The Bull Rider

Luke stuck the in-flight magazine into the seat pocket. “Deke told me you left the Garden with a woman—you gotta be careful with these big-city girls.”

Tom snorted. “You’re warning me? I saw the blonde with you in the elevator last night.”

Luke grinned. “You got a dirty mind, little brother. She was a physical therapist kind enough to work on my sore shoulder after that bull ran all over me. So tell me about the bunny you took off with.”

“You’re not going to believe this—she’s Joe Dace’s daughter.”

“Our Joe Dace? Be-damn! What’s she want?”

Some instinct kept Tom from repeating Jo’s proposal; he wanted time to turn it over in his mind before letting Luke track all over it. “She had some questions about bull riding. This was her first event.”

After takeoff, once Luke had reclined his seat and tipped his hat over his eyes, Tom pulled out the pages Jo Dace had given him. He began with the feature on Chris Baker, the winningest jockey currently riding. The compelling writing plus his own insider knowledge of Thoroughbred racing immediately sucked him into the article. His uncle was a track vet in California. He and Luke had visited a few times, following Uncle Tony on his rounds at the track. Jo’s account brought back the sounds and smells of the stable area as if he were handing his uncle instruments from his mobile clinic or eating his lunch with the grooms and hot walkers seated outside the horses’ stalls.

He put the first article down and began reading about the sailor who raced solo around the world. The ocean was a foreign element to Tom aside from a few trips to the beach with his aunt. Jo’s writing dropped him squarely onto the tilting deck of the sleek racing yacht; he could almost hear sea birds’ cries and wind whistling in the rigging.

Tom laid the pages on his lap. The lady could write, but the strength of her work depended on digging deep into her subjects’ lives. She wouldn’t settle for a few interviews and seats above the chutes at a couple of events.

Luke levered his seat upright. “What are you reading?” He grabbed the horse racing article and read silently for a few minutes. “Say, wouldn’t Shelby like this! I’ll bet she knows some of these people.”

“She left the Thoroughbred scene a long while back, but yeah, she probably would enjoy it.” His stepmother had spent most of her childhood at Acadia Downs in Louisiana, following at her grandfather’s heels while he cared for the horses and working as an exercise rider when she was a teenager. “I’ll have her take a look when we get home.”

“So now Joe Dace’s daughter is interested in bull riding?”

“I guess.” Her reasons for asking him made good sense, but he could think of a dozen riders with stories just as compelling and with more colorful personalities.

He reclined his seat with a soft groan, trying to ease his back, and closed his eyes.

* * *

ROLLING NORTH THROUGH New Mexico the next morning in Luke’s Explorer lifted Tom’s spirits; turning homeward always cleared his mind. He enjoyed New York City, a world removed from his natural habitat, but the gray winter skies and slushy sidewalks always made him homesick for the clean vistas of the Southwest. He sang “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” under his breath.

Luke glanced at him from the driver’s seat. “What are you so happy about?”

“Just glad to be heading home. Did your physical therapist get all the kinks out of your shoulder Saturday night?”

Luke laughed. “Oh yeah—I was real loosey-goosey by the time she left.” He sobered. “I read that other article Jo Dace wrote, the one about the sailor. If that’s her formula, she’s not looking to write about bull riding. She wants to profile a cowboy—you, right?”

Tom shrugged. He still wasn’t ready to talk about it; Luke would try to buffalo him into agreeing before he’d thought it through.

Luke punched his arm. “I reckon she could pick worse.”

Tom laughed. “Don’t try to turn my head with compliments. I’ll run it by Dad and Shelby before I make up my mind. We could all get sucked into the project.”

* * *

THEY DROVE INTO Durango close to noon. Luke turned onto the main street. “Let’s grab lunch at the Queen,” he said. “Dad’s going to put us to work the minute we get home—we might as well fuel up first.”

Tom had no objection; breakfast at the hotel buffet was a distant memory, and the ranch lay an hour’s drive farther west. Luke parked near the Victorian storefront of the Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium. Most of the tables were occupied, but they found seats in the booth nearest the kitchen. Tom lowered himself into his seat a little stiffly; his back had cramped up again on the long ride from Albuquerque.

“Well, look what the cat drug in.” Marge Bowman stood at Luke’s elbow and pulled a pencil from her white topknot. “What’s your pleasure, boys?”

