The Wildest Ride--A Novel

by Marcella Bell

  The growling sound moved lower down into her throat, but this time SherriDawn took the wise course: she shut her mouth, clasped her briefcase, and swiveled narrowly to the door.

  Watching her walk away, so prim and proper that it seemed anally uncomfortable, it was hard to imagine SherriDawn might have been wild enough to ride with her mother. In Lil’s mind, her mother represented all that was wild and dangerous, as well as what happened when you chased after it. She’d been wild enough to run around and have herself a baby by a mystery man she refused to name at sixteen. Wild enough to run off and never come back, leaving that baby to be raised by her grandparents.

  SherriDawn didn’t seem like she had the balls for all of that.

  After the door slammed shut, the old screen let to fall without care by SherriDawn on her way out, Gran gathered herself with a shuddering breath, which she then let out on a long theatrical sigh.

  Lil’s Spidey senses tingled.

  Given what Gran already seemed to know about things, the whole scene with SherriDawn now seemed put on. And Gran’s long sigh was telling. That meant that all of it—goading the bank woman, the dramatic reveal, perhaps even the sheep and the goats, now that Lil was thinking about it—was part of one of Gran’s plots then.

  If she knew her gran, and she did like the back of her hand, this one would be related to the reverse mortgage but would be no less outrageous for being grounded in their real problems.

  Gran put on a sober look before sighing. “Everyone ought to be here—I only want to say this once.” Then she opened her mouth and hollered at the top of her considerable lungs, “PIPER! TOMMY!”

  Piper, their petite red-haired farmhand, came running in first, clearly having grabbed the closest thing at hand to use as a weapon if needed—a horseshoe.

  Tommy, Lil’s live-in cousin from Granddad’s side, had a rifle.

  Steady, dependable, Tommy.

  “What’s going on?” they asked in unison.

  “You’re all going to want to sit down for this,” Gran said with an arm toward the kitchen table and more weariness in her voice than the unveiling of a scheme usually allowed.

  Following her grandmother’s gesture, Lil noticed for the first time the plaid thermos of coffee that sat in the center of the round table.

  It wasn’t the new stainless steel one.

  Gran had taken out the plaid one. She reserved the plaid thermos for tough conversations.

  Four chairs sat around the table, each with an empty coffee mug in front of it.

  Lil’s seat, where she sat now that she knew what was going on, was the east point of the compass of their table.

  Gran sat in the north, Tommy the south, and Piper the west.

  Granddad had always been in the northeast, a steady anchor between Gran and Lil.

  Without him, they held each other as best they could, but both had become more prone to drifting.

  Gran waited for everyone to pour a cup before she spoke. “I’ll start with the good news. We have each other. We have our stock, and, for the moment, we have the land.”

  “Not a promising start, Gran,” Lil observed.

  “It is when it might be all we’ve got,” Gran said simply. “Unbeknownst to me, Granddad took a reverse mortgage on the ranch in the years before he died. I received a letter informing me of this in the mail last week.”

  Lil frowned. That Gran had sat on information this critical for a week settled about as well as lemon juice in cream.

  Gran continued, “After some digging, what I can piece together is this: about five years ago, Granddad lost the Wilson drive contract.”

  Lil shook her head. “That’s impossible. He went right up until he died. That’s half the reason he got sick in the first place.”

  Gran placed a hand on Lil’s wrist, just below where the hand attached to it had clenched into a fist.

  Gran, never one to pull her punches, said, “He didn’t go. He kept a separate bank account for the money, and he tracked his expenses. He spent the time in Tulsa at a hotel renting movies and ordering room service.” A half smile broke through the frustration. “Greedy old cuss.”

  But it wasn’t an endearing foible to Lil’s frame of mind. He had lied to them, and, in his own words, like all lies, it had spiraled into an avalanche of deceit.

