Fearless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  She’d topped them with an emerald-colored Cowgirl Tuff hoodie that brought out the green in her hazel eyes, and had layered on more makeup after leaving the house. With the low-heeled roper boots she’d acquired along with her second job—cleaning stalls and exercising horses for a trainer outside of Canyon—she felt almost like a real cowgirl.

  But when she spotted a cluster of her former classmates in the bleachers, she didn’t have the guts to join them. They were the coolest of the cool in tiny Earnest, Texas, the rodeo kids who’d been competing since they were old enough to sit alone on a horse.

  Girls who grew into women like Violet Jacobs, who sat horseback in the arena in full pickup rider gear, next to her cousin Cole. Jacobs Livestock had been putting on rodeos in the Panhandle since the nineteen-fifties, and Violet Jacobs, Melanie Brookman, and Shawnee Pickett had won a national intercollegiate rodeo team championship together. Since Melanie and Violet were the definition of BFFs and usually had Hank tagging along behind, he’d all but grown up on the Jacobs ranch.

  Grace would need a lot more than flashy jeans and a pair of boots to be part of that crowd—unless she was with Hank.

  The thought bubbled like champagne on her tongue, making her want to giggle.

  Searching the bleachers, she located an empty space next to a gray-haired couple. “Is this seat taken?”

  It was not. The woman welcomed her to sit down, while her husband gave a stiff nod. “Don’t tell me a pretty young thing like you is here all alone?” the wife asked.

  “I came to watch a friend,” Grace said with a twinge of pride.

  “Oh?” The woman glanced at her program. “Which one?”

  “The bullfighter. Hank Brookman.”

  “Then you must know my grandson Korby. He’s riding tonight.”

  Of course he would be. For a guy who took laid-back to a whole new level, Korby was a surprisingly tough bull rider.

  “Oh, look! There’s Hank.” Korby’s grandmother waved as Hank came through a pass gate beside the chutes. Grace’s heart gave another little flip. Wow. She’d never seen him in full rodeo gear—soccer-style jersey and shorts, cleats, and cowboy hat. He looked so…real. Not just the kid she’d gone to school with, but a real pro.

  The wave caught his attention and he trotted over, grinning. “Grace! You made it!”

  Before she could answer, Cole Jacobs barked his name. “Gotta go,” Hank said. “But meet me back behind the chutes when we’re done, okay?”

  Then he was off to work his way along the front of the chutes, helping riders set their ropes. Like when he’d stepped onto the football field or basketball court, he moved with an easy, infectious energy. Watching him, Grace could barely sit still.

  They stood for the singing of the national anthem, and then Hank took his position in the arena, jogging in place a dozen yards out into the arena and off to the side of chute number one. His partner, an older man named Red, stood stocky and resolute on the opposite side.

  The cowboy nodded, the chute gate swung wide, and the first bull launched into the arena. Grace didn’t even have time to suck in a breath before the rider flew in the air and the bull jogged away without a second glance. Hank picked up the rope that had been dragged free by the weight of the cowbell and handed it to the cowboy, who let it trail dejectedly in the dirt as he limped out of the arena.

  Well, that was anticlimactic.

  Grace eased off the edge of her seat as one cowboy after another bit the dirt without giving the bulls much of a run for their money. Then her seatmate clutched her arm. “Here’s Korby.”

  There was a subtle shift in the energy in the arena, spectators craning forward in their seats, the cowboys on the back of the chutes jockeying for a good viewpoint.

  “This should be a great match-up,” the announcer declared. “Dirt Eater is a young bull from Jacobs Livestock that had an impressive rookie year, and he’s getting stronger all the time. This cowboy is going to have his hands full.”

  Hank paced in a circle, and Grace could practically see his nerves vibrating from clear up in the stands. He came set, knees flexed and hands on thighs, as Korby scooted his hips up onto his rope and nodded.