Luke circled her stout waist with one arm. “Sweetheart, you’re my pleasure. What’s today’s special?”

“Anything you want, lover.” She lifted his hat and planted a smacking kiss on top of his head.

“See why I can’t find a girl to suit me?” Luke said to Tom. “Marge has me spoiled for ordinary women.”

“My heart about stopped when you hit that fence yesterday,” she said to Tom. “Would you please get that bull rode so you can stop picking him?”

“I’m working on it,” Tom said. “Next time for sure.”

“Chicken-fried steak for both of you? And I just took a peach pie out of the oven. It’ll be cool enough to cut by the time you finish your meal.”

Luke clapped a hand over his heart. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. Bring it on, darlin’.”

Maybe Tom should be scornful of Luke’s glib tongue, but he secretly envied his brother’s gift of gab. If he agreed to Joanna Dace’s proposal, he’d likely end up playing a supporting role to Luke’s grandstanding. He’d always been the boring middle kid. No teacher had ever phoned his folks about his grades; the sheriff had never given him a warning for underage drinking. Luke had supplied enough drama for the two of them, and now his younger sister, Lucy, with her dreams of stardom, had picked up where Luke left off.

His phone rang and he limped to the men’s room before answering. He checked the caller ID. “Hey, Shelby.”

“Hey, yourself. You okay after yesterday?”

“My back’s pretty sore, but nothing’s broken.” Shelby understood bumps and bruises, what was and wasn’t serious. She’d been thrown more than a few times by skittish Thoroughbreds and still took an occasional hit while green-breaking horses.

“You want ice or heat when you get home?” she asked.

“Heat first, I think,” he said.

“Have you reached Durango yet?”

“We’re having lunch at the Queen,” he said. “You need something from town?”

“As long as you’re there, see if you can talk Marge out of a peach pie for your dad.”

“Do my best,” he said, and then he keyed off. He stuck his phone in his pocket, thankful anew that Shelby had drifted into their lives a couple years after his mother’s death. She was as different from his mom as a prairie falcon is from a happy barnyard hen, but her arrival had glued them back together as a family.

He returned to the table just as their food arrived, and they left after their meal with the remaining three-quarters of the pie Marge had cut for them.

An hour later Luke steered below the ranch sign with Cameron’s Pride burned into a weathered plank. Luke braked in the least muddy spot near the back door of the rambling log house. A dog as tall as a weanling calf rose from a sunny spot by the barn and approached with a stiff gait.

Tom climbed out of the car and rubbed the dog’s ears.

“Looks like we’re both moving a little slow today, old buddy,” he said. Stranger was starting to show his age. The big dog had arrived a few years ago with Shelby as her protector and sole companion. The welcoming grin on his grizzled face would be sorely missed when he was gone.

Luke grabbed his bag and Tom’s from the backseat as Shelby Cameron opened the kitchen door. Tom handed her the peach pie, struck as always by his dad’s rare good luck in his second marriage. Shelby’s long hair shone like a blackbird’s wing while her skin seemed to gather the winter sunlight.

“I know Marge just fed you up,” she said, “but I made beignets this morning. Luke, come have a few before you ride out. Your dad found a section of fence down when he and Lucy checked the heifers this morning. I know they would appreciate your help.”

She turned to Tom. “I’ve got the chair heated up. Sit—I’ll bring you coffee.”

Luke rolled his eyes in mock disdain; although next time he might occupy the big recliner with its heat and massage after taking a beating from the bulls. He left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later dressed in faded jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt that had seen better days. “Here’s that article for Shelby,” he said and handed Tom the pages from Joanna Dace.

“Take the rest of the beignets along,” Shelby said, handing him a paper bag. “And make sure a few get to your dad and your sister.”

Luke grinned. “You’re a mean one, Stepmama.” He grabbed a flannel-lined Carhartt jacket and a billed cap with earflaps from a hook by the door on his way out.

Tom relaxed and closed his eyes. He’d be pulling his weight by morning and ready to straddle another set of bulls next weekend, but just now he never wanted to move from the chair with its comforting heat penetrating his sore muscles.

Shelby began chopping onions and green peppers for dirty rice, a favorite of both Tom and Luke’s. An hour passed and Tom levered the chair upright and stood, twisting his shoulders and back experimentally—still sore, but good enough for now.

