by Vicki Tharp
The laughs and hoots and hollers drifted in through the open windows. Silas’s head spun, and the streetlights blurred into blinding stars. What the hell was wrong with him?
Silas pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes. “Why’d you step in?”
“I’m not a complete asshole.”
Silas huffed out a harsh laugh and rested his head against the back of the seat. “Since when?” The world tilted and twirled, and he closed his eyes.
Monte chuckled, but he didn’t say anything as he gunned the engine and raced down the drag.
Back at the rodeo grounds, Monte put a shoulder under Silas’s arm and helped him to his camper. “Christ, Foss. How much did you drink tonight?”
“Naw tha mu,” Silas slurred. Not that much. Maybe he should have had some food to sop up all that alcohol. But when your heart feels like it had been lassoed with barbed wire and ripped out of your chest, it kind of did a number on the appetite.
“Hey, Chet,” Monte called out as he propped Silas up against the side of his camper. “Help me dump Silas’s drunk ass into bed.”
The two men wrestled Silas into his camper with a lot of cussing and name calling. They poured him into the bed over the dinette. He could still smell Josephine on his sheets.
“Brother,” Monte said, “You seriously need to air this place out.”
“No lie.” Chet rubbed a finger under his nose then yanked off Silas’s boots.
“Screw the both of you.”
“Sleep it off.” Monte grabbed a pillow from somewhere and threw it at Silas’s face. Silas fumbled the catch and tucked the pillow under his pounding head.
Monte clomped down the steps about to close the door when Silas said, “I’m glad they dropped the charges.” Mostly the words came out un-slurred.
“And here I thought you didn’t like me.”
“I don’t. I just want to know that when I win that belt buckle tomorrow night, I’ve won it fair and square.”
Monte laughed. “Now look who’s the asshole.”
Monte slammed the door, but he and Chet must not have walked far off because Silas heard Monte say, “You can tell your boss he doesn’t have to worry about his precious daughter dating a bull rider anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
Silas smelled tobacco smoke. One of them must have lit up.
“’Cuz Foss screwed the pooch tonight. You should have seen it.” Monte’s voice started fading as they walked away. “It was a thing of beauty.”
“What the fuck, man?” Chet sounded disgusted. Whether it was because of what Monte had said or what Silas had done, Silas would never know.
Silas was disgusted, too. With himself. What the fuck was right.
He hadn’t just screwed the pooch he’d…he’d…the words wouldn’t come. His thoughts muddied as his heartbeat took up residence in his head. Pain radiated around his skull and his scalp felt stretched like a water balloon right before it bursts.
He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the cabinet where he stored his aspirin. Catching his balance on the counter, he ripped the top off with his teeth and poured some into his hand. The pills blurred, and he couldn’t tell if he had two or four.
He popped the bitter pills into his mouth. Four. Dry swallowing, he choked on one then managed to produce enough spit to get it down at least part way. He hoped like hell he felt better in the morning. He had a buckle, and more importantly, a woman, to win.
If it wasn’t already too late.
* * *
The last day of the Cheyenne rodeo was electric. The excitement, tension, and nervousness hung in the air as thick and cloying as the Houston humidity in the summer. Today, the laughs seemed louder, the sun seemed brighter, and the crowds seemed bigger.
Or maybe that was just Silas’s massive hangover talking.
He took a gulp of his fourth cup of coffee of the day, washing down another dose of aspirin as he headed back to the rodeo office beneath the stands to check which bull he’d drawn for the finals.
A small crowd had gathered around the bulletin board. Riders and spectators. Usually he’d work his way to the front and move on with his day, but Silas hung back, resting a shoulder against a support column and crossing his feet at the ankles, not in the mood to fight his way to the board.
A kid walked up to him, couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, with a pen and a rodeo program in his hand.
“Can I have your autograph?” The kid had the whole get up. The too large straw Stetson, the scuffed boots, the baby Wranglers and the leather chaps with the fringe on the sides, and a big plastic chromed out belt buckle with a bull rider on the front.
Silas reached for the program and the pen. “Do you know who I am?”
The kid nodded his head, pushing up the brim of his hat so he could see better. “Yeah, you’re my favorite. My daddy says Thrasher is unrideable.”
The coffee turned bitter on his tongue when the kid reminded him of the bull that had almost killed his best friend. It was kind of an odd thing for the kid to say, but Silas didn’t pay much attention, after all, Thrasher had been pulled from the roughstock string and wasn’t expected back until the indoor season started in the fall. “Oh, yeah? What do you think?”
“You can ride him.”
Silas scribbled his name on the program and handed it back to the kid and forced a smile. “Better believe it.”
The kid ran off, catching up with a young couple watching from the line at one of the concession stands. Silas tipped his hat, and the father gave him a nod.
“How ya doin’?” A hand clapped Silas on the shoulder, and he turned to see Monte.
The words hit him like a loaded question. Maybe it was that devilish spark in Monte’s eyes. “I’m fine.” If he said it enough and the aspirin ever kicked in, it might actually be somewhere close to the truth.
“You haven’t seen your draw yet.”
