by C. M. Lally
She sprints from the stall and barn screaming my name and runs into Noa and her friend. She circles behind them for a second, using them as protection against me.
I twist the nozzle closed and drop it on the ground, holding my hands up in surrender. The big grin on my face is hard to contain while Mandy’s still laughing. She walks back towards me cautiously, turning slightly towards Noa, “How do you live with this brat?” It takes all the strength I have not to acknowledge the dropped jaw and hurt look in Noa’s eyes as we walk back into the barn giggling.
“What’d you do that for?” She rolls the hose back up and hangs it on the wall, far away from my reach.
“You started it with the laughing. Tell me, what were you laughing at?” I close the stall gate, securing Thunder inside.
“The image of a PBR daily post headline popped into my brain ‘Braxton’s Sex Bomb.’ It was funny, so I laughed.”
“That’d be more troublesome to my publicist than funny, so don’t go starting that rumor.” Her bottom lip juts out in a pout and her eyes narrow at me, but she knows I’m kidding when she quickly smiles again.
“Aww. You’re taking all the fun out of my lonely existence. Jon’s already gone. Don’t take away my rumor mill gossip.”
“Speaking of Jon, have you heard from him? Is he safe?” She shakes her head and holds it up to the sky, trying to prevent the instantaneous tears that have welled up from falling.
Jon Whitestein is a good man. Scratch that. He’s a fucking phenomenal genius. He’s a software developer for lack of a better term. He invented the most advanced zooming software technology you can get for aerial photography. He’s over in the Middle East right now working with the government on some top secret project.
“He’s okay. We’ve already spoken this morning. It’s been hard with the time differences as we move around. But this is a good time zone for us. I’m glad we’re here for a while, at least.”
“Alright. I’m glad to hear he’s safe and well. I’m gonna get over to the arena for some extra practice time. Behave, and stay away from idle gossip and chatter. It’s all lies and innuendo.” I wink at her and softly touch Thunder on the nose before heading back outside.
Inside the arena, I enter the locker rooms and hear hushed whispers in the therapy cubes. It’s Noa and a more profound voice talking lowly. I edge along the wall to get within better earshot of their conversation. I look around, and no one’s coming, so I lean against the wall and listen.
“I’m afraid you’re going on the injured report, Wes.”
Wes. That rat bastard. Serves him right. My hands clench in anger.
“You can’t fucking do that.” His raised voice echoes off the bare walls.
“I can, and I am. Whatever you did this morning tore your trapezius muscle. That’s not an easy fix, especially when you need to hold your arm up for points. You can’t even lift it past your waist right now.” She sounds calm and in control. Which is more than I can say for myself, my fists are clenched so tight; my knuckles are glowing white.
“Give me the damn pain meds, and I’ll make it happen. I only need eight seconds,” he rasps. A few grunts and groans follow as I hear the table legs screech across the concrete floor.
The sound of paper rips and then nothing. There’s dead silence coming from the room. No footsteps. No exchange of further directions.
My boot scuffs the dirty floor as I take a step to check on Doc, and then I hear talking. “He’s scary. I was nervous for a few moments,” her friend says. Oh, thank God. I’m glad she wasn’t alone with him, although I ‘m not sure two women would have been enough to handle his rage when it’s unleashed.
“He’s a very sick man, and there isn’t much I can do for him. He chooses to self-medicate with alcohol. You and I both know that’s a deadly combination. Now he’s got a prescription for some powerful painkillers to add to his nightly cocktail. The only thing I can do is make sure a one-ton bull isn’t added to the mix.”
“You can only do so much; he’s an adult. At some point, he’s got to take responsibility for his own life. Come on, let’s go fill those ice bags you were talking about.”
“I’m so glad you are here with me. Let’s go.”
A heavy door creaks in the far distance and then slams closed. I’m not sure how Wes got out of the room, but I’m glad he’s nowhere near Doc. I unclench my fists and feel lighter, as I head towards the mechanical bull training area.