  “In the agreement, he included a provision to give us extra time before we had to make a decision, but that time is up. We have sixty days to come up with a down payment for the ranch, following which the bank will establish monthly mortgage payments. Every way I’ve looked at it, it’s our only option. We would never be able to afford the payment the bank offered without the down payment. But nobody is going to evict us from land my husband’s family has held on to, hardscrabble as it’s been, through hell on earth.” The last she directed specifically to Lil and Tommy. Through their granddad’s line, Tommy and Lil were Muscogee Creek Freedmen, the descendants of enslaved people under the double burden of being property during the relocation and later forced removal of the Muscogee from their homelands in the southeast. And after the tribe disenrolled the freedmen in the seventies, their citizenship revoked in a blow her granddad had never quite recovered from, this land, this dry patch of Oklahoma allotted to their family after the Civil War—insignificant dust mote of a ranch that it was—was the only proof they had left, the only hint as to how their family had ended up in Oklahoma in the first place. Tearing folks from their history was one of the ways to break them, so Lil’s family had held on to theirs through their land—through cultural hostility, the dust bowl, outright deception, attempts to steal, and everything else that time and life had thrown their way.

  They had refused to sell even when their neighbors, cousins, and relatives packed up and left, seeking the green of other pastures and the heat of other suns. The Islands had stuck it out, and the reward was being able to say they’d held on to the first and only thing they’d ever been given.

  Until now.

  Lil was glad she had taken Gran’s advice to sit down. The floor had become somewhat less substantial beneath her boots.

  It occurred to her that they were nice boots. She could probably sell them for some quick cash. It wouldn’t be anywhere near enough if what she thought might be true was true.

  Sixty days wasn’t enough time at all. Lil frowned. They had a cash reserve of five thousand to keep them and the stock fed through a pinch, and they had the value of their stock itself, which could bring in another eighty thousand in a quick sale at auction, but as far as she knew, they didn’t have any other assets.

  Her 1980s Toyota was too beat-up to be worth anything, and she didn’t own any personal items of value.

  Finally, she found her voice. “But why would Granddad do something like that?”

  Gran sighed. “I don’t think that he could admit he was too old to do it all himself anymore. Looking at his paperwork, in addition to withdrawing the amounts it took to look like he’d still been going on the drives, it looks like he’d been dipping in those funds rather liberally.”

  “Rory...” Lil grimaced. She had wondered where he’d scrounged up the money for a papered Arabian filly.

  Now she knew.

  Gran nodded. “And Gorgeous,” she said, referring to the brand-new Subaru station wagon that sat in her driveway, souped-up with every safety and luxury feature available.

  Lil brought her fingers to her temples and rubbed. “So how much is left in his secret pot, then?” she asked.

  Gran shook her head. “Just ten thousand.”

  “What?” Lil gasped.

  Whining wasn’t her usual way, but, as the woman from the bank had gone, and there was no one left to throttle, it was the only option available.

  “Don’t be theatrical.” Gran’s comment was automatic, so much so that Lil wasn’t even sure the woman noticed she’d made it, nor that,
as far as statements went, it was the pot calling the kettle. “They want twenty percent for the down payment. We don’t have that.”

  Lil groaned. “Nor enough for the mortgage payments after that. We’re barely making it by as is.” Lil couldn’t tell the truth: they weren’t making it. She had been contemplating selling equipment to stretch the final distance to make ends meet. Every month it was a struggle, but Lil had been somehow managing, just eking it out of the red. A mortgage payment, any mortgage payment, would break them.

  Gran waited a beat after Lil’s interruption, punctuating the unspoken admonishment with a lifted eyebrow and communicating clearly without words: Are you done yet?

  Lil blushed.

  “But—” Gran continued. “We have each other. And we have Lil.”

  The way her gran said her name made the hair stand up on the back of her neck, but when she opened her mouth to question, her grandmother lifted her palm to her, a signal to Lil to hold her tongue.

  Out of respect, she did.

  “Lil. You’re on temporary reassignment.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lil asked.

