by Alice Duncan
“Ooh, ooh, Annabelle, looks like you lost your beau,” Jack said in that high-pitched, taunting voice he used when being horrid, which meant most of the time. Perhaps, like the devil, God used earthly beings to carry out His plans.
But, no. While I could feature Jack being in league with the devil, I couldn’t feature a benevolent God having anything at all to do with the little monster.
“Shut up, Jack,” I muttered, peeved.
“That’s enough, you two,” said my mother mildly, again including both of her children in her admonition, even though only one of them (Jack) was being beastly. I got really tired of her evenhandedness sometimes.
I rolled my eyes and wondered why life wasn’t fair. Which was a stupid thing to wonder, I guess. Life was just life. Always had been. Always would be. Life had nothing against me, in particular. It got everyone pretty much equally. “I’ll take a pan of brownies,” I said, changing the subject and hoping it would stay changed.
“I’ll carry one, as well,” said Ma. She looked sternly at Jack. “Before you run off and play, young man, you take that pot of beans to the tables, and mind you be careful with it. None of your horsing around yet.” At least she acknowledged that Jack was a lazy, sloppy, clumsy good-for-nothing. Sort of.
“I’ll get the applesauce,” said Pa, and did.
Then, armed with our foodstuffs, the Blue family walked over to the tables where several of the women from town, along with Mrs. Gunderson, were already setting up for the big barbecue that was going to be held after the first two events of the day. A barbecue pit had been dug days earlier, a steer lowered into it, and the aroma from the beef and mutton being smoked made my mouth water—and I’d just eaten lunch! There’s just nothing in the world like a barbeque, though. I wished we could barbeque a steer in our backyard from time to time. Heck, the whole town could partake of it. I’m generous. I doubt that Ma would appreciate having her vegetable garden dug up for the event, however, and that’s about the only place we could have dug a pit. That’s probably why they hold these things on ranches.
Davy Gunderson ran up to us as soon as he spotted Jack. He was a cute kid, with light-brown hair and freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. I remembered Phil looking like that a few years earlier and heaved a sigh.
Some people thought Jack was a cute kid, too, but I didn’t, undoubtedly because I couldn’t see past his obnoxious personality. He probably was good-looking, though, because everyone else in the family was—including me, darn it. I might not have blonde hair and heavenly blue eyes, and I know I wasn’t as delicate as a blasted fairy princess, but I was sure no hound dog.
“Jack! Come on and play baseball with us! Did you remember your bat?”
“Yeah, I remembered it. I’ll be there in a minute, Davy. Gotta get them beans on the table.” He nodded at the pot he carried.
“These,” said I, unable to help myself. “Not them.”
Jack stuck his tongue out at me. Figures.
Myrtle was already at the picnic tables, wearing her sensible trousers and adjusting the pies she and her mother had baked. I joined her at the desserts table, glad to leave my horrible brother. “Hey, Myrtle.”
“Hey, Annabelle.” She spied the pan I carried. “Oh, those look delicious!”
“They are. Ma’s specialty. Or,” I amended, “one of her specialties.” My mother was a good cook. “I love them. Chocolate brownies. She puts pecans in them.”
Looking around to see if anyone was watching, Myrtle murmured, “I wonder if anybody would notice if I took one.”
“Oh, pooh, why worry about it? Here.” I dug out a brownie and handed it over. “I’ve already eaten two of them. If I eat any more, I’m afraid I’ll be sick before the rodeo begins.”
Myrtle chuckled and took the brownie. “Let’s go find a place on the fence.”
“Good idea.”
So, with Myrtle munching and me trying to look eager and not miserable, we began to make our way to the pasture. We hadn’t got far when Phil and Esther strolled into my line of vision again. Oh, goody. “Are you going to help serve up the barbecue?” I asked Myrtle in an effort to pretend the sight of Phil with another woman wasn’t excruciating.
“Sure. Might as well.”
I think she was going to say something more, but at that moment Jack and Davy showed up, grinning like fiends. Which they were. I guess Jack had gone back to the car to get his baseball bat, because he was swinging it as if he were Babe Ruth. Huh.
“Annabelle’s boyfriend got a new girlfriend!” Jack taunted.
