The Bull Rider

CHAPTER SEVEN

“WHERE IS SHE?” Tom stuck his phone back in his gear bag. Paula, the staffer, had already called twice wondering if Jo planned to sit above the chutes again tonight.

“Can’t tell you,” Luke said. “I dropped her off at the hotel maybe two hours ago. She said she needed to work on her writing.” He strapped on his protective vest and covered it with his electric-blue jersey. “She knows how to tell time—she’ll turn up before the show.”

Tom’s phone rang.

“All’s well,” Paula said. “She was up on the concourse talking to fans and lost track of the time. Good luck tonight.”

Tom muttered a curse and keyed off. His dad had warned him taking on this project might be a distraction, but he hadn’t known he’d have to keep track of Jo like a strayed calf. Be-damn if he’d let her break his concentration. As winner of last night’s round, he would ride late in this evening’s competition—he still had plenty of time to loosen up after the opening ceremonies.

He put Jo Dace out of his mind, almost, but he couldn’t help flicking a glance up toward her seat next to the broadcast booth when it was his turn to ride. She hadn’t seen him climb up to the walkway, so he took a moment to study her as she leaned over the railing, her face alive with interest. From her articles and in the short time he’d known her, he had come to admire her intensity; she approached her work the same way he went at bull riding—flat out, with nothing held back.

She turned toward him as if she felt his gaze and gave him a thumbs-up for luck.

He saluted her with a touch to his hat brim and climbed down to straddle Bovinator, a bull with the ugly trick of flinging his head up as soon as his front feet hit the ground. Tom had ridden him a couple of years ago when he’d still been using a helmet with its face mask, but his hat wouldn’t be much protection if the bull decided to pull that stunt tonight. He put the thought away from him; fear led to disaster.

He nodded for the gate just as he heard Luke say, “Be ready to move in, guys.”

The next seconds were a blur, a balancing act between staying centered on the bull’s back and avoiding the massive head that slammed toward his face like a wrecking ball. He didn’t even hear the buzzer and loosened his hand only when Luke yelled at him to let go. Bovinator flung his head up one last time, actually brushing his cheek with a long ear as Tom dove to one side. The dirt came up hard; Luke leaped over Tom’s body and smacked the bull on the nose to lure it in the other direction.

The crowd’s roar almost drowned out the announcer’s voice as Tom climbed to his feet, dragging air into his lungs.

“How’s that for a 90-point ride, folks?”

* * *

LUKE CUFFED TOM’S shoulder as they passed in the locker room shower. “Good ride, little bro—you got something to celebrate at the after-party. You do remember you promised to meet Jo there, right?”

“I guess.” Tom skipped the noisy bar scene more often than not. “I don’t suppose you—”

“Not me, buddy—I stood in for you last night, and I’m already triple booked if Debbie from Cattlemen’s Steakhouse shows up.”

Tom knew Luke’s refusal was only fair—his project, his responsibility. His mom had been raised in Georgia and had drummed gentlemanly behavior into him and Luke. He sighed and pulled on a fresh blue-and-red plaid shirt and jeans not decorated with bull slobber and arena dirt.

He didn’t immediately spot Jo seated just outside the hotel’s cocktail lounge; in her new boots and jeans and pearl-snapped shirt, she could have been a ranch girl from back home. She looked up with a quick smile and slipped her phone into her shoulder bag.

“Still a fan of bull riding?” he asked as she rose to meet him.

“Oh yes! I was just texting my mom about it. But I have so many questions. Why do some of the bulls have horns and others don’t? What breeds are they? How many countries do the riders come from? Why do you wear spurs? How many—”

“Whoa, that’s way more than we can cover right here. Let’s hit the party. I’ll sign a few autographs and then we’ll find someplace quiet where we can talk.”

Tom escorted Jo into the lounge and spotted a dozen or so other riders inside, all surrounded by fans. Luke stood by the bar with a beer in one hand and his arm around a curvy brunette. A woman in jeans and a fringed vest scurried forward, her smartphone at the ready, and Jo stepped aside while Tom signed her program and then posed with her for a photo.

