LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS) (22 page)

Relief showed in her long-lashed eyes, and she relaxed as she sipped the lemonade he’d given her.

Mitch didn’t feel relaxed. With all his heart, he wished the rodeo was over and he could take Sara away somewhere so they could talk. He needed to talk with her.

Mitch had felt exhilarated and happy when he awoke at dawn that morning, with ex
citement and anticipation sending adrenaline pumping through his veins in the intoxicating way he remembered from his earlier rodeo days.

This was what he did best, this was what he loved doing. Then, as the day progressed and he competed in one event after another, doggedly
determined to make a good showing for his hometown crowd, he gradually came to the realization that something had changed in him over the past months.

In stray moments he found himself, against his will, comparing the hectic, physically dangerous rodeo scene with the quiet, purposeful life h
e led on the ranch, and the rodeo was somehow less appealing than it had seemed.

Then there were the cowboys. There was something touching and infinitely sad about the older cowboys here today.

Older? They were Mitch’s age.

They began to remind him, for some crazy reason, of the herd of wild horses he and Sara had seen that memorable day up in the canyon: tough, beautifully free in their way, but fighting a losing battle with time and civilization.

These cowboys were fated for extinction just as the wild horses were, and it made Mitch sad. It seemed that every one of Mitch’s old buddies today had gotten around to telling him that they knew their time as rodeo competitors was passing by, and with many, their dreams centered around exactly what Mitch already had: a spread, a woman they loved who loved them back, and a little town like Plains where everyone knew who they were and where they lived.

A home of their own.

Mitch listened. He thought about hot summer days spent haying, early mornings doing chores, long star-studded evenings when he wandered out to check the horses and have a quiet cigarette under the moon.

He remembered sitting a
t the kitchen table, having coffee with his father and discussing women.

Most of all, he watched the admiration and envy on his friends’ faces when he proud
ly introduced Sara as his fiancee.

Like all simple truths, the one Mitch arrived at was both profound and endlessly comforting.

Sometime when he wasn’t looking, he’d come home. It was a disturbing thing, this finding out that he’d really come home at last, and he wanted to tell Sara, he wanted to take her somewhere quiet and try to put into words what he’d learned today. He longed to share it with her.

He wanted to share everything with her from here on in, but it didn’t seem the right time or place to start now, right beside the stock pens wit
h cowboys and animals and spectators milling around.

“Ha
ve you seen Frankie?” Sara shaded her eyes and peered around.

“She’s getting ready for the bull riding, it’s coming up next.”

Sara turned to look at the pen of deceptively sleepy looking bulls with the distinctive Brahman humps and large drooping ears. “I hate the thought of her getting in the ring with those monsters,” she said and shuddered.

Mitch studied the massive animals, and a shiver ran down his spine, as well.

He hadn’t ridden bulls since his earliest days in rodeo. Bull riding was easily the most dangerous of all the competitions. It was a young man’s sport, a young man’s challenge.

“If we’re tied for points, Carter,” cocky young Leo Anderson had declared moments before, standing with widespread legs and thumbs hooked in his pockets, “then I’m challenging you to a tiebreaking ride, and I bet I’ll beat ya, ya lucky old devil.”

Other competitors were crowded around the chutes where the conversation took place, listening with interest to the exchange. They were Mitch’s friends, real old-fashioned cowboys in Mitch’s estimation. They’d learned their skills growing up on ranches, practicing on their fathers’ stock, learning their trade as a vital part of earning their living... as Mitch had.

The young rodeo competitors like Leo were a different breed entirely. Many of them had never rounded up a cow in their lives and had only seen a real working ranch on television.

Instead, they were professional athletes who attended riding schools where they were simply taught to stay on a bronco or a steer for the required eight seconds in order to win the huge prizes available at commercial rodeos.

“Well, Carter, what’ya say?” Leo had persisted.

Mitch had grinned good-naturedly at the confident young cowboy. “You’re free to try and beat me any way you like, Leo.”

A calculating look came into the aggressive young man’s eye. “Don’t guess an old guy like you would dare take me on with the bulls, eh, Mitch? See, bull riding’s my specialty.”

For a moment, Mitch considered simply saying no. He had too much to lose to risk his life on a Brahman just to prove a point. But a quick glance around showed the resentment his friends felt about this newcomer and his half-veiled contempt for their older generation.

So Mitch gave Leo w
hat he hoped was a cool, unconcerned stare and said the only thing possible, especially because he knew in his heart that this was the last time he’d ever be competing as a rodeo cowboy. And damn it to hell, he was determined to go out a winner.

“Sounds fine to me, Leo. If we’re tied, that is. Maybe you ought to give an old guy like me some pointers first, though, eh? I’ve forgotten a lot since the days I used to ride bulls,” he drawled.

The crowd of men guffawed at Leo’s expense. Mitch was effectively saying that he’d forgotten more than the young cowboy ever knew, and they loved it.

Now all Mitch could do was hope against hope that there wasn’t going to be a tie after all. He finished the last of his drink and leaned over to plant a kiss full on Sara’s lips, for love and for luck.

She tasted warm and sweet, and he longed for a quiet place and time. The announcer’s microphone blared.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a tie score here today,” he began excitedly, and Mitch frowned and reached out and took hold of Sara’s shoulders as if he could shield her from the words booming out of the loudspeaker.

“Sara, love, I...”

But his attempts to ex
plain were drowned out by the blaring sound system.