“Poor Annabelle!” said Davy.
At that moment, I wished all little boys to Hades.
“Annabelle’s lost her beau!” screeched Jack.
I’d had it. “Jack Blue, shut your mouth!” And I swatted him a good one with the back of my hand. He tried to avoid it, but I connected with the side of his head and sent him staggering. It hurt. That is to say, it hurt me. I hope it hurt Jack, too, but he took off running and didn’t say so. He was the type of beast who’d withhold that sort of information in order to provide the maximum amount of torture to his victim.
“Stupid brother,” I growled, rubbing the back of my hand and glowering after Jack and Davy, who were headed straight for Phil and Esther. The despicable brutes!
“Woo, hoo, Phil! Looks like you have a new girlfriend!” Davy shouted, sticking his tongue out at his big brother.
“Annabelle’s so sad!” hollered Jack, looking over his shoulder at me and sticking out his tongue. Fiend. The boy was a fiend.
I could tell that Phil was mightily irritated. He frowned at his brother and mine, and said, “Get lost, and quit being stupid!”
The two junior demons laughed uproariously and took off running toward a field where, I supposed, they aimed to play baseball in spite of the rodeo going on, since Jack was still swinging his bat. Now why would a couple of red-blooded American boys play baseball when they could watch a rodeo? Heck, they could play baseball any day of the week. An answer eluded me, but I wished I could have used the bat on both of them.
“I hate my brother sometimes.” I actually hated him most of the time but didn’t think it would be prudent to say so, Myrtle being a little on the zealously religious side lately.
Myrtle swallowed the last bite of her brownie. “I don’t blame you. I’m glad I don’t have one.”
I heaved a huge sigh. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Myrtle.”
By that time we were at the fence, so we climbed up, Myrtle having a much easier time of it today than she’d had the prior evening, since she was clad in a pair of old blue jeans and a plaid shirt. Similarly attired, I hopped up, too. We found the same places we’d had before, with that convenient cottonwood tree to use as a backrest.
To open the rodeo that day, Esther Strickland sang God Bless America, which was kind of nice. I believe I’ve already mentioned that she had a beautiful voice to go along with her beautiful looks. Some people get everything. After the song, Reverend Milo Strickland gave us another prayer, this one not quite as long as his prior one. Then Mr. Gunderson announced the first event of the day, which was bronc riding.
Before the first bronco left the chute, Hazel Fish, not, as I believe I’ve already mentioned, my favorite person, joined us.
“Hey, Hazel,” said I, resigned to hearing the latest slander whether I wanted to or not.
“Hey, Annabelle. Did you bring anything for the barbecue?”
Everyone brought something to the barbecue. To do otherwise would be to let down the entire town. I didn’t say so. What I said was, “Brownies, beans, and applesauce.”
“We brought a big mess of acorn squash.”
“Sounds good to me. I like squash.” I pretended to be fascinated by the ongoing preparations for the rodeo, in hope that my lack of interest in her would keep Hazel from slinging dirt. I should have known better.
“Did you hear that Kenny Sawyer and one of the cowboys from the Ruidoso Ranch got into a fistfight
this morning?” I could hear the glee in her voice.
“No, I hadn’t heard about it. We just got here,” I pointed out. Shoot, Kenny was really outdoing himself. Last night it was Armando Contreras, and this morning it was a cowboy from another ranch.
“Well, they did. I don’t know why, but I guess Mr. Gunderson had to separate them. Kenny gave the other guy a bloody nose, and I think he got a big bruise on his cheek.”
“That’s a shame.” Not that I much cared, except that I deplored fighting. Men. They were so silly. When they weren’t being treacherous.
“It was because of a girl, too. Kenny was flirting with the other cowboy’s girl. He does that all the time. I don’t know how Sarah stands it.”
I didn’t either, and I also thought I detected a sly note to Hazel’s voice, indicating she didn’t know how I stood Phil’s straying. Hazel was such a busybody. I didn’t say so. “Hmm,” was what I said, in an effort to discourage her. Again, I should have known better.
“Kenny’s not the only one, though,” she said in crafty tones.
“Hmm.” If she was going to start in about Phil, I aimed to push her off the fence. I could later say it was an accident.