Virgil is waiting for me when I practically skipped through the door. “Oh boy! You’re in a good mood. What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Just ready to get out there tonight and get some more points. If I win, then I qualify to start picking my bulls. If I can take the ‘luck of the draw’ out of the equation, I have a much better shot at making quarterfinals and then finals in the fall.”
“I see a man with a plan. Let’s get to it then. I’ve got the buck and spin cranked up to Bodacious level. You ready?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m caffeinated and awake.” He turns the music up loud, and we get to work.
Chapter 19 – Noa
THIS HAS BEEN A CRAP day so far. Hopefully, my night is much better, even though I have to work. The bull rider and steer wrestling shows are tonight, and those alone wear me out. Even the typical bumps and bruises require ice, so here we stand loading ice packs to be ready. I’m glad I have volunteers from the local colleges and medical practices for the physical work, but these are my patients, and the worry alone causes mental fatigue.
“Are we all done with the ice bags? If not, we need to run and get more plastic bags. We’re out.” Myla’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Hello. Paging Dr. Knight.” She snaps her fingers to gain my attention.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind preparing for tonight. I was mentally going over last week’s injuries to make sure we’ve covered everything. What did you ask me?”
“I know, honey. It’s a new job, and you want everything to go smoothly. I get it because I know you.” She reaches for the last ice bag and starts filling it. “I said, this is the last ice bag. Is this all we need. We’ve got twenty-nine, nope, make that thirty with this final one on stand-by.” She uses her finger to point to each bag layered in the cooler as she counts it.
“Thanks, again for being my assistant— while you are on vacation,” I bump my hip to hers.
“Hey, whatever I need to do to be near cowboys, I’m all in; except for that one earlier. I don’t want to spend more time with him than necessary.”
“Oh, Myla. He’s pretty much harmless. He’s sick and lonely, and the circuit is the only life he’s ever known. He’ll probably never retire because he knows nothing else. And I threatened his livelihood today. I get it. “
“I still don’t think you should let him ride tonight?” She adds the last ice pack to the bulk of the others and closes the cooler door. “I’m just looking out for you and your medical license. It’s not like my profession where all I have to worry about is a wardrobe malfunction on live television. This is a man’s life and a very pissed-off bull.”
“I gave him a low dose of painkillers so that he could ride tonight. I suspect they aren’t going to help at all, and he’ll be disqualified from the rest of the weekend's events.”
He could barely raise his arm above his waist. He’ll learn that I’m the boss of the injury report and he goes on it for a week to heal or he disqualifies himself based on points. It’s his choice. I hope he sees the error of his ways and doesn’t give me too much grief.
“Okay, if you say so. You’re the one with the medical degree. So what’s next on our prep list?”
“Nothing. We’re all done, and I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise? Please God, let it be a cowboy. Please, please, pretty please!” She claps her hands together begging style and stomps her feet.
“Oh Jeez. No. We have a lunch date with Hannah and her husband, Artie.” Her mouth turns down in a scowl.
“How the hell is
that a surprise?”
“Oh, you’re going to love this surprise, but that’s all I’m telling you.” I look at the time on my phone and see we’re late already. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want to miss lunch, because I may not get dinner.”
HANNAH IS A GRACIOUS host and an excellent cook. We all sat around the extended kitchen table patting our overly full bellies and laughed for a long while. “Well, I’m going to get out of here and let the fun commence. I’ve already removed all of my favorites, so there are no worries over what you might like,” Artie announces. He bends down and kisses Hannah on the nose while both Myla and myself are staring in awe. Now that’s a man in love.
“I know I’m the guest here in this situation, but will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Hannah and I both look at each other and offer a brief tease of silence before we burst out laughing at Myla. I can’t keep secrets from my best friend, no matter if it’s a surprise or not.
“Okay, Myla, but instead of telling you, we’re going to show you.”