  “I’m the owner, aren’t I?” she asked.

  “Yes, but we agreed that I was in charge of daily operations.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Gran.”

  “I can do your job. Nobody but you can do what we need you for now.”

  Here was the plot, then. Lil’s skin crawled with a warning, but she asked anyway, “And what is that?”

  Gran handed her a glossy quarter sheet flyer in response. Lil read the largest print and then set it facedown on the table and brought her fingers to her temples.

  Gran’s voice was soft when she next spoke. “We need the money, Lil. I don’t see any other way.”

  Lil groaned.

  Gran added, “You’re the best there’s ever been.”

  The old woman wasn’t pulling any punches.

  Lil’s voice flirted with the edge of hysteria. “Says a nobody’s grandma with a stopwatch and pasture.”

  “‘Nobody’s grandma?’ Excuse you.” She pointed to the third line of the flyer. “Did you see the prize? There are no points required, just a qualifier. It’s part of the whole thing. Like American Idol.”

  Lil went ahead and dove fully into hysteria. When she spoke, her voice squeaked high to low like a pubescent boy. “American Idol?”

  Gran’s next words had the same effect as being hit by a bucket of cold water: “You could ride a bull.”

  Lil’s body froze and tingled at the same time.

  She hadn’t stepped foot in an arena in years and had never competed in a PBRA-sponsored rodeo.

  She had walked away a junior champion and ridden pro a few times in the Indian National Rodeo rodeos. Still, the world of rodeo mostly had forgotten about her—except for the few administrators who would always remember her as the girl who had tried and failed, over and over, to get women into the PBRA’s, the Professional Bull Riders Association, rough stock events. Because in Lil’s mind, what did it matter if she won every other event if she couldn’t win on the back of a bull?

  She was skilled enough to have made a good living between women’s events in the PBRA and the Indian rodeos, but if she couldn’t ride a bull under the banner of PBRA, she didn’t want any of it.

  So she rode for a college scholarship and then quit when she graduated instead. And then she’d come back to the ranch. End of story. And that was good enough for her.

  Since her retirement, rodeo had opened up a lot, and she was happy for the younger generation. A handful of girls had even been allowed on top of bulls. None had made it far, but Lil knew it was only a matter of time.

  She shook her head with a sigh. “I can’t, Gran. I’m rusty as an old nail, and there’s just too much to do around here. Besides, the ranch is too much for Tommy and Piper to run on their own.”

  Gran snorted. “You work in the office most of the day, anyway.”

  “Gran, you don’t have the energy for it,” Lil insisted.

  “Energy? Hell, after more years of doing it than you’ve been alive, I could do the ranch’s books half asleep—and have! I just let you take over because it’s a snoozefest.”

  “Snoozefest? Gran, do you hear yourself?” Lil turned to Piper and Tommy for help. “You don’t support this, do you?”

  Both shrugged.

  Piper said, “We trust Gran.”

  Gran crossed her arms in front of her chest and lifted a brow. “They trust me.”

  “It’s a lot more work,” Lil tried.

  Tommy said, “We’ve been doing more and more of it while you’ve been up there pinching pennies.”

  Lil’s cheeks heated, but she didn’t contradict him. He and Piper had been pulling more and more of her weight as she tried to do the impossible.

  The impossible that she wasn’t very good at. The impossible that Gran could do in her sleep—which was true. Gran ran a tight ship, whatever ship she came to, and she had been far more organized in running Swallowtail Ranch than Lil could ever hope to be.

  They had supported her through the last sad and stumbling years. Participating in this crazy scheme was what they were asking of her in return.

  Mentally sweating, Lil pushed her chair back, its legs screeching across the floor, and stood up. Turning around, she headed to the door without saying another word.

  “Where are you going, Lilian?” Gran only used her full name when she got stern.

  Lil stopped midstep. “I’m going to clear out my desk,” she said.