“I’ll get some of the barn work done before the others get back,” he said. “Is Dad behaving himself?”

“As long as I’m watching him,” Shelby said. “I know he does more than he should as soon as he’s out of my sight, but Lucy helps me keep after him when she’s home.”

“You mind if I ride Ghost this week? His gaits will be easiest on my back.”

“I wish you would,” Shelby said. “I don’t work him as much as I should. I spent all day Saturday doing a 4-H workshop in Grand Junction, and I’ll have even less time when Lucy goes back to Boulder day after tomorrow.” She reached into a jar above the sink and handed Tom a few licorice drops. “Apologize to him for me.”

Tom changed into rubber paddock boots and headed for the barn. Shelby’s gray stallion must have heard him coming or maybe smelled the licorice, his special treat. Ghost stuck his nose over the top rail of his corral and blew a loud breath. Even furred like a teddy bear in his winter coat, his fine legs and delicately shaped face hinted at his Barb ancestry. He’d already sired a nice string of foals that Shelby trained and sold for ranch work.

Tom fed him the candy and scratched along the curve of his jaw. “You feel like working, buddy? We’ll check the south fence line tomorrow, maybe stop in for lunch at the Bucks’s.” He grinned in anticipation. Auntie Rose, a distant cousin, made the best fry bread in La Plata County.

The sun was already sliding toward the western horizon—no sense for him to saddle up now to help the fence crew. He worked his way through the barn, mucking out Ghost’s stall and freshening his water bucket, finishing the repair on a partially mended cinch strap in the tack room and forking down fresh hay for the half dozen horses in the corral next to Ghost’s. A tall chestnut mare ambled over for special attention. Sadie had some age on her, but she was still everyone’s first choice for hunting; he’d shot over her head ever since he was old enough to handle a long gun.

He leaned on the gate, gazing out along tracks left in the snow by his dad’s and sister’s horses, followed by the hoofprints of Luke’s mount. A narrow path branched off to the knoll where the Camerons had laid their dead for more than a hundred years. He and Luke and Lucy had learned to read from the grave markers while their mom tended the flowers planted there, tracing the letters and numbers on the stones: Husband and Father, Beloved Wife, Infant Son; 1888, 1914, 1985... Memorials to Cameron men buried in France in 1918 and lost at Guadalcanal. His mother’s grave was the most recent one.

Ghost let out a brassy neigh; Lucy’s mare Goosie answered. Three horses emerged from the willows along the creek and crunched through the snow toward the barn. Tom swung the corral gate wide for them and took the horses’ reins as the riders dismounted.

“Nice to see you’re done goofing off,” Luke said. “Now that we’ve done all the work.”

“Timing is everything,” Tom said. “I plan to check the south fence line tomorrow.”

Lucy Cameron pulled off her knit cap, allowing red-gold curls to frame her face. “I really thought you were going to make the eight on Gunslinger this time.”

Tom pulled on one curl. “Next time, Red—I promise.”

“Don’t call me Red.” She slapped his hand away. “I’ll be so glad to get back to my dorm.”

“Heads up, Boulder,” Luke said. “Hurricane Lucy on the horizon!”

Jake Cameron pulled the saddle off Butch, his dun gelding. “Good event, son. I see you’re still leading in the national standings.”

Tom shrugged and tapped on the corral rail for luck. “Doesn’t mean much this early in the season.”

They finished unsaddling and turned the horses loose for their hay as the sun dipped below the horizon to the southwest. The aroma of Cajun spices greeted them from the kitchen when they entered the back door and kicked off their boots in the mudroom.

Shelby turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Supper in ten minutes,” she said.

“Yes, boss.” Jake swept her hair aside and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck; her hand curved around his cheek.

Lucy put together a salad while Tom set out plates and Luke carried roast chicken and a bowl with the dirty rice to the table. They ate mostly in silence until Shelby served bowls of bread pudding with bourbon sauce for dessert.

Tom handed around Joanna Dace’s features. “I’d like you guys to read these.”

Jake looked up after he’d finished both articles. “What’s this about, Tom?”

“She wants to write about a bull rider next.”

“Our Tom, to be exact,” Luke said.

Lucy clapped her hands like a five-year-old. “You’ll be famous!”