“I was waiting for the crowds to clear.” He glanced over at the bulletin board, and if anything, the crowd had only gotten bigger. “Save me the trouble and tell me. You’re going to bust a nut if you don’t spit it out.”
“No, friend. This you gotta see for yourself.”
Friend my ass. Silas tossed his coffee into a nearby trashcan and worked his way to the front of the crowd. He ran his finger down the line of draws.
Thrasher.
Silas waited for the burst of adrenaline, for the blood to heat in his veins for his heart to beat faster and his chest to feel three sizes too small. But he felt…nothing. Then the anger started creeping in.
Masking his expression, he turned to Monte and gave him a twitch of a smile. “Piece of cake.”
Silas shouldered his way through the crowd as his anger built and built. At the rodeo office, he shoved through the door and went straight to the small room at the back that Maynard had taken over for the duration. He didn’t bother knocking.
He stepped around some guy in the office and planted his palms in the middle of Maynard’s desk, his face inches from a greedy man he’d grown to despise over the years. “What the fuck are you thinking?”
Maynard glanced over Silas’s shoulder and said to the other man. “If you’ll excuse us.”
The door closed, and Maynard shifted his unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
Silas yanked it from his mouth and threw it against the wall. “Navarro’s not even out of the hospital yet, and you’re letting that bull back in the string?”
Maynard leaned back in the chair. “Thrasher’s a star in his own right. A big draw. People come to see him as much as they come to see the riders.”
Silas stood, paced to the door and then back again. “So that’s what this is about? Money? That bull is going to kill someone someday.”
With a one-shouldered shrug, Maynard dug a new cigar from the top drawer of his desk and cut off the end.
“And now I’m riding him, in the finals at Cheyenne. The top rider against the top bull. Tell me to my fac
e you didn’t rig this, that this isn’t just one of your ploys to boost attendance.”
This time, Maynard did light up. He drew on one end of the fat cigar until the other end burned red and bright. He leaned back in his chair, resting his boots on the scarred desktop. Through a haze of smoke, Maynard said, “It’s the luck of the draw.”
Silas slammed his hand on top of the desk. “Bullshit.” The pounding of his pulse only made his headache worse, a sharp, stabbing behind his eyes as if someone was jabbing an icepick in his eye socket.
“No one’s forcing you to ride.” Maynard stood and pulled the stogy out of his mouth. “I’m sure Monte and the other boys would love a shot at the prize money.”
Silas clenched his teeth, fighting the pain as well as his fury. “You’re a greedy, rotten, bastard, you know that?”
Maynard smiled as if Silas had given him the keys to the Vegas Strip. “Now get out. We both have jobs to do.”
* * *
I’m not your woman. How had she even let that lie out of her mouth? She was his. He was hers. And she was damn tired of denying it.
That morning, alone in her trailer, Josephine had woken up with a whole new determination. Determination to find a way to stay on the circuit, to stay with Silas and her friends, and to live her life on her terms.
All she had to do was win tonight.
Before her mother’s stroke, she’d been planning to buy a new rig with the prize money, but she’d made do all season with what she had. She didn’t need a fancy trailer to make her horse run faster, or a more comfortable bed to help her sleep better.
She needed Silas.
With the prize money, she could afford to pay someone to help with her mother’s recovery. Not that her father couldn’t afford to pay for the help, it was that he wouldn’t pay for the help. Not when he had a dutiful daughter who could do it. So, she’d win, and she’d go home and help with her mother, but when the indoor season started up in the fall, she’d find help for her father and be back on the circuit, back with Silas.
Then, when it came time for Silas to hang up his bullrope and start his own roughstock ranch, well, they’d figure something out. It would work. It had to.
She’d wanted to find Silas, but this was a big night for both of them. They both needed to concentrate. They both needed to win. They would have plenty of time to talk after the rodeo.
She had it all planned out. Grab Comet for their run, cool him out fast, then watch Silas’s ride from the chutes. When it was all over, they’d celebrate.
Naked.
13
Josephine hopped up on Comet, the adrenaline already spiking through her system. Her horse jigged beneath her, feeding off her natural high. She went with the motion. Comet’s muscles knotted, and Josephine knew her horse was as amped and ready as he was ever going to be.
He had the speed. They had the skill.
They could win it all.
Cora and Panache galloped out of the back of the arena, finishing with the time to beat. Josephine didn’t have time to congratulate her on a fantastic run before she was given the green light to go.
Aiming her horse down the alley, she gave him his head and her heels. He leaped forward, all muscle and heart.
If heart were all it took to win, Comet would be unbeatable.
They galloped toward the first barrel, his mane and her hair flying, her eyes watering from the wind and speed. He turned around the first barrel, smoother and closer than he’d ever taken it before, his hooves finding traction in the thick dirt, and she knew he’d shaved thousands of a second off their regular time.
Comet raced toward the second barrel almost on autopilot. Comet knew his job. Knew the pattern. Like Silas had said, all she had to do was trust him and stay out of his way. Out of the second turn, if she went by the deafening roar of the crowd, she’d post the time to beat. On the approach to the third and final barrel, Comet dug in deep, the dirt flying. The thunderous beat of his hooves hitting the ground as he pushed himself, giving her everything he had.