“And it’s not always men who do it, either.”
“It, what?” Myrtle said. Maybe I’d push her off the fence, too.
“Stray from the straight and narrow,” Hazel said. “It’s not only men who do it. I’ve seen some things today that you wouldn’t believe.”
Oh, brother. I remained silent and pretended to be looking for someone in the crowd.
“I know you don’t want to think about it, Annabelle,” Hazel said in her low, confidential voice—the voice that always presaged messages of a scurrilous nature. “But I just saw your brother-in-law and Josephine Contreras together again, and they were looking might friendly with each other.”
Drat. I didn’t want to think about Richard and Josephine having some sort of illicit alliance. And if they were having one, I sure as heck didn’t want to know about it—and I didn’t want Hannah to know about it, either. And I definitely didn’t want Hazel Fish to start a rumor. Rumors spread like wildfire in a small town like Rosedale.
“And that was after I saw Kenny and Josephine together,” Hazel said. “I don’t know what Kenny’s up to. I saw him with Miss Strickland, too.”
“That Kenny,” I said. “He does get around, doesn’t he?”
“I’ll say he does.” Hazel nudged me. “But what about Josephine and your brother-in-law, Annabelle. What do you think is going on there? I sure hope they aren’t . . . well, you know.”
I certainly did know. And I also knew that Hazel had just lied to me. She’d absolutely love it if she found out Richard and Josephine were cheating on their respective spouses. Even if she didn’t find out anything that firmly pointed to the two having an affair, she might start gossip about an assumed affair, which would be embarrassing for the entire family and ruinous to various reputations.
That being the case, and because I couldn’t think of any other way to shut Hazel up, I lied like a rug. “I’m sure Josephine and Richard were just talking about the birthday party we’re having for Hannah the day after tomorrow. She probably wants to know what to bring.” Hannah’s birthday really was the day after tomorrow, so that fib was the first thing that popped into my mind on the spur of the moment—but, because of the rodeo, we weren’t having a party or anything. I hoped God wouldn’t fling Phil and Esther in my line of vision as my punishment for lying. “So if you think you’re going to spread a lot of gossip about them, you’d better think again.”
Hazel said, “Oh. I didn’t realize that.” She sounded disappointed. I wished she’d take up reading as a hobby and give gossip the go-by, but I doubted that would happen anytime soon.
I was right. “I saw Miss Strickland and Phil a few minutes ago,” she said next, having given up Josephine and Richard as meager pickings, I guess.
“Huh.”
“She sure is pretty. And she’s real nice, too. A fine Christian woman. I’ve gone to all the revival meetings. They’re very uplifting. You should go to one, Annabelle.”
“Yeah. Maybe I will.”
After a moment of silence—relatively speaking (there was quite a bit of noise surrounding us)—Hazel said, “I must say you’re taking it really well, Annabelle.”
I eyed her with disfavor. “Taking what well, Hazel?”
With wide-eyed innocence on her face and evil in her heart, she said, “Why, the way Phil’s fallen in love with Esther Strickland, of course! I wonder if he’ll follow her when she and her brother leave Rosedale to preach in another town.”
Boy, there’s something I’d never thought about before. The notion appalled me. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
Myrtle, who’d heard everything and probably thought she was rescuing me—which she was—said, “Oh, look, the first rider’s in the chute. Look, Annabelle, the horse looks like it’s trying to squash his leg.” She grimaced horribly.
Silently blessing Myrtle, I squinted at the action. It wasn’t often you actually got action before the horse left the chute, but Myrtle was right about that horse. He evidently didn’t want to be there one little bit and was showing his disfavor the only way he knew how. I grimaced along with Myrtle, and hoped the cowboy’s leg wouldn’t be broken. “Ow. I hope he’s not hurt. Who is that, do you know?”
“I think it’s Dan Ingram.” The horse slammed Dan’s leg against the chute again. “Oh, dear, did you see that?”
“I sure did. They’d better open the chute quick. Poor Dan.” Horses are ever so much bigger and heavier than human beings. Even if the horse didn’t succeed in crushing Dan’s leg like an egg, it could sure make it a mess of bruises, bumping it against the side of the chute the way it was doing.
