airborne now.
The bull bucked again. Tony lost his hold, flew through the air and slammed to the ground in a cloud of dust.
And still the bull bucked, not the least bit appeased at having dislodged the irritating presence on his back. He was just plain mad.
And suddenly Tony was on his feet, moving fast toward the gate, not even limping. He used to spring up exactly that way after getting knocked down in football, bouncing like a rubber ball, like the ground wasn’t good enough for him. Every cocky line of his posture said, plainer than words could have done, Yeah, you knocked me down, but you didn’t keep me down.
He was gone, through the gate, safe. The bull was led away.
It was all over.
Dalia half fell forward, elbows on knees, face in hands. Waves of sickness pulsed through her in time to the rush of blood loud in her ears. The nausea passed, leaving her weak in the limbs.
Then the weakness passed, too, and for the first time she was able to think.
How did this even happen? Did Tony suddenly decide he wanted to ride a bull that night? No, that wasn’t possible. He had to plan in advance to some degree, because he had to bring his own gear—rope, chaps, vest, spurs, gloves. Even a Western shirt to change into. He’d brought those things with him, and kept them—where? In the toolbox of his truck, maybe? Stowed away someplace, hidden from her.
His little surprise.
And before that, he had to fill out a Professional Bull Riders membership form and pay the fee.
Just how many days in advance had he started plotting this whole thing out?
And he didn’t tell her?
No, of course he didn’t tell her. Because if he had, she’d have told him it was a terrible idea. She’d have seen the crazy stunt as proof that he hadn’t grown up and never would.
Which it was.
The truth had been there all along. All this afternoon and evening, all those hours when she’d been basking in his company, enjoying their banter, daring to imagine a life together, a future—he’d known he was going to do this foolish thing. All of yesterday, too, when she’d been looking forward to today, planning what she would wear, giddy with anticipation. Everything she thought the day meant—it had all been an illusion. A lie.
This whole day—what she’d allowed herself to think of as their first back-together date—had been doomed from the start.
Just like their relationship.
* * *
TONY ZIPPED HIS riggin bag shut and shouldered the strap. No need to wait around. No prize for him tonight; he hadn’t quite made eight seconds.
All he wanted now was to get back to Dalia. That was the only thing he needed to make the feeling perfect.
And there she was, heading his way.
He stopped in his tracks a moment and just watched her. Those long legs striding toward him in those boot-cut jeans. That strappy tank with the lace down the sides. That beautiful face with its unsmiling intensity.
“Are you out of your mind?” she asked.
Tony knew a rhetorical question when he heard one.
“Just crazy about you, baby.”
He put his arm around her and pulled her to him. “Oh, man, that was such a rush. Did you see how the bull almost rammed my face against that pipe before we even made it out the chute? Wouldn’t that be something, if I’d wiped out right then and there?”
“Yes, Tony, I saw it. I was right there in the stands and I saw the whole thing. And yes, it would have been something if you broke every bone in your face.”
She wasn’t hugging him back.
“Are you mad?” he asked.
“Brilliant deduction, Tony. Yes. I’m mad.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Because you just risked your life for no good reason.”
His arm fell back to his side.
When she spoke again, her voice was low and shaking. “Do you know how many times over the past few days I’ve imagined the scene at the hotel pool? And every time it sickens me—not just because of what happened, but because of what could have happened. I have thanked God daily for sparing your life and protecting you from getting hurt worse than you did. Bad as it was, it could have been so much worse. And now here you are, years later, when you ought to know better, doing the exact same thing.”