by Max Monroe
Hard humps and soul-destroying kicks, the beast between my legs thrashes like a badass, and I tighten my hand in the hair of his mane.
By my count, I’m less than two seconds away from a full eight, and all it takes is three more gyrations up and down for Chase to yell out confirmation.
“That’s it! Eight fucking seconds! Rhett Jameson, motherfuckers, let’s gooo!”
Allowing myself a smile, I prepare to dismount, watching and waiting for an ideal time to launch myself off and to the side for a crash-landing on the ground. Out here, in a paddock, riding a completely unsanctioned bronc, it’s not like I can sit around and wait for a pickup man to come get me on his horse.
The only way off this fucker is from his back to the ground, and timing it right is the difference between getting fucked up and not.
One buck turns into two, and I listen to the sound of my bronc’s breath. He’s huffing loudly, becoming more and more agitated the longer I’m on his back, and I’m approaching the window where if I don’t get off him soon, at an angle and trajectory of my choosing, he’s going to make some decisions of his own—ones I’m not likely to enjoy.
Committed to letting go at the bottom of the next jump, I wait for his next buck to cycle and then release my grip on the coarse fibers of his mane. Unfortunately, thanks to the imperfect terrain of uneven paddock ground, he hits bottom before I’m expecting and jars me into the swell of his back.
As a result, when he bucks again, with my grip already released, I make my exit with little to no control over the angle and descent of my body.
With a snap and a pop, I hit the ground directly on my left knee, driving all the weight and force of my ride right into it and sending a crack through the air that breaks all the previous calm of the dark night.
“Shit!” Chase yells as I roll over and blink through my body’s attempt to check out of consciousness. The agony in my leg is real and potent, and I know without a shadow of a doubt, I’ve destroyed more than a little something inside of it.
Vaguely, I hear the sound of three sets of boots hitting the dirt and pounding toward me, and I hold on to the cadence of each of them as a way to keep my heart from pounding all the way outside my chest.
Overcome, I turn my head to the side and get sick, right there on the grass next to me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Chase chants as he slides to a stop like he’s stealing home plate in baseball and puts a supportive hand under my head.
“My leg,” I manage to croak, clammy sweat dripping from the skin above my top lip directly into my mouth. “It’s not good,” I continue, forcing myself to speak through several heavy swallows.
Chase nods. “I know, buddy. Cutter’s called an ambulance. You just hang tight, okay?”
My head jerks in the affirmative, and I lick my lips against the searing, mind-numbing pain. “I guess your daddy’s gonna know what we’ve been up to now.”
Chase nods. “I know. I’d tell you off, but I’d say the fact that my dad’s not the only one who’s gonna know is punishment enough.”
Damn straight. My dad, Tex Jameson, is going to have my ass for breakfast. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he lets whatever’s broken in my leg heal just to break it all over again himself.
I carry far too many responsibilities on our family’s ranch to get injured and be out of commission for an extended period of time.
Fuck.
“Look at it this way,” Lynn remarks from above me. “At least Cut and I know Chase wasn’t full of shit all this time. Rhett Jameson can ride himself a goddamn bronc.”
Cutter laughs. “Fuck yeah, he can. It’s the gettin’ off that’s the problem.”
I want to laugh, but at the thought of what this is going to mean for running my family’s business, Shaw Springs Ranch, over the summer, my pain hits an absolute pinnacle and I pass right the fuck out.
I can only hope God takes pity and sends some sort of an angel to solve my problems.
One thing’s for sure…I’m gonna need one.
June 7th, Monday
Shaw Springs Ranch, Hollow Rock, Utah
Rhett
I tuck the crutch tighter into my armpit and circle Huck’s hindquarters with my free hand on his ass. My daughter Joey follows, watching as I do my best impression of a one-legged man.
It’s been just shy of four weeks—and one two-hour surgery—since I injured my left leg, and the first three of them were spent almost entirely in bed. All thanks to a patella fracture and patella tendon tear—or as I like to call it, a totally fucked-up leg.