He hung in for nearly an hour until the crowding and chatter and loud country music became unbearable. To escape, he pulled out his phone like he’d received a call, holding it to his ear as he headed for the elevators. He crowded in with his hat brim tipped down and punched the button for the eighth floor. When he reached his room he dropped his hat on the bed and rubbed his face with both hands.

“God, I’m tired,” he said.

“Should I leave?”

He spun on his heel, nearly stumbling as his boot heel caught the bedspread.

Jo stood just inside the door. “You mentioned finding someplace quiet, but if this isn’t a good time...”

“Dang, I’m sorry!” Intent on his getaway, he’d completely forgotten about her. “I sure didn’t mean to run out on you. These three-day events get kind of intense—sometimes I just head for the high country. We can talk now. We’ll raid the minibar and you can ask your questions.”

They took two Bud Lights from the little fridge and settled at the round table by the window.

“You’ve got a great view of the city,” she said.

He glanced at the lights below and shrugged. “I guess, but the sun setting over Mesa Verde would look a lot better to me. I like seeing different places, but my favorite view of bright lights is in my rearview mirror.”

“I’m just the opposite. I love the city—the energy, the variety... I could live there the rest of my life and never be bored.”

“Bored isn’t a word you’ll ever hear on a ranch—there’s always more work than time.” He took a swig of his beer. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Stuff I can probably Google for myself. Tell me about your ranch.”

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. He never minded talking about Cameron’s Pride. “Our family has held the land since 1867 when Jacob Cameron came west after the Civil War. Carpetbaggers cheated him out of his holdings in Virginia so he named his new spread Cameron’s Pride after his plantation back East. He was headed for California, but a grizzly spooked his horse and dang near scalped him—he would have died right there except some Ute girls found him and dragged him back to their camp.”

He laughed. “He kept his hair—their medicine woman sewed his scalp back on. By the time he was healed up, he’d fallen in love with one of the girls who found him. They rode down to Taos in the dead of winter and got the priest there to marry them so there’d be no question of their sons’ right to the land. We’ve been in the same spot ever since.” If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the log house snug under the cottonwoods with wood smoke rising from the chimney and light streaming from the kitchen windows into the winter night.

“So you’re part Ute?”

“Way back,” he said, “but it’s complicated—I can never keep the connections straight. Old Jacob and his wife had three sons. One died young, one married a schoolmarm come West from Kentucky and one married back into the tribe. They also had sons but none of those boys married Ute girls so the bloodline got diluted with more Scotch-Irish and some French—my great-grandfather served in France in World War I and came back with a war bride. Funny thing, one Cameron in every generation shows up with red hair and blue eyes like the first Jacob. My dad’s hair was red till it turned gray early, and my sister got it this go-round.”

“My mom’s family has a couple branches like that,” Jo said. “My great-uncle married a Japanese woman and his son brought back a Vietnamese bride. My grandfather thought it was a great idea. He raised prize sheep—he always said bringing in new blood improved the flock.”

Tom laughed. “Something like that. Our ranch backs up to Ute land, so Luke and I grew up hunting and fishing and scrapping with our Ute cousins just like Dad did and his dad and his dad. Jacob’s sons stocked the ranch with stray cattle they drove north from the old Spanish land grants in New Mexico—rustled them, more like it. Now we run Red Angus cow and calf pairs and my stepmother raises ranch horses.”

“Are ranch horses a special breed?”

“Just whatever cross produces smart, tough horses good for working cattle,” he said. “Shelby has been breeding quarter horse mares to her mustang stallion and getting some top-notch cutting and rein horses. She’s got this two-year-old bay filly in training right now who’s going to burn up the arena in reining competition.”

He pulled out his cell phone. “Okay if I make a quick call home? My folks can watch some events live, but the satellite reception is iffy.”

“I remember—you let them know you and Luke are okay. Please, go ahead.”

He hit Send and waited, then said, “Hey, Shelby, did you guys...” He laughed. “Me too—I was ducking and weaving for all I was worth. That bull’s mama goes back to Bodacious—I think she passed along all his tricks.”

He listened for a moment, frowning. “How much do you expect?” More listening while he rubbed the bridge of his nose and jerked his hand away. “Just don’t let Dad...”