  The silver-and-black bull took two long, high jumps, then cranked into a spin with Korby squarely in the middle of his back. The roar of crowd swelled, second by endless second. Then Dirt Eater gathered to heave himself straight into the air, his body nearly vertical as he came down, front hooves driving into the ground. Korby reared back to avoid being flung onto the bull’s blunt, curved horns, and Dirt Eater took advantage, his hindquarters whipping left to sling the cowboy off the side.

  Korby fought to recover his balance, but slid farther down with the next powerful lunge. One more jump yanked his hand from the rope and dropped him right under the bull’s belly. The entire crowd gasped as a massive hoof slammed down a mere inch from Korby’s helmeted face.

  In a flash, Hank was at Dirt Eater’s head, swatting at his nose and yelling to draw him away as Korby scrambled for the fence on hands and knees. For an instant it looked as if the bull had him dead to rights. Then Hank yelled again and the bull charged him, practically blowing snot up the back of Hank’s jersey as he sprinted toward the exit gate. Just inside the alley, he leapt onto the fence and tumbled over, assisted by the horn Dirt Eater hooked under his leg, tossing him like a rag doll into a crowd of cowboys before sauntering off to the catch pen.

  He disappeared from sight, screened by a wall of bodies. Grace stood along with everyone else, holding her breath as she strained to see through the crowd. Had that horn done some damage? Or had he landed on his head or neck or…

  Hank popped up, vaulted over the fence, and trotted out to the roar of the crowd, meeting Korby in the middle of the arena for a chest-bumping, back-slapping hug.

  The grandfather spoke for the first time. “That Hank might be even better than Korby’s been telling us.”

  Grace couldn’t help puffing up a little. That was her friend. And he’d invited her to be here for one of the biggest moments of his life—so far.

  By the time the last bull bucked, Grace was as exhausted as if she’d been out there fighting them herself. Hank had had several more good saves and close calls, and as the arena cleared, cowboys paused to pump his hand and pound him on the shoulder in congratulations.

  Grace hung back, saying goodbye to her new friends and waiting until most of the crowd had shuffled out before making her way to where Hank was packing away his gear. He’d stripped off his jersey and was ripping loose the Velcro that held his vest in place, leaving a damp T-shirt beneath.

  When he saw Grace, he dropped the vest on top of his bag to give her a sweaty hug, lifting her off her feet with a whoop. “Hot damn! That was so awesome!”

  “You were great.” She couldn’t have forced the smile off her face. “Everyone was really impressed.”

  He threw back his head and laughed from sheer joy. “God! I could have kept going all day.” He grabbed her hand and twirled her in an impromptu dance. “Look at you, all cowgirled up. Nice jeans.”

  “Thanks,” she said, breathless from his proximity and approval.

  “Hey, Hank! You about ready to go?” Korby called from a few yards away, where he lounged against the fence with his arm draped over the shoulders of a girl with blond hair that hung in sleek waves to her shoulders. Another equally pretty dark-haired girl stood beside them, eyes narrowed at Grace.

  “I’ve just gotta swing by the locker room to change.” Hank grabbed a manila envelope propped against his bag. “The photographer is printing out and selling pictures from tonight, and he gave me this one.” He held it up for her inspection—a classic shot of Hank eye to eye with Dirt Eater, his outstretched hand brushing the bull’s nose as Korby scrambled safely away. “Got a pen?”

  “Uh, sure.” She dug into her bag and found a black Sharpie she’d used
to make poster boards for one of her class projects.

  “Perfect.” Hank propped his foot on the bottom fence rail and scribbled something on the photo, then held it and the pen out to her with a wide grin. “Merry Christmas, Grace.”

  “Thank you.” Her stomach jittered with pleasure as she squinted to decipher his scribbles. To my little red-haired girl, from a future National Finals Bullfighter. Love, Hank.

  Her heart tumbled, and it was all she could do not to clutch the picture to her not-so-impressive bosom. “This is great. My first autograph.”

  “Mine too.” For an instant his smile dropped away, replaced by steely determination. “It’s not gonna be the last.”

  “I’d better take really good care of this one. It’ll be worth a fortune someday.”