For a man like me, that kind of inactivity just about made me lose my mind. My leg may not be any better than a two-by-four right now, but I’ll tote the fucker around painstakingly if it means I can start to find some goddamn normalcy again.
“Come here, darlin’,” I tell my daughter, shoving the stool closer to Huck with the edge of my huge leg brace. “You climb up, and I’ll hold his head.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Joey replies. Her blond pigtails bob from side to side as she flashes a grin my way and steps up onto the stool. She proceeds to give Huck a pat on the neck and grabs on to a piece of his mane like I taught her.
Joey has been riding since the time she could walk and, frankly, does it better than a whole host of the guests we see come through our ranch on a yearly basis, but she’s still my baby girl, regardless.
I don’t worry about myself—haven’t even considered a possibility other than making a full recovery from this shit—but riding in an ambulance in the middle of the night and going in and out of consciousness the whole time feels a lot different as a father than it did as a professional bronc rider.
Without Joey’s mama in the picture, it’s up to me to be everything she needs and then some, and knowing I let my ego lead me to decisions that make that harder to do is a difficult realization to come by.
Joey settles into the saddle and shoves her tiny boots through the stirrups, anchoring on the balls of her feet to give herself leverage. Huck is a big horse, nearly sixteen hands of brute muscle, but he’s smart too, and he knows to treat riders like my Joey with extra care.
“Okay, darlin’, go on and give him his head and get on out to the arena. Walk, trot, and canter—no runnin’, you hear me?”
Joey looks down at me with a toothy, mischievous smile, and I narrow my eyes.
“No runnin’, you hear me?”
She tilts her head to the side. “Like, no fast runnin’?”
“No runnin’ at all.”
“Not even a little runnin’? Like, just a little faster than a canter? You’d hardly even know the difference, really.”
“Joey, I said, no runnin’. Period. End of story.”
“This story is pretty boring,” she mutters, and it takes everything inside me to keep a straight face and not laugh.
I swear, some days, my daughter is five going on eighteen.
“Josephine Jameson, that’s enough sassin’.” I give her a stern stare, and finally, she rolls her eyes back at me and nods.
“Fine. No runnin’. Promise, Daddy.”
“Good. Now, Ms. Sassypants, I’ll be out there with ya in a couple minutes, and if you keep that promise, I’ll let ya go buck wild for a little bit,” I offer, making the apples of her cheeks lift to the corners of her eyes.
“Yippee!” she exclaims, and all I can do is grin.
There’s no denying that, when it comes to being adventurous, my little girl is a bit too much like me.
I slap Huck on the butt, and he walks off with Joe, out of the barn hallway and around the corner to head for the arena.
Alone in the alleyway, without a horse to lean on now, I struggle to make my way back to the stall walls and pull myself up to take some of the weight off my good leg.
My injured one is locked straight in a brace the size of this fucking ranch and aches like a son of a bitch. It’s sore all the time, and the pressure of the blood pooling in it feels like a thousand tiny needles, but I’l
l be damned if I’m going to go lie back down in the house.
Or take any of that fucking pain medication Dr. Namath keeps pushing on me.
I open the stall door next to me with a hard shove and hobble inside with the help of my good leg and my crutch.
“Hey there, Sonny,” I say to my personal horse. He’s quick as lightning and about the best at herding cattle I’ve ever seen, but he also has a need for more exercise than the bombproof geldings we put our guests on.
As far as I know, Ronald and Tiny, two of our ranch hands, have ridden Sonny a few times since I got hurt, but for my painted boy, that’s not nearly enough.
“What do you think? You wanna go for a ride?” I ask him.
I’m not sure how, but there has to be a way to get myself up on his back if I try hard enough.
I grab his rope halter off the door and hobble back to slide it gently over his head. He gives me no trouble, clearly just as eager to be out and moving as I am.