  Behind her back, Gran smiled. Lil didn’t have to see it to know it was true. Gran always smiled when she got what she wanted, and she always got what she wanted.

  “Don’t worry about that now. You’ve got training to do. Gotten a bit out of shape, if you ask me.”

  Piper erupted in a fit of witchy cackles as Lil stormed out of the kitchen. Ignoring them all, Lil went to her office.

  On the second floor of the farmhouse, the room used to be her gran and granddad’s bedroom, but she and Gran had turned it into the office after he passed. Gran said she couldn’t bear to sleep in there alone.

  It made a lovely office—wide and bright, with delicately framed French doors that led to a weight-bearing balcony. Weight-bearing because Lil’s summer project last year had been to reinforce the support beams, replace the decking, and weather coat the whole thing.

  She figured that should get her five years’ worth of good use of Muskogee’s extreme annual mood swings before she’d need to do any repairs. That is if she kept up on refinishing it every year, which she had planned to, since walking out on the balcony had preserved her sanity after a long stint of pushing paper many a time.

  She walked through the doors and stood there now, enjoying it while she could still call it hers. There were bills to pay, orders to fulfill, and emails to respond to, but that wasn’t her job now. Now her job was to enter a rodeo contest and try to win some money to save the ranch.

  And to think she’d thought the goats were bad.

  2

  “Read it again.” AJ Garza ground the words out between gritted teeth, his shoulder burning like it did every time he gripped his riggin’ these days.

  Claudio sighed but read aloud from the glossy quarter sheet ad he held. “‘The PBRA Closed Circuit Tour, a rough stock rodeo unlike any other, kicks off this June. This is a tournament-style traveling rodeo with a one-million-dollar cash prize. The PBRA Closed Circuit is a testament to God’s greatest battle: man versus nature—or in this case, man versus the rankest bulls on earth! The final three cowboys will compete for the million-dollar prize. For the grand finale, each cowboy goes up against a never-been-beaten man killer. But don’t worry, folks, to show that these cowboys are a match for any set of horns, each rodeo on tour features a dif
ferent set of special challenges—including unpredictable untried bulls, fresh-caught mustangs, and more! You’ve heard of reality TV. Well, this is Rodeo TV, folks. Fans will get to know every cowboy through in-depth interviews, candid videos, and special VIP events! Follow along from start to finish and get a chance to get up close and personal with your favorite. The PBRA Closed Circuit, where reality TV meets the rodeo.’”

  “How long?” he grunted.

  “Twenty-five seconds, on the highest setting,” he said. “You can probably get off now.”

  Judging from the way the younger man drummed his fingers against his thigh, Claudio Ramiro, CityBoyz’s under-the-table, on-again, off-again office manager, was getting tired of counting seconds. He was supposed to be stuffing the emergency closure notice letters at his desk—the job for which he was on-again.

  “Nope. Keep going. This old thing is at least five times slower, dumber, and weaker than every dick of a bull I’ve ever been on,” AJ grunted while thrashing and jerking wildly atop the aging mechanical bull.

  “So The Old Man’s got you riding dick again, AJ? I heard you guys needed money, but that’s extreme...” A sardonic voice sliced through the noise of the robotic bull.

  The unexpected arrival of Diablo Jones, the best friend he had ever had, didn’t throw AJ off the bull.

  That he stood next to The Old Man did.

  It’d been three years since he’d seen either man in the flesh.

  AJ tucked and rolled as he flew off the bull, landing flat-assed on the mat, winded, his ears full of the music of a machine that needed oil.

  The Old Man was not due in the office for a few more hours. But here he was, which meant AJ was caught.

  “Hello, Alonso.” Henry Bowman had a baritone rumble that had only deepened with age, like expensive whiskey. The sound of it in person, instead of a thin and distant thing over a weak signal across an ocean, hooked into the center of AJ’s chest.

  Lying on a wrestling mat looking up at The Old Man’s shadowed face against the backdrop of a ceiling was as familiar to him as the smell of leather.