“Your brother’s already pretty well-known where he needs to be, Luce,” Jake said, “although I expect his sponsors would be pleased.” He turned to Tom. “Could you stay focused on your riding with this lady practically living in your back pocket?”

Tom spooned the last drops of sauce out of his dish before answering. “I don’t know. She’s a helluva writer—I’d kind of like to see how she puts her work together.” Plus he still felt bad for his dumb comment about her father’s death. He wondered if she’d seen the crash. “But like you say, Dad...”

“Never back away from an opportunity out of fear,” Shelby said. She laid her hand on her husband’s arm.

Jake covered her hand with his. “Shelby’s right, Tom. Find out what she has in mind and then decide.”

CHAPTER THREE

JO’S PHONE RANG as she unlocked her apartment door while juggling two bags of groceries. She shoved her way inside and checked the caller ID: area code 970, wherever that might be.

“Miss Dace? You said to call after I read your articles.”

The connection was poor, probably a weak cell phone signal, but she recognized Tom Cameron’s voice. She’d only half expected to hear from him.

“I’ve thought about what you asked,” he said. “If you want to show up Friday night in Oklahoma City, we’ll give it a try. Come a couple hours early.” He gave her a cell number. “Call Paula when you get to the arena. I won’t be able to meet you before the event, but she’ll take care of you.”

They chatted a few minutes longer about the weather in New York and Colorado and then he rang off.

Jo stood holding her phone, amazed he might agree to her proposal. Angus, her Maine Coon cat, leaped to her shoulder, waving his plumy tail. She smoothed his fur. “Looks like you’ll be spending the weekend with your grandma, pal,” she said. More than one weekend if things worked out.

* * *

“A BULL RIDER? Who’s crazy enough to ride a bull?” Anna Dace stirred honey, a shade lighter than her short curls, into her tea and pushed up the sleeves of her NYC sweatshirt. “How useless.”

“So true,” Jo said, “and the cowboys take terrible risks every ride, but there’s a crazy magnificence about it.”

“Please don’t try to ride a bull, like you did that race horse.”

“A retired Thoroughbred, Mom, and we weren’t racing. Chris Baker just wanted to give me the feeling of hitting the head of the stretch with that much horse under me.”

“I blame your grandfather for turning you and your cousins loose with his horses.” Her mother sighed. “At least you won’t be hundreds of miles out on the ocean in a tiny boat.”

Jo grimaced. “You wouldn’t believe how seasick I was the first few days.” But she hadn’t backed out, not even when Kevin McCloud had offered to set her back ashore.

“So how will you tackle bull riding?”

“Same as always—soak it all up until a pattern starts to form.” She gave Angus a goodbye smooch. “Behave yourself—no eating plants. And don’t let him talk you into too many treats,” she told her mother.

* * *

JO STOOD OUTSIDE the arena entrance in Oklahoma City and punched the number Tom Cameron had provided into her cell phone. A tall black woman in fancy stitched boots and a red pearl-snap shirt waved to her from inside and motioned for her to enter through a side door.

“Jo Dace? I’m Paula,” she said. “Tom asked me to show you around.” She handed Jo a badge to hang around her neck. “We’re starting a VIP tour in a few minutes. You’ll get a good idea of the backstage operation, and Tom reserved a seat for you above the chutes to watch the event.”

No more than the tourist package, but if Tom had read her articles, he knew she’d need more depth. She wouldn’t rush him—let him set the pace. She followed Paula to join a group of a dozen or so fans: a couple with two preteen sons, several wannabe cowgirls in tight jeans and fancy shirts and two gray-haired couples who spoke with familiarity about past events and retired riders.

For the next hour they wound through a maze of pens and chutes, up and down stairs more like ladders, listening to and asking questions of riders and judges and bulls’ owners. Jo didn’t try to remember most of what she heard, simply storing sensory impressions—the clatter of metal platforms underfoot, the smells of cattle and fresh sawdust bedding, the surprisingly silky skin of one bull that invited petting. The details would fall into place if Tom Cameron agreed to invite her into his world.

Paula took Jo aside when the tour ended. “You’ll be sitting right beside the TV broadcast booth,” she said. “We don’t usually put fans where they might interfere with the live feed, but Tom said you’d be okay there.” She led Jo to a high canvas director’s chair overlooking the bucking chutes. “Enjoy the show.”