The third barrel came up quick. Too quick.
Relax in the turn. Let him do his job. Silas’s words echoed in her head. But Comet was coming in too hot, and he wasn’t slowing down.
He was going to overshoot the can.
Josephine stiffened and pulled on the inside rein. A little too fast. A little too hard. She tried to feed rein back to him, but it was already too late.
Comet dumped his shoulder into the turn, and his rear legs spun out from under him. Just like they’d had in Calgary. And just like in Calgary, her knee crashed into the barrel. It didn’t spin and teeter, it slammed into the dirt.
Tears sprung to her eyes as she raced across the finish line. Comet jigged proudly after she pulled him up past the alley. He didn’t understand that they’d have a five-second penalty. He didn’t understand that they’d lost.
What she’d lost or how she’d failed.
All her hard work, all her plans, all her dreams…shattered.
That money she’d hoped to win to buy her freedom from her parents was gone. That bud of hope growing inside her for a life away from her parents—gone.
Her life with Silas—gone.
* * *
Josephine tossed only her essentials on the floorboards of her truck. Chet had agreed to load up Comet, and the rest of her gear, and take Cora home after the rodeo.
She couldn’t stay. Not after she’d ruined everything.
Besides the thought of saying goodbye to Silas left a gaping wound where her heart should be. She’d thought the tears would flow and never stop, but her eyes were dry, as if the rest of her body had shut down along with her heart.
Cora came up behind her. Even beneath the heavy makeup, her friend had gone pale. She hadn’t told Cora she was leaving. She hadn’t wanted to be talked out of it.
“Cora…what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I was coming to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m…I’m okay. Look, I didn’t know how to—”
Cora placed her hand on Josephine’s forearm. “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Toby? Did something happen—”
“Sit,” Cora said.
Oh crap. Josephine leaned against the side of her truck, the heel of her boot tap, tap, tapping against the ground. “Say it.” She pushed the words out with lungs that felt too small.
Cora wrung her hands. “Silas drew Thrasher.”
“W-What? He refused to ride, right?” But even as Josephine said it, she knew it wasn’t true. Not just because this was Cheyenne, but because that was the kind of man Silas was. He didn’t give in, and he didn’t give up.
He hadn’t given up on her, and he certainly wouldn’t do it with fifteen hundred pounds of hide and horn and hate.
Cora shook her head. “He’s riding.”
Josephine sprinted back to the arena. At the chutes, she pushed her way through the other bull riders as they readied for their go. But there was no sign of Silas.
By one of the empty chutes, she spotted Monte and Chet and hurried over to them. “Anyone seen Silas?”
Monte dug his bells out of his bag and jerked his head toward the last chute. “Better hurry if you want to talk to him. He’s up in two.”
She grabbed the rail and was about to climb over, it was the quickest way to get to Silas, but Chet caught her arm. “He’ll be okay. If anyone can ride that bull, it would be him.”
Yeah. That’s what Silas had said about Toby right before Thrasher put Toby in the hospital. She climbed over three sets of stock panels before she got to Silas.
Thrasher was already in the chute. The stench of urine and manure tainted the air, the bull bellowing and pawing the dirt. The crowd roared as a gate opened and spit out a bull rider a couple chutes down.
“Silas.” He didn’t turn. He hadn’t heard her over the noise. She tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned and his features softened. He didn’t have to say anythi
ng. Holding out his arms, she stepped into them and wrapped her arms around his waist. Warm and solid and safe.
She wanted this. For life.
The tears threatened, but by sheer force of will, she held them back. The last thing she wanted to do was upset him. She could keep it together for him. She had to.
With a finger under her chin, he lifted her face to his and lowered his lips to hers. The kiss tender, not demanding.
Love not lust.
He swayed and caught himself on the rail.
She leaned back so she could get a better look at him. “You okay?”
“Just drunk on love.”
He’ll never give up. The noise died down, and Josephine knew she had to ask. Knew what his answer would be even before the words left her mouth. “Don’t do this. Don’t ride him.”
“Foss,” a guy from the chutes called out. “You’re up.”
Brushing a thumb across her cheek, he said, “I gotta go.”
He didn’t wait for her response. Hand over hand he climbed over the rail, settling his legs on either side of the chute, the bull raking the rails with his thick horns. Glancing back at her, he tossed her a cocky smile and gave her a wink and straddled the bull.
He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.
But what if he wasn’t?
“Wait!” She scrambled up the chute.
“Hey, lady,” one of the guys said, “You can’t be here.”
“Silas.”
He glanced up as someone tried to pull her off the rails, but she held on tight. “I love you.”
He shook his head and laughed.
“Why’s that funny?”
“Now I know I’m going to die.”
“Don’t say that. You’re not going to die.”
“No hotstuff, I’m not.”
Even though they were over, she’d be devastated if he were maimed or killed. “Don’t do this.” She hated to beg, but she would when the man she loves’ life was at stake.
“I gotta. For Toby.” He gave her a wink that froze the breath in her tight lungs.