by Amy Harmon
I was stunned for a moment, long enough for my hands to be lashed behind my back like a rodeo calf. The man knew how to wrap and release. I arched and tried to scream. I sucked in a mouth full of manure-flavored muck and knew I was in deep shit. My mind recognized the pun even as I felt hands on the waistband of my jeans. And that’s when I got well and truly pissed, the shock shifting to outrage the moment I felt his hands where they had no place being. I reared up and found his face with the back of my head. He swore and shoved my nose back into the mud, hog-tying my heels to my hands before he turned me over. It was an impossible position, my legs and arms bent beneath me, all my weight on my head and neck, my quadriceps screaming as he pushed mud into my eyes and held his hands over my face as my blinded, grit-filled eyes went wild. My nose was filled with mud and with his hands over my mouth I couldn’t breathe. I gasped and bucked and tried to bite his fingers. The pain in my lungs was worse than my fear, and I thought I was going to die. With a grunt, he tossed me up over his shoulder and turned, as if to run. Then he froze, caught in indecision as a car door slammed close by and somebody called my name.
He dropped me. Just like that. And he was gone. I thought I heard him curse as he ran, the sound of his boots smacking the ground as he bolted. I didn’t recognize his voice. From the moment he stepped out of the shadows to the moment he stepped back in, maybe sixty seconds had passed. Surely another rodeo record.
The rope around my wrists and feet hadn’t loosened when he tossed me, but falling so abruptly and hitting the ground without being able to break my fall had knocked the air out of me. I gasped and choked and rolled to my side so that I could spit out the filth in my mouth. I could feel my belt buckle digging into my hip. He’d pulled at my Wranglers and my belt had come loose. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t even wipe my eyes. I lay like a rodeo calf, helpless and hog-tied. I tried to wipe my face against my shoulder, just to remove some of the grit from my eyes so at least I could see. I had to be able to see so that if he came back I would be able to identify him, so I would be able to protect myself. So I would be able to attack. I don’t know how long I laid there. It could have been an hour. It could have been ten minutes. But it felt like years.
I swore I had heard someone call my name. Wasn’t that why he ran? And then, like I’d conjured him, he was back. Adrenaline coursed through me once more, and I rocked and lurched, trying to move away an inch at a time. I screamed, only to cough desperately. I’d drawn some of the grit still coating my mouth into my lungs. He stopped as if he hadn’t expected me to still be there.
“Georgia?”
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the same guy.
He came toward me quickly, closing the space. I squeezed my eyes shut like a child trying to make herself invisible by closing her eyes. Oh, no, no, no, no. I knew that voice. Not Moses. Not Moses. Why did it have to be Moses?
“Should I call someone? Should I call an ambulance?” I could feel him beside me. He wiped at my face as if to see me better. I felt a tugging on the ropes around my wrists and ankles, and suddenly I could straighten my legs. Blood rushed back toward my feet with an enthusiastic ache, and I started crying. The tears felt good, and I blinked desperately, trying to clear my vision as I felt Moses pulling away the rope that was looped around my hands. And then my hands were loose too, and I moaned at the dead weight of my arms and the searing pain in my shoulders.
“Who did this? Who tied you up?”
I looked everywhere but directly at him. I could see he wore a black T-shirt tucked into cargo pants along with a pair of army boots that no self-respecting cowboy would wear at the Ute Stampede. My attacker had worn western wear. He’d worn a button-down shirt. With snaps. Cowboy attire. I’d felt the snaps against my back. I started to shake, and I knew I was going to be sick.
“I’m okay,” I lied, gasping, wanting desperately for Moses to turn away so I wouldn’t have to throw up in front of him. I wasn’t okay. Not at all. I mopped at my cheeks and I looked up at him, my eyes darting to his face to gauge whether or not he believed me. I looked away immediately.
He asked me if I could stand and then tried to help me to my feet. With his help I managed, teetering like a newborn foal.
“You can go. I’m fine,” I lied again desperately. But he didn’t leave.