  His eyes softened and he reached out to tug one of her curls. “Thanks, Grace. It means a lot, you being here. You’ve always been my good luck charm.”

  “Hank!” Korby called again before Grace could reply. “We’re gonna die of old age here.”

  Hank shoved his vest into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. She’d taken a full step to follow him when he said, “Have a great night, Grace. See you at the Smoke Shack tomorrow?”

  Grace lurched to a stop, unable at first to comprehend what was happening. But he’d said…he’d asked…

  Oh.

  He’d asked for nothing except for her to show up and cheer him on. As a friend. He hadn’t said, “Be my date, Grace.” Hell, he’d obviously already had a date. And he hadn’t even mentioned the party. That had been Korby. But Grace had been so pathetically eager, she’d led herself on.

  So she had no one but herself to blame for the fistful of hurt and humiliation that slammed into her gut.

  Hank was still looking at her, friendly and expectant, so she fumbled for some kind of response. “I…have church in the morning,” she stammered.

  “So we’ll make it later. Two o’clock, okay? I can’t wait to hear all about the wild college life.” And with that he was gone, looping an arm around the brunette’s shoulders as he walked away.

  Grace sat carefully on the bottom row of the bleachers as tremors rolled through her body. She was such a fool. As if all she had to do was change clothes and put on some makeup for Hank to notice she was more than good old Grace. When would she ever learn…

  Not anytime soon, apparently. Once she’d choked down the rush of tears, she tucked the photo carefully back into the envelope instead of tossing it into the nearest trash can. And despite her vows to the contrary, at two o’clock the next afternoon, she would be walking up the worn wooden steps to the Smoke Shack.

  Pathetic as it might be, she couldn’t stop settling for whatever tiny pieces of himself Hank wanted to give her. But as she gazed out over the empty arena, a new resolve stiffened her spine. Having the freedom to do what she pleased wasn’t enough. Real cowgirls—real women—like Violet Jacobs, Shawnee Pickett, and Melanie Brookman didn’t wait for championships to fall in their laps. They grabbed life by the scruff of the neck, gave it a shake, and told it exactly what they wanted.

  From this point forward, Grace was going to be that kind of woman. And if she ever got a real shot at Hank, there would be no doubt in his mind that she was interested in more than his autograph.

  Chapter 1

  Blackfeet Nation, Northern Montana

  Seven years later

  Considering how many times the old bat had threatened to shoot him, Hank was surprised to find a lump in his throat as he cradled Norma’s cheap ceramic urn. It had been only a week since she’d come knocking on his door in the wee hours, woken by a blinding headache, her words so slurred that at first he’d assumed she was drunk.

  At least the stroke had taken her fast. Norma only had two wishes—the primary being to live out her days in the decrepit camp trailer that moldered in a clearing beside St. Mary’s River.

  And the second…

  A bitter fall wind whipped straight, dark hair into Hank’s eyes as he pried the lid off the urn and held it aloft, tipping it so the ashes swirled into the bright, hard blue of the Montana sky.

  He was a long way from Texas. An eternity from the thoughtless boy he’d been for far too long—a string of increasingly bad choices that had plummeted him from the highest of highs to unspeakable lows, until he’d bottomed out here, in a squatter’s camp on the northern edge of the Blackfeet Nation, with a murderous old hermit for company.

  And of course Bing—part-time rodeo secretary, full-time counselor, and guardian angel of lost cowboys—hovering over him, guiding him toward the light. When he’d woken up in a hospital in Yakima with no money, no insurance, and no future to speak of, Bing had been there to scrape up the pieces, bring them here, and help him patch the wreckage into something resembling a man.

  She leaned into his side now, hunching deeper into her puffy coat, and tilted her head to watch the ashes disappear. “The way it’s blowing today, she’ll be scattered from here to the Sweetgrass Hills.”

  Hank tucked the urn under one arm and Bing under the other. “As long as some of her lands on Brantley’s place. Figures Norma would want to trespass on his pasture for eternity.”