He smiled. “I know you will.” He glanced at Jo. “Yeah, she’s here—she’s getting a triple dose of bull riding this weekend. You guys take care. We’ll be home by Monday morning.”

“Everything all right?” Jo asked.

He sighed. “I guess. They’re expecting some snow, and that always worries me when we’re this far from home. My dad had a heart attack last spring during a blizzard—he was just forty-six.”

Tom still had trouble believing it had happened. Except for the dark time between their mother’s death and Shelby’s arrival, Jake had always been the rock they all looked to for shelter.

“There’d been a couple days of rain, and then the wind swung around out of the north,” he said. “The western slope of the Rockies got hit with three feet of wet snow right at the beginning of calving season. Dad was out gathering all the heifers into the home pasture where he could get feed to them. My stepmother was pitching down hay for the horses when Dad’s horse came in without him—luckily there was already enough snow on the ground she could track back to where he fell. She got him to the hospital in time, but the storm wiped out half our herd in one weekend, all bred heifers and new calves. At least we didn’t lose any horses—they sheltered in a big shed attached to the barn. Some folks had stock freeze to death right in the corral.”

“How terrifying for your stepmother, dealing with that all alone.”

He gave a wry chuckle. “You don’t know Shelby—not much she can’t handle. When my dad met her, she was hitchhiking because she told the guy who gave her a ride she’d rather walk than sleep with him. She jumped ship in the middle of nowhere with snow coming on. She says this won’t be much of a storm, just six inches or so.”

He’d been able to replace some of the dead cattle with last year’s winnings, but Cameron’s Pride was still drowning in red ink from the blizzard losses, plus Jake’s medical bills. After much soul-searching, Tom had concluded that lightening the financial pressure with his prize money would help his dad more than if he worked at the ranch full-time.

“You and Luke were on the road when it happened?” Jo said. “You must have been frantic to get home.”

He nodded. They’d watched Weather Channel coverage of the storm from inside an airport nearly two thousand miles away, unable to get a flight even as far as Albuquerque.

“When we finally got to Durango, we checked on Dad at the hospital and then headed out to the ranch. The ice and drifts were so bad we had to go in by snowmobile the last ten miles. And then we started looking for our cattle.”

Bitterness rose in his throat at the memory of finding the cows, most of them raised at Cameron’s Pride, dead with their calves lifeless inside them or frozen at their sides. They’d had to burn the carcasses, and the stench of scorched hair and roasting meat had hung in the valley for days.

“Is your dad doing okay now?”

He turned to her with a start; he’d been living so deeply in the past, he’d almost forgotten her presence.

“So the doctors say. You’d never know he almost died, but Shelby still rides pretty close herd on him.” Yet another reason to bless her presence in the family.

He yawned, almost cracking his jaws, and flushed. “Dang, I’m sorry,” he said a second time. “I guess my battery’s running low.”

A lot of unmarried riders partied after the event, blowing off adrenaline with booze and the ever-willing girls who swarmed around the cowboys. He didn’t care much for drinking—the loss of control scared him—and he’d never again settle for sweaty sheets and girls whose names and faces ran together in a blur. Usually he walked for a couple hours to step down from the high of riding; tonight talking with Jo about home had drained away the tension. Too bad Traci had never been interested in hearing about the ranch.

Jo smiled. “Sounds like a cue to call it a night. What’s the schedule tomorrow?”

“The event starts at one,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs for breakfast around nine if you’d like to join me.”

“Why don’t you stop by my room first? I can help with the concealer again.” She stood just as the door opened.

Luke stopped short. “Hey, I can come back later...”

“Jo’s just leaving,” Tom said. “I’ve been boring her with Cameron family history.”

“Far from it,” she said. “I could listen all night.”

“And he could yammer on about the family legends till you want to stuff a sock in his mouth,” Luke said. “Best take it in installments.”

“Thanks for listening,” Tom said, although she’d probably considered it just part of her work.

“Anytime,” she said with a smile, gathering her purse and the day sheet from the evening’s competition. “I’d love to hear more about your family and the ranch.”