“We got a real show here for you today. I’ve just been informed that Leo Anderson and Mitch Carter are gonna ride for a tiebreaker—” the anno
uncer paused for dramatic effect “—and believe me, this ride will be
somethin’
to see. They’re ridin’
bulls,
ladies and gentlemen, Brahman bulls. The roughest, toughest animal there is. So put your hands together and let’s hear it for Mitch Carter and Leo Anderson.”

Sara knew she must be in the midst of a truly awful nightmare as she watched her sister cartwheel flamboyantly into the arena, wearing red-striped tights and outsized blue-jean cutoffs, held up by purple-striped suspenders over a fluorescent-yellow T-shirt.

Frankie and another clown were now performing slapstick tricks for the audience while they waited for the first bull rider.

Would it be Mitch? Sara agonized. Even in her worst nightmares, she’d never envisioned a situation like this, with the man she loved riding a bull and her sister out there to protect him, if she could.

Frankie had long ago expla
ined to Sara the role the bullfighters played in the arena. The other events used riders on horseback—pickup men—to rescue a competitor after a ride, but bulls at- tacked men on horseback as readily as they did anyone on foot, so bull riders relied on the agile ability of the clowns, or bullfighters, to rescue them after their duel with the crossbred Brahmans.

The “barrel man”—in this case, Frankie—teased and taunted the bull with a red cape to distract the animal from the cowboy who had either
slid or been bucked off.

Fran
kie’s task was to attract the animal's attention until she or the other clown could help the sometimes dazed rider to safety, and if the bull tried to gore her, which he usually did, she hopped into her barrel.

To hear Frankie tell it, the whole thing was as simple as could be. But every single
spectator who witnessed the daring rescues the bullfighters made knew exactly how dangerous and complex the performance was. It called for split-second timing, an athlete’s agility and monumental courage.

Eyes riveted on the arena, Sara felt her throat close with terror as the whistle sounded and the first man riding a bull exploded from the chute. It was Leo on a bull named Panda, and Sara watched anxiously as the bull corkscrewed. But she relaxed a tiny bit as the bull slowed, looked around in confusion and then, like a huge, docile cow, gave two halfhearted kicks and subsided, panting a little before he moved over to the exit chute standing open on the far side of the pens.

Leo was frantic, trying desperately to spur the animal into action, but Panda wasn’t playing the game today. Leo stayed on the animal’s back for the required eight' seconds, but the ride wouldn’t score him the required high points he desired, and also the crowd was laughing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thi
s is a unionized bull,” the announcer quipped gleefully. “He only works for three seconds at a time.”

The crowd guffawed again, and the moment Leo was out of the arena, he snatched his hat off and threw it to the ground in a fit of frustrated temper and hurt pride.

Sara thought the ride was the best it could possibly be.
Please, God,
Sara was praying,
please let Mitch's bull be just as tame as Panda.

Drawn closer to the chutes against her will, she shaded her eyes and watched as Mitch cautiously tried to climb into position atop the pen that held the bull he’d drawn, an enormous gray beast named Rambo.

Sara’s heart sank and dread filled her. The snorting, fighting Brahman was doing his best at knocking down the walls of the narrow pen, and twice Mitch was forced to retreat quickly as the maniacal bull heaved and twisted.

The cowboys helping him were doing their best to wrap the braided rope loosely aro
und Rambo, with a weighted cowbell underneath, so the rope would fall free after the ride was over.

There was a weighted handhold on it that pulled tight around the rider’s hand.

Sara suddenly wished her sister hadn’t been as graphic when she explained the details of bull riding.

“Bull riders all have their little tricks to ensure a win,” Frankie had explained. “Some of them pull the strap up between their fingers on the second wrap to secure the grip, and almost all of them use resin to keep their hands from slipping.” Frankie’s face had been somber as she added, “When a cowboy does stick the full time on a bull’s back and then gets his hand tangled in the rigging and can’t release it, it’s as close as he ever wants to come to suicide."

Just getting on a bull was suicidal, Sara agonized while Mitch struggled into position.

She jumped as the chut
e suddenly opened and Mitch exploded out on Rambo, right arm held high, left hand stiffly clinging to the belly cinch.

Rambo erupted into the r
ing like a primeval force, galloping far from the chutes into the middle of the arena, snorting and pawing the earth right in front of the barrel where Frankie crouched.

Sara clasped her hands in
front of her and moaned, feeling in her own body each sickening jolt as the bull went wild, twisting, corkscrewing and gyrating, changing direction with lightning speed. She could see the wild red eyes of the animal, hear the awful snorts and choking grunts of effort that were forced out of Mitch as the bull hit the ground, reared, turned and gyrated like a dervish.

God, let it be over. Please, God, just let it be over soon
, she prayed fervently. And after an eternity, the horn blew.

A horrified gasp from the crowd mingled with Sara’s choking cry of terror as she realized that Mitch was still half hanging on the animal’s back. He was tugging desperately at the strap that held his hand firmly trapped, and he was being dragged this way and that as he slid helplessly down the animal’s side.

Let go, Mitch, oh please, let go.

Sara was unaware that she was screaming and running toward the arena.

The clowns were already in action. Frankie’s partner raced to within a foot of the bull’s nose, waving his arms in a brave, futile attempt to distract the animal. He was forced to leap out of the way as the bull reared and bucked within inches of him.

Frankie had already spun
in close once and tried to release Mitch, but the effort failed. The bull threw his hind end in the air at the exact moment she raced in again.

Rambo writhed as he landed, and the jarring impact twisted Mitch’s arm and hand at an unnatural angle. His body flopped helplessly w
ith Rambo’s every frantic movement.

Frankie danced this way and that, watching for a chance to move in.

For a split second, Frankie’s partner was able to catch the bull’s attention.