I turned around, walked several steps on shaking legs, and threw up against the fence. Mud, manure, and my rodeo hamburger burst forth in a gush of Pepsi broth, and my knees buckled beneath me. I clung to the corral so I wouldn’t fall as I heaved and purged, but Moses didn’t leave. The snort and stamp of the bulls on the other side of the wooden rails reminded me where I was. Satan’s Alias and his minions were nearby, and I had no trouble believing I’d fallen through a rabbit hole straight into the bowels of hell.
“You’re covered in mud and your belt is hanging off.” The statement was flat, accusing almost, and I could tell Moses didn’t believe I was okay at all. Imagine that. I kept my back turned to him, pulled my big shiny belt buckle into place with stiff fingers, and shoved the end of my belt through my belt loops, ignoring the fact that my button had come undone too and my zipper was down. My T-shirt now hung over my waistband so maybe he hadn’t noticed that. And I wasn’t going to draw attention to it. The belt would keep my pants in place. I shuddered.
“Someone tied you up.”
“I think someone was playing a joke,” I stuttered, still coughing and wheezing at the irritation in my throat. “I think it was Terrence. He was pissed at me earlier, and maybe he thought I would laugh or squeal instead of fight. I fought hard. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be scary. Maybe he was just supposed to tie me up so they could come find me and laugh at me all trussed up . . . I’m totally fine.” I wasn’t sure I believed anything I said. But I wanted to.
Weird how Moses was the one who had cut me loose. Ironic. A cowboy had hurt me and a troublemaker had come to my rescue. My mom thought Moses was the one who was dangerous. It had been Moses she warned me about. And he had saved me.
“I’m okay,” I insisted and pushed myself completely upright, still mopping at my eyes and at my trembling lips, humiliated by what Moses had seen, devastated by what could have happened. What almost happened. And most of all, destroyed that it had happened at all. If it really was a prank gone wrong, then it had gone terribly wrong. Because Georgia Shepherd was now afraid. And I didn’t do afraid very well. I wanted to go home. I didn’t know where Haylee was, and I didn’t want to go looking, especially if she was in on whatever that was.
“Can you take me home, Moses? Please?” My voice sounded strange, and I winced at the child-like tone.
“Someone needs to pay.”
“What?”
“Someone needs to pay for this, Georgia.” It was weird hearing him say my name as if he knew me so well. He didn’t know me at all. And suddenly, I barely knew myself. Same town, same street. Same world. But it didn’t feel like the same world at all. And definitely not the same girl. I wondered for a moment if I was in shock. Nothing had really happened. I was okay. I would be okay, at least. I just needed to go home.
“I need to go home. I’m okay,” I insisted. “Please?” I was pleading now. Begging. And the tears were streaming down my cheeks again.
He looked around almost desperately, like he wanted to call for help, like he needed to get advice on how to handle the situation. I was the situation. He didn’t know how to handle me. Taking me home was the easiest solution, but he obviously didn’t think that was good enough.
“Please?” I urged. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt, the tears and the dirt leaving wet streaks on the new top I’d bought especially for this night. I always got new outfits for the stampede. New Wranglers, new shirts, sometimes even new boots. New duds for the big event.
I could see the Ferris wheel turning in the distance, visible above the row of dark outbuildings that separated the animals and the arena from the fairgrounds beyond. A soft breeze lifted the hair from my damp cheeks and
brought with it the carnival cologne of cotton candy and popcorn before it merged with the smell of vomit and manure and lost its sweetness.
I teetered slightly and felt the horror of the last few minutes start to sink in. Sinking, sinking, sinking. I needed to go home.
Moses must have felt me slowly plummeting into the abyss, because without another word, he reached out his hand and loosely took my arm, offering support. I loved him at that moment, more than I thought I could. Way more than our brief encounters warranted. The troublemaker, the delinquent, the crack baby. He was now my hero.
He walked beside me slowly, letting me lean on him. And when we reached his Jeep, I stood, staring blankly at it, a Jeep I’d seen day in and day out since he moved to Levan six weeks before. I had been jealous of his cool wheels when I only had an old farm truck to drive, a truck that didn’t go above forty miles per hour. I’d been jealous before, but now I was so grateful for it I wanted to fall to my knees and give thanks. Moses gently urged me up into the passenger seat and buckled me in. The buckles were more like harnesses and I welcomed the relative safety, even as I worried about the fact that the jeep had no roof and no doors.