The arena filled as Jo watched, a sold-out performance, as New York City had been. The spectators here were a different breed though, men who wore boots and wide-brimmed hats with a natural authority, women whose Western finery said this wasn’t their first rodeo and many more children, including babies in arms.

Twenty minutes until showtime. Jo started snapping ranging shots with her iPhone, gathering images to prompt her recollections when she started making notes after the event.

A voice broke her concentration. “Hey there, writer lady—glad you could make it.”

A man stood beside her seat. He had Tom Cameron’s same dark hair and brown eyes but no scar on his cheek.

“You must be Luke,” she said. “I saw you in New York.”

“Yes, ma’am, number-one son,” he said with a grin. “I had to meet the gal who could lure my brother into the spotlight. Shy as a deer, our Tom.” He looked over the railing. “You got the best seat in the house—any closer and you’d be straddling a bull.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for me to get suited up.” He threw his chest out. “Keep your eyes on me—bravest of the brave.”

The event opened with pyrotechnics as it had at Madison Square Garden; again Tom was introduced as the rider ranked first in points. A willowy blonde in a sparkly shirt sang the national anthem, drawing wild cheers when her voice soared a full octave above the high note.

Paula had given Jo a sheet listing the order in which the cowboys would ride, matched against bulls with names like Sidewinder and Top Gun. Tom had drawn Texas Twister tonight. Jo hoped the bull wouldn’t live up to his name, or rather that he would. She’d done her homework since last weekend. A rider wanted a bull that could almost but not quite buck him off; an easy ride wouldn’t yield a high score. Jo wasn’t planning to write a detailed treatise on bull riding, but she needed more than casual knowledge of the sport to do Tom Cameron’s career justice.

Her vantage point above the chutes gave her a bird’s-eye view of the action. Riders wearing colorful fringed chaps and heavy leather vests plastered with company logos clattered along the walkway below her and climbed down onto the bulls’ backs. She had only a limited understanding of their elaborate preride rituals and jotted questions in a pocket notebook. Why did some wear helmets while others wore cowboy hats? What was the purpose of the second rope around the bull’s belly? What was the man hunched above the chute watching for?

She also paid close attention to Luke and his fellow bullfighters as they darted between the bulls and the downed riders. The three men seemed indestructible, bouncing up like rubber balls after being butted, trampled underfoot and tossed into the air like toys, but a long scrape marked Luke’s cheek after a bull slammed him against the chute gate.

She recognized most of the cowboys’ names from New York City and the arena announcer supplied a few words of introduction for each one: Cody from Tennessee, Sean from Georgia, Harve and J.W. and Mike from Texas, Ben from Australia and Silvano from Brazil, thirty-five in all. According to the day sheet, Tom Cameron would be one of the last to ride.

Thankfully all the cowboys in this round were able to leave the arena on their own feet, although the Sports Medicine medics did have to help a few. Not many stayed on the full eight seconds. “We’ve got a great pen of young bulls tonight, folks,” the announcer said.

At last she saw Tom below her on the walkway. She leaned forward but didn’t call his name, recalling his expression of intense concentration before he rode in New York City. He climbed down into the chute, eased onto the back of a black-and-white bull with a wide spread of horns. He took a quick wrap around his hand with his rope and nodded. The gate swung open.

The bull exploded in a frenzy of bucking, swinging its head from side to side. One horn swept Tom’s hat off before a wild leap ended in a stumble that yanked him forward so that his face collided with the top of the bull’s head. He slumped sideways and landed flat on his back with an audible grunt. The bull regained his feet and capered out the gate.

The Sports Medicine team reached Tom as he climbed to his feet, gulping for breath; one pressed a gauze pad over his bleeding nose. Luke retrieved his hat and brushed the dirt off before setting it on his brother’s head.

Tom waved to the crowd and limped toward the chutes, holding the compress to his face. He paused to peer at a paper in an official’s hand and then nodded.

“Reride option,” the announcer said. “Looks like Tom Cameron will be getting on another bull.”

Jo started from her seat in protest. She’d sought an athlete in a high-risk sport, but this was insanity. She sat back, smoothing the day sheet she had crumpled in sweating hands, trying to recapture her objectivity.

Two more riders left the chutes but neither rode for the full eight seconds.