For a moment, he pictured her at Cameron’s Pride and then banished the image. He was a job to Jo Dace, nothing more—they’d have no problem as long as he kept that in mind.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JO OPENED THE door to Tom’s light knock and did a quick survey of his face. The swelling had subsided but the bruises around his eyes still gave him the look of a raccoon’s mask. She waved him to a chair by the window and opened the tube he handed her.

“Did you have a better night?” she asked. “You look rested.”

“I slept like a baby with a clear conscience.” He set his hat brim up on the table and closed his eyes.

She studied his face, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, the scar running down one cheek—innocence and maturity oddly blended in his unguarded expression.

“So you’re a hardcore city girl,” he said as she dotted the Dermablend over the bruises. “Where did you learn to ride enough to gallop a race horse at Churchill Downs?”

“I didn’t grow up in New York City,” she said. “My mom and I moved to my grandfather’s farm in upstate New York after my father died.” The old ache stirred but without the usual stabbing pain. “My grandfather took in retired police horses and my cousins and I rode them, mostly bareback.”

She feathered the tinted cream around his eyes, smoothing the makeup with the sponge. “Now you can face the world.”

They walked together to the hotel dining room. Riders, some with their wives and small children, occupied many of the tables. Sophie Haley waved for Tom and Jo to join them.

Sophie inspected Tom’s face. “Either you’re a fast healer or Jo’s a wizard with makeup,” she said. “Len looks like he’s been beat up for days after he takes a hit like you did.”

Tom grinned. “I’m thinking about signing her to a contract.”

“Or you could wear a helmet,” Len said.

“Now you sound like Doc,” Tom said.

Jo kept her gaze resolutely on her plate.

The conversation turned to anecdotes about bulls and riders, some humorous, others grim. Jo tried to absorb it all for the copious notes she would write that evening on her flight back to New York.

“We saw you above the chutes last night,” Sophie said. “Why don’t you sit with us this afternoon? There’s a free seat in our section—Lou-Ann had to leave early. Someone left a gate open at their ranch and now they’ve got bred heifers spread across half of Custer County.”

Jo looked at Tom. “I’ve really enjoyed watching from the chute seat, but...”

“Sit with the wives,” he said. “You’ll get a different view of the action and pick up a lot of good background for your writing.”

Sophie punched her husband’s arm. “I told you she was a writer.” She turned to Jo. “I’ll bet you’re working on a novel. Will you put me in it?”

Her husband ruffled her red curls. “Of course she will—you’re a sure-enough character.”

“Not a novel,” Jo said with a laugh. “I don’t have that kind of imagination. I’d planned to do a magazine feature, but the short format couldn’t do bull riding justice.” She looked at Tom and took the plunge. “I’d like to do a book, as well, if I don’t wear Tom out with my questions.”

Tom smiled. “I reckon I can put up with you for a while anyway.” He signed for their meal. “For helping with the makeup and letting me bend your ear last night.”

He stood and beckoned. “There’s someone I want you to meet before the event starts.”

She followed him to a rear entrance of the arena and into the maze of pens and alleys holding the bulls for the afternoon’s competition. He stopped beside an enclosure in which a massive cream-colored bull stood half-asleep.

“That’s the bull that bucked you off in New York, isn’t it?” Jo asked.

“Good eye, city girl. Yep, this is Gunslinger. He’s one of the great ones—he’s been on the tour for three years and never been rode. I plan to be the first.” He reached through the bars. “Get over here, you big baby, and let the lady pet you.”

Gunslinger snorted and stuck his nose between the metal rails.

Jo put a tentative hand on the huge head and then scratched behind an ear. The bull closed his eyes and rocked on his feet.

“He’d purr if he could. Want to ride him?” Tom asked with a straight face.

“You’re joking, right? Do I look crazy?”

“Safe as sitting on a pet pony. Safer—ponies are tricky little rascals. He’ll stand just like this until he feels the bull rope tighten up.”

“Will you try to ride him again today?”

“If I get to choose first after the long round. I’ll keep picking him till we get it right.” He gave the bull a final scratch. “Later, buddy.”

“I’ve heard jockeys talk like this about special horses,” she said, “but they’re a team trying to win together. The bulls try to keep you from winning.”