The attendants opened the chute at last, and that horse shot out of it like a bullet from a gun, stopped dead, jumped straight up into the air, came down almost to its knees, leaped in the air again, and poor Dan went flying.
I said, “Ow.”
Myrtle said, “Ew,” and clapped her hands to her cheeks.
Hazel clutched my arm. “Is he all right?”
Seizing the opportunity, I said, “I hope so. Why don’t you go look, Hazel? You can find out what happened and come back and tell us if Dan’s okay.”
“Good idea,” said she, and jumped down from the fence and went scurrying off to get the scoop from the horse’s mouth—so to speak.
Myrtle nudged me. “That was brilliant, Annabelle.”
“Thanks.” I thought so, too.
“Oh, my!” Myrtle’s voice sounded strangely excited—and a little bit worried.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, but it looks as if Phil and Kenny are having words.”
My heart hurting, I glanced at the chutes and saw that Myrtle was correct. “Oh, dear. I hope they don’t get carried away.” I knew they didn’t like each other much, and I also knew that Kenny was a blowhard and a braggart, two behaviors that were totally foreign to Phil’s nature and that probably annoyed him a lot. It didn’t surprise me one iota to see Esther Strickland standing with the two men, holding her folded hands to her bosom and gazing upon them seraphically. I figured she’d probably egged them on somehow.
Oh, don’t listen to me. I’m only being catty. However, I anticipated hearing a full report on the dispute from Hazel when she returned to us. Now I almost regretted sending her to the chutes. Oh, well. As I watched, Phil turned around and stomped away from Kenny, who glowered after him. Esther stood there, her beatific smile still in place, looking like an angel in a Renaissance painting. I’ve seen pictures in books, so I know what Renaissance angels look like.
The woman was strange. I don’t care what anybody says.
Arguments aside, the competition continued. Phil and Kenny Sawyer were the two best riders in the bronc-riding event that day, only this time Phil took top honors. Although I was finding it difficult not to r
oot for Kenny under the circumstances, I was still happy for Phil.
As the rodeo continued (bull riding was up next), Hazel rejoined us on the fence. I can’t say that I was pleased to see her. In actual fact, I was sorry she hadn’t attached herself to somebody else. “Dan’s okay. His leg is bruised from where the horse bashed him against the chute, but he didn’t get hurt when he got bucked off.”
Now I ask you: how can a full-grown man get his leg smashed against a wooden chute several times, ride a horse that’s acting like a demented cyclone, be hurled therefrom, land hard in the dirt on his back, and not be hurt? By my reckoning, such a thing is impossible. However, I knew as well as Hazel that cowboys who performed in rodeo events would sooner die than admit to being injured. One more example of the foolishness of men, I guess. What I said was, “Glad to hear it.”
“And did you see Phil and Kenny fighting?” Hazel asked with unalloyed glee. “I think it had something to do with Miss Strickland. Sarah Molina was there, too, and she was crying.”
I hadn’t seen Sarah with the others, but it didn’t surprise me any to hear that she’d been crying, since she cried a lot. I probably would, too, if I depended on Kenny for anything as important as my emotional security. I was having a hard enough time trying not to cry over Phil, although I didn’t want Hazel or anyone else to know that.
However, that was another matter, and we were sitting on that fence in order to see cowboys ride bulls. I said, “Hmm,” and eyed the chutes. Bull riding was another event that was exciting to watch, but sort of pointless. On your average ranch, people don’t ride bulls very often, and if they do, it’s generally by accident.
Those things—bulls, I mean—are wily and unpredictable, and they can weigh a couple of thousand pounds. They can be mean, too, and try to stomp or gore you once they’ve bucked you off their backs. Mind you, I wouldn’t take it kindly if somebody locked me in a chute, dropped a body on top of me, kicked me in the ribs, and then rode me out into a pasture in front of a bunch of screaming people, either, but that’s part of a bull’s lot in life. The rest of the time he spends romancing the ladies—if he didn’t still have his romancing equipment, he’d be a steer—so I guess it all evens out. Nevertheless, you couldn’t get me to go near one of the things—bulls, I mean—much less try to ride it.