“Moses, Jeeps, seatbelts, home, Moses,” I listed, not even aware I was speaking out loud, and not caring that I’d repeated Moses twice. He’d earned two spots tonight.
“What?” Moses leaned in and lifted my chin, his eyes worried.
“Nothing. Habit. When I’m . . . stressed, I list the things I’m grateful for.”
He didn’t say anything, but he kept looking at me as he climbed in and started the Jeep. I felt him watching me as he maneuvered his way across the gravel, around the corrals and horse trailers, through the parking lot and out onto the road.
The wind roared into our faces, tangled in my hair, and pushed against my body as we sped down the highway, leaving the fairgrounds, the glittering Ferris wheel, and the happy sounds that had given me such a false sense of security behind us. Those sounds had lulled me and lured me in all my life. Now I wondered how I would ever go back.
Moses
I HAD GONE TO THE RODEO for Georgia. Not because I had some premonition that she needed me, or even some hope that she wanted me to be there. Definitely not because I expected to find her tied up, covered in mud, crying because someone had tried to hurt her or scare her. Or take her. She said it was probably a prank. I wondered what kind of friends pulled pranks like that. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t have any friends.
My grandma had presented me with an extra, general admission ticket that afternoon and informed me that Georgia was “competing in the barrel races and you don’t want to miss it.” I had the sudden image of Georgia atop a barrel, balancing as she made it roll, her feet flying, trying desperately not to fall off as she tried to cross the finish line ahead of all the other barrel racers.
I had never been to a rodeo before. I had no idea how crazy white people could be. Considering I had been abandoned by a white, crack addict mother, I should have known.
But I actually enjoyed myself. There was a wholesomeness about the entertainment—lots of families and flag waving and music that made me wish I’d worn a cowboy hat, no matter how stupid I would have looked in it. I ate six rodeo burgers, which may have been the best thing I’d ever eaten in my life. Grandma hooted like she’d just been called down on The Price is Right and stomped her feet and generally acted like she was eighteen instead of eighty, which I also enjoyed. Roping, riding, cowboys being flung like rag dolls from bucking horses and twisting bulls, and girls like Georgia, riding like they’d been born in a saddle. I was pretty sure Georgia had. I’d seen her ride plenty of times when she thought I wasn’t watching.
I’d avoided Georgia since the incident in the barn. I didn’t know what to do with her. She was a wild card. She was a small town girl with a simple way of speaking and thinking, a frank way of being that turned me on and turned me off at the same time. I wanted to run from her. But at the same time, I spent all my time thinking about her.
I watched Georgia fly into the arena on her pale horse, dust swirling, hair streaming out behind her, hugging the strategically placed barrels with a grin so huge I knew she was enjoying her flirtation with death. I knew horses were to her what painting was to me, and as I watched her fly, I desperately wanted to paint her. Just like that, full of life and motion, completely unbound. I usually painted when the images in my head became too much to contain and then spilled out in furious frustration. I had rarely painted pictures just for the joy of it, just for the pleasure of painting something that appealed to me. And Georgia, in front of a screaming crowd, hurtling around a dusty arena, had somehow become something that appealed to me.
I left before it was all over, Grandma assuring me she was riding with the Stephensons and didn’t need me to stay. I drove around aimlessly, with no desire to brush up against people at the carnival, ride the Ferris wheel, or watch Georgia with her friends, celebrating her winning ride. I was sure she had friends. And I was sure I was nothing like them.
I drove and drove and then I felt it coming on, the warning that rose in my veins and made my neck and ears throb with heat. I turned up the radio, trying to use sound to drown out sight. It didn’t work very well. Within a few seconds I saw a man by the side of the road. He just stood, looking at me. I shouldn’t have been able to see him. It was dark. And it was a country road, lit only by moonlight and the headlights of my Jeep. But he stood illuminated, as if he’d borrowed light from the moon and wrapped himself in it.