I grab her hand and help her out off the inside bench of the table and guide her to the door of the spare room in the front of the camper. Hannah and Artie use their spare bedroom as a walk-in closet. “Close your eyes,” Hannah demands. Myla closes them tightly. A big smile is playing on her face, and I’m so happy to see my friend excited.
Hannah pushes back the sliding door, and we both guide Myla inside. “Walk straight in. Now open them.”
Rows and rows of bedazzled cowboy shirts line the top pole. Some have fringe and fancy, swirling scrollwork sewed into flowers and other country decorations. Everything is color coordinated. There are countless numbers of chaps on specially made hangers with bull clips to hold their weight. This is the art of organization at its finest.
After admiring the closet again for the tenth time it seems, I take a peek at Myla. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. Her fingers reach out and rake over the arms of every shirt, even grabbing some to get a better feel for the texture and material. “Wow! Just wow. This is amazing.” She runs her hands up and down the chap fringe.
Hannah reaches out and pulls open a drawer that displays more organized slotted rows of belts and belt buckles. Hannah leaves us for a moment and comes back with a deep, empty, plastic tote bin. “Here. Take it and fill it. You get to stuff it as full as you can make it with Artie’s things for your cowboy collection.”
“What? You can’t be serious?” She looks at both of us in disbelief several times; her head is bobbing back and forth like a tennis match in progress. We’re both wildly shaking our heads yes, and the unshed tears roll down her cheek in a slow stream.
Myla trains her keen eyes on the clothes in the far corner and meticulously peruses them selecting each piece one by one, and giving it a thorough evaluation. She pulls at stitching, tugs on buttons and fringe, grazes her delicate hands over beautiful material to make her decisions. It’s a process. A gift she’s been provided with, and she’s not taking it for granted.
After two hours of pure, mental interrogation of Hannah’s closet, she deems her selections final. I’m exhausted just anticipating the choices. Of course, Hannah and I both provided our comments and opinions when asked, but I am utterly impressed with the pieces she took. Hannah is thrilled to have cleaned out the closet in this manner.
“Here, hold this.” She hands me her tote of cowboy magic and gives Hannah the biggest hug I’ve ever seen. They both sway back and forth giggling in a dance of sheer happiness. “I’ll keep in touch, and if you’re ever in Cali again, please call me. I’d love to show you around, and if we time it right, get you onto the set of this Western movie when it’s filming.”
“That’d be great. We’re always in or around Cali. We’ve been known to day trip to get away from the tour. Now you two better get out of here. Noa’s got work to do.” She shoves both of our butts out the door, just in time to see Braxton coming out of our place. His eyes narrow at me from across the way, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach. I don’t like him being mad at me, even though I know I did nothing wrong.
If I know Braxton, and I like to think I do, he’s overwhelmed with emotion and doesn’t know how to talk about it. He’s boiling lava under that tough crust of a shell we call skin. I’ll wait for him to erupt, and he will— after I poke him a few times.
“SO, WHAT HAPPENS IF you need to go inside the arena and the bull is still there?” Myla’s curiosity is finally getting the better of her. She’s been a chatty Cathy since her cowboy clothes spree at Hannah’s.
“I wait until they get it back to the pen.”
“But what if they can’t get it back to the pen, and you’ve got a man bleeding to death.”
“The bullfighter’s take charge and get the bull to the back pens.”
“I thought that’s what the rodeo clowns were for. I’m confused.”
“Do you see any clowns around? And besides, they’re called barrelmen. They entertain the crowd but aren’t necessarily clowns. Most of the time they dance— badly.”
The loudspeaker crackles just in time to save me from her next question. “Next up, we have ‘The Man on A Mission’ himself, Braaaaaaxxxxton Ryyyyyderrrrrrr.”
“This man is going places,” the second arena announcer comments. “He’s completed his last forty-nine rides in a row. Let’s see if he can get another eight seconds out of Big Daddy for a total of Fouuurrrrr Hunnnndredddddd.”