With his attached lead line in my hand, I tuck my crutch under my armpit and limp back into the hallway with Sonny in tow.
I drop the lead line, and he stops immediately. On a ranch that’s over two thousand acres, it’s really important that our horses learn to ground tie during their training. When you’re out in the middle of nowhere, camping overnight while gathering cattle, there’s not always something to tie off to. And the last thing you want is to wake up and find out your horse left your ass there to walk.
The grooming brushes are in a container on the floor of the hallway, and with a locked-out brace, that’s a bit of a problem. I turn back to Sonny and smile.
“Guess you’re just gonna have to be dirty today, bud.”
He huffs a puff of air out of his nostrils, and I take that as his agreement, leaving him to stand in the hall and working my way over to the saddle pad and saddle in the tack room.
I’m walking back out the door when a voice calls out from behind me.
“Rhett? What in the hell do you think you’re doin’?”
I close my eyes and sigh, not bothering to turn around.
“What’s it look like, Tiny?”
“Looks like you’re about to strap yourself to a doomed rocket ship like in that movie Armajellin.”
“Armageddon,” I correct with a roll of my eyes and finally turn to face him. “The movie’s name is Armageddon, Tiny.”
If there’s one thing Tiny, one of our oldest ranch hands, is really talented at, it’s giving his own pronunciations and names for things. And oddly enough, he looks a whole lot like Steve Buscemi, one of the actors in the very movie he’s trying to reference.
With his small frame, big eyes, and a slightly crooked mouth, if we tossed a cowboy hat and some dirt on Steve Buscemi, he and Tiny could be twins.
“Well, whatever,” he says. “That one with Bruce Wills.”
“Bruce Willis,” I correct with a nod. “I know the one.”
“If you know the movie, then why the hell are you tryin’ to recreate the ending?”
I shake my head. “I’m hardly sacrificin’ myself to an asteroid,” I contest. “I’m taking my horse for a ride in the arena with my daughter.”
“I have to say, I don’t think Tex would like this too much.”
“I don’t care if Tex likes it,” I say with frustration, tossing the pad and saddle up on Sonny’s back. “He’s my daddy, sure, but Tiny, I’m a grown man. I can make my own choices.”
“Don’t really seem to me like you’re actin’ like you’re grown. What happens to the ranch if you hurt that leg even more and end up back in bed? We got a whole lot of shit comin’ up. Guests for the summer, hostin’ the Fourth of July Extravacanta thingamabob. I know I’m pretty, but you’re the face of this place, son. Without—”
“Enough!” I explode. “If you don’t want to watch me do this, go somewhere else, all right?”
Tiny shakes his head and backs away slowly, turning and leaving the barn with a scowl. My chest rises and falls with the overzealous clash of emotions going on inside it.
The battle between what I want and what I’m expected to keep in mind is violent and tumultuous, and these days, it feels a lot like it never ends.
The weight of responsibility on my shoulders is heavy enough already, but with the addition of my injury, it’s become awkward to carry.
But I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up my freedom.
And I don’t give a fuck what my doctor or Tiny or my dad or any-fucking-one has to say about it.
Tex
“Tiny, I swear to God, if you walk past my door one more time without gettin’ your ass in here, I’m gonna go nuclear.”
He jumps at the sound of his name and walks at double the speed as he steps inside my door and closes it behind himself.
The good thing about getting as old as I am is that your reputation means something. And Harry “Tiny” Minnow has been working on my ranch for long enough that he knows I don’t make idle threats. I don’t say something unless I mean it, and I always follow through.
To run a ranch of this magnitude, it has to be that way. You need thick skin and a quick mind, and you need to be ruthless when necessary. There are always a million and one problems to be solved, and everyone is looking to you to solve them.
It’s a big responsibility, but it’s also a huge honor and it has been for the last fifty years—the pride of my life. But I’m getting old. I’m pushing seventy and I’m ready to retire. Ready to spend some time with my wife and play with my granddaughter.