I recognized him almost immediately. And the images started to flood my brain. They were all of Georgia: Georgia with her horse, Georgia leaping fences, Georgia falling to the ground in the barn when I’d spooked her horse.
The image kept repeating—Georgia falling, Georgia falling, Georgia falling. It didn’t scare me. I’d seen her fall. It was in the past. And she was fine. But then I wondered if maybe she wasn’t. I wondered if this man—the man on the side of the road, the same man I’d seen in Georgia’s barn when Sackett reared up and kicked Georgia, the man I’d painted on the side of that same barn because he kept coming back—I wondered if he was trying to tell me something. Not about his life, but about Georgia’s.
And so I turned the Jeep around and went to the fairgrounds. I didn’t park in the lot, but crept around from the side, weaving around the outbuildings and the horse trailers as if I had any idea where I was going. I thought I caught another glimpse of the shadowy man—or was it just a flash of light, a cowboy needing a smoke? I came to a stop, stepped out of my Jeep, and called Georgia’s name. I felt ridiculous, and I stayed still for a minute, unsure, unwilling to join the masses that moved beneath the colorful carnival lights a hundred yards away. I was more comfortable watching from the dark.
Someone ran into me from behind, making me lurch forward and stumble, careening into me and then away from me, disappearing into the night without apology and without giving me a chance to push back. Drunk cowboy. But after that there was silence, peppered only with the stomp and snort of the animals penned and quartered nearby. I didn’t want to go any closer to the animals; I might cause a stampede of my own.
I headed toward the carnival and walked the perimeter, searching for Georgia from the sidelines. And then I saw the man again. Georgia’s grandfather. He was standing by the darkened entrance to the arena. He didn’t call to me. They never did. They just filled my head with their memories. But no images came. He just stood in a swath of pearly moonlight. And I walked toward him until I was back to where I’d started. He disappeared as I approached, but something gleamed at my left, disappearing around the chutes, beneath the grandstands, closer to the animals. And that’s when I found Georgia.
Georgia
I TOLD MY PARENTS what happened at the stampede. I had to. I also told them that I thought it might be Terrence who had tied me up. Moses came inside with me and stood anxiously by the door, not making eye contact with anyone in the room, his eyes glued to the floor. My parent
s urged him to sit, but he refused and they finally let him be, ignoring him as studiously as he ignored them.
What was already a late night became much later as my parents reacted with alarm, unending questions, and finally a phone call to the sheriff, who fortunately lived on the outskirts of Levan and not on the other side of the county.
My parents called Moses’s grandma and told her he would need to stick around to tell the sheriff what he saw. She ended up coming right over, bustling in the back door like it was ten am instead of two am. She patted Moses’s cheek and gave him a squeeze before she moved to me and wrapped me up in her arms. Her head only came to my shoulder, and her grey curls tickled my chin, but I immediately felt safer. Better. She sat down at the table and I went and showered the dirt from my skin and hair while we waited for the sheriff to arrive. I was sore and bruised and there were rope burns on my wrists and a wide scrape on my left cheek. The back of my head ached and even my lips felt tender from where my face had been shoved into the ground. But worse than all of that was the sick fear in my belly and the sense that I’d escaped something truly awful.
When I walked into the kitchen with my head in a towel and my body swathed in polka-dotted pajamas, Sheriff Dawson was sitting at the kitchen table, a Pepsi at the ready and a slice of pie in front of him, thanks to Mom, the unfailing hostess. Sheriff Dawson was lean and fit in his brown sheriff’s uniform, his blonde hair parted and neatly combed, his blue eyes bright in a tanned face that revealed his preference for the outdoors. He was in his late thirties or early forties and had recently been re-elected sheriff. People liked him and he liked horses. That was a pretty good resume for the people in our county. I didn’t see him losing his job any time soon. He and my dad were talking about breaking Lucky when I settled down at the table next to Mrs. Wright. Moses was seated across from the sheriff, and the sheriff started asking him questions right away. Moses was quiet and guarded and he kept looking at the door like he couldn’t wait to bolt. It reminded me of Sunday school, and the thought almost made me smile. The interview didn’t take long; Moses gave the briefest answers ever recorded.