Myla and I both stand on the second row of the swinging arena gate for a better view. I watch Brax slide down into the chute. He adjusts his boots forward and wraps his hand with the bull rope. His chiseled jaw clenches tight with each instruction Virgil gives him. His hand goes up, and the chute is pulled open.
My hands instantly pull together in anxious prayer. My body clings to the aluminum gate, holding me up, while my bones rattle inside my skin. It may be over in eight seconds, but it’s the longest wait of my life.
Big Daddy spins right into his hand and kicks out twice hard. The muscles of Braxton’s back are ready for him though. He bends and sways like a willow tree— smoothly. The clock edges toward eight seconds, and he’s got it. The crowd roars and whistles as he dismounts into a tuck-roll that would make a stump double jealous.
Myla whistles for him, cheering his name loudly between breaths. She elbows me to join her, and all I can think to do is clap. My arms are shaking with the adrenaline that’s rushing through my body right now. I’m glad I didn’t have to jump over this gate to assist. I dismount the gate on shaky legs, wobbling a bit.
“C’mon. I want to go congratulate him, and introduce you.”
“Hell yes. It’s about time.”
We find him being interviewed and surrounded by a crowd of local and national reporters. We listen and giggle at some of the silliest questions ever asked of sports celebrities. I mean, come on. Who cares if he’s got his “lucky” underwear on?
In being from California and dealing with my sister’s schedule at times, we’ve seen celebrities being interviewed hundreds of times, and it never ceases to amaze me how irrelevant some of the questions are. I roll my eyes at the reporter just as he catches me in his line of sight. He quirks one eyebrow up at me, and my insides melt.
Myla jabs me in the stomach with her pointy elbow. “Look at you. Blushing like a virgin bride. You’ve got it bad, honey. Real bad.”
“I do not. Stop it.”
The crowd thickens around him. I can’t see his face anymore, just the band of his hat as it bobs up and down while he talks.
Wes comes from behind, startling me as he speaks. “I’m gonna need more pills. Those weren’t strong enough.”
“We’ll discuss that after you stay on that bull for the ride. Can you raise your arm?”
“Don’t worry about that, Doc. I’ll be alright.” He belches deeply, and the stench of whiskey turns my stomach.
“Don’t be flashy, Wes. Just cowboy up and be done.” He nods his head at me, and I watch his back disappea
r into the crowd.
I look up and see hatred in Braxton’s eyes as he also follows Wes through the crowd. He dismisses the reporter, ending the interview and makes a beeline after Wes.
“Damn him. Come on, Myla.”
By the time we make it through the horde of people hanging around the chutes, Wes is already shimmied down onto his bull. The announcers are giving his stats when the gate pulls open.
The bull twists to the left, and Wes’s hand is barely rising above his chest. It’s bouncing in and out very loosely, and if he’s not careful, he’s going to disqualify himself. The bull kicks out, and Wes isn’t ready for it. He’s stiff as a board and pitches forward to loosen his back.
The bull’s head rears back and smacks Wes in the face. Blood splatters out onto the ground, and the crowd releases a collective “Oh,” as Wes pitches sideways. He’s flopping around like a rag doll, no longer riding the bull but hanging off its side.
“Wes Stanton is in trouble. His glove is hung up in the bull rope, and he can’t break free.” The primary announcer informs the bullfighters.
“Here comes some help. That headbutt from Callahan has crushed some bones and rearranged his face.” The arena announcer informs the spectators.
The bull continues to drag Wes around the arena as the bullfighters try to get him to the back pens. The one bullfighter is able to approach from the side and tug on Wes’s hand before having to make a run for it when the bull catches him edging too close.
Wes is no longer conscious. He’s passed out from the shock of it, or the pain from the hit. I’m not sure which, but my stomach is twisting in knots upon knots in the last ten seconds waiting to assist. Myla’s grip on my arm is tight and heavy. No one can believe what they are witnessing, but camera flashes and video are everywhere capturing the moment.