  “My kind of woman.” With his spare frame braced against the elements, Gil Sanchez could have been rooted in this landscape, even hundreds of miles north of his Navajo mother’s homeland. He was the sole point of contact with Hank’s former life. Cynical, sarcastic, borderline antisocial: Gil was the last member of the tight-knit Earnest, Texas, rodeo community that anyone would have expected to show up in the wilds of Montana and declare himself Hank’s sponsor.

  “I’m not an addict,” Hank had pointed out. Unlike Gil, who no longer made a secret of his struggles with prescription pain meds. “And you don’t even like me.”

  Gil just shrugged. “I know worse people. And one of the founding principles of Fucked-Up Anonymous is that after someone helps pry your head out of your ass, you’re supposed to pay it forward. I figure you’re a prime candidate. Brownie points for me with the friends and family, and you’re too far away to stagger in and puke on my floor when you backslide.”

  “I’m not a drunk either.”

  “But you’re still fucked up.”

  There was no arguing with that.

  A year and a half later, here they were, on the high point of a ridge that ran parallel to and only a mile from the jagged east face of the Rockies—Where the mountains meet the plains, according to the local tourism slogan, and only a few miles from where the United States met Canada.

  They observed the traditional moment of silence, just the three of them to witness this final step in a mostly uphill ninety-two-year journey—from birth to death, ashes to dust.

  Then Bing slapped her gloved hands together. “Well, that’s that. Let’s go. I guarantee Norma wouldn’t have froze her ass off for me.”

  They scrambled down a cow path, through the brush and stunted aspens to the gravel road where Bing had left her pickup. As Gil climbed into the back seat, a gust slammed against the door, nearly mashing his leg before he could yank it out of the way.

  He swore with the eloquence of a man who practiced regularly. “I’ll never bitch about the West Texas wind again.”

  That’d be the day. For Gil, cursing verged on a recreational activity.

  Silence reigned as they wound down off the ridge. Bing stopped at the bottom of the hill to wait for a pickup and trailer to pull out onto the main road, hauling off the last of Norma’s mangy bunch of cows. The proceeds of their sale would be used to offset the cost of her cremation. As the rig rolled away, her old piebald gelding gazed mournfully out through the back gate.

  That damn lump swelled in Hank’s throat again.

  Stupid, lazy nag. Hank should be glad to see the last of him. And those wild-ass cows. And the impenetrable tangle of brush where they’d lik
ed to hide, making Hank long for his dad’s good cowdog, Mabel.

  He’d never been homesick, exactly. In the bone-chilling cold of the endless Montana nights, there’d been only a handful of things he’d craved with a pure, physical ache. The silk of Mabel’s coat between his fingers. The sweltering southern heat. A bellyful of Smoke Shack barbecue.

  And Grace.

  The list was by no means in order of importance, but Mabel got priority because Hank knew if he reached out to her, she wouldn’t rip his hand off. But Grace…

  She’d been foolish enough to let herself get tangled up in his fall. Of all the things he regretted—and there were many—hurting Grace, betraying their friendship, ranked pretty damn high.

  Bing followed the pair of ruts down to Norma’s clearing, her pickup sloshing through puddles fed by water oozing from snowbanks that clung along the lip of the hill, icy remnants of an October blizzard. When the pickup finally rocked to a stop, Hank purposely avoided soaking up the view. Fall had stripped the squatter’s camp down to its ugly bones—revealing every scrap of discarded metal in the flattened brown grass, turning the trees to tortured skeletons, deformed by wind and snow.

  He wanted to remember it rippling and green, with sunlight flickering through the aspen leaves and wildflowers bobbing in the ever-present breeze. His beautiful self-imposed prison—and now he was being paroled before his rehabilitation was complete.

  When Norma had parked her ancient travel trailer on this scrap of land, most everyone had shrugged. It was tribal property, she was an enrolled member, and if they chased her out they’d just have to put her somewhere else. With the old woman gone, the council had let Hank know he was expected to vacate the premises.

  “You need help grabbing your stuff?” Bing asked, even though she knew better.

  “No. I’ve got it.” Hank pushed his door open and went to gather what was left of his life.