But I can’t do that until I feel like my son is ready to step up to the goddamn plate.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, not bothering with any preliminary bullshit.
“Problem? Who says there’s a problem?” Tiny says like an asshole. I rock my neck back and forth and sigh.
“Your eyes say it, for fuck’s sake,” I retort with a narrowed gaze. “You look jumpier than a damn jackrabbit. More than usual. You think I can’t tell when there’s a problem just by lookin’ at ya?”
Tiny nods, licking his lips nervously. “Okay, fine, there’s a problem.”
But when he doesn’t expand further, a deep sigh slides through my lungs. “And what is it?”
“What is what?” Tiny asks.
Dear God.
“The fuckin’ problem, Tiny.”
“Oh, right,” he answers quickly with big eyes. “I saw Rhett out at the barn earlier this mornin’,” he rambles as quickly as his slow drawl will let him. “He was gettin’ ready to saddle Sonny.”
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, sinking my head into my hands.
Tiny nods enthusiastically. “I tried to stop him, but well…he didn’t take too kindly to me tellin’ him what to do.”
No kidding. Only one person more bullheaded than me and that’s my son Rhett. It’ll make him a good boss one day, when he can get his head out of his own ass and stop being so damn stupid and careless.
“All right.” I nod. “I’ll handle it from here.”
Tiny nods, clearly relieved to be absolved of this responsibility. I shoo him out of my office with a wave of my hand, and he takes off like a three-legged cat, more than ready to get out of my lion’s den.
“And, Tiny?” I call when he makes it to the door. He turns around to meet my eyes, and I level him with a stern stare that’s sure to make a showing in his nightmares tonight. “Next time you wait this long to tell me shit like this, I’m gonna snatch off what’s left of the hair on your head myself. Understand?”
He nods fervently.
I jerk my chin up. “Good. You can go now.”
To an outsider, it might seem like I’m being hard on him, but it’s necessary.
I love Tiny like family, but he’s been working at my ranch long enough for me to understand the man needs clear, stern directions in order to guarantee a follow-through.
I release another heavy sigh and scrub a hand down my face before leaning into my desk on splayed hands. The surface is
covered with cattle contracts and applications for workers and profiles on some of our VIP guests. There’s a mile-long to-do list for setting up for our big summer rodeo celebration and exhibition, and I haven’t eaten a goddamn bite of anything for lunch.
Still, I know that if I don’t put all of that shit aside and get my son in hand, he’s going to end up with a permanently fucked-up leg and a bitter taste in his mouth for the life that should be bringing him joy.
The life I know he’s meant for, a life that will bring him the purpose he’s been searching for, if he’ll just let himself accept it.
I pick up the phone and dial the one person I know he’ll answer to—my wife. With a sweet manner and a strong heart, she’s the woman you go to with your problems, knowing she’s going to keep them safe and guarded. She’s the love of my life, and even as a grown man, the one woman my son’ll actually listen to.
If I call Rhett in here to the office, I can almost guarantee he’ll turn me down or stand me up without guilt. But if his mama calls him—that’s a whole different story.
Boys always listen to their mamas, even when they’re full-fledged men.
Well, at least, the good men do.
And at this point, I’m damn desperate enough to set myself up to get in trouble with both of them. Because make no mistake, when my wife realizes I’ve used her to trap her only child, her baby boy, in a conversation he doesn’t want to have, there’s going to be hell to pay.
Sitting in my favorite leather chair in the living room with a newspaper in front of my face, I wait patiently for my son and granddaughter to arrive for dinner. There’s a roast in the oven that smells like heaven, and I only wish I were going to get the chance to eat it. In fact, it’s almost worth waiting until after the meal to have the conversation with Rhett I know I have to have, but only almost.
There’s been enough beating around the bush, enough coddling, and it’s time he got served a slice of cold, hard truth.