All's Fair

by Suzie Quint

  "Georgia? That you?"

  She turned to see Terry Ainsley, another bull rider and one of Sol's sometimes travel buddies, eyeing her.

  The fire of her anger still burned hot, but Terry just laughed. "What's Sol done this time?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "You might be surprised what I'd believe about ol' Sol. He's more fun on the road than a horse trailer full of buckle bunnies. Well, maybe not that much fun. But damned close."

  "I need to kill him, Terry."

  "I can see that, honey. Can it wait 'til after he's rode?"

  "I don't want to wait." She wanted to do it now while she could still lay claim to the crime-of-passion defense.

  "I see that, too." He stood there, looking at her until she started fidgeting. “This is the long round, you know. If he does good, he’ll be in the money. You don’t want to ruin that. You kill him now, the winnin's won't be part of the estate.”

  Georgia took a deep breath. “Can I at least maim him?”

  Terry laughed.

  “Okay. I just need to talk to him.”

  “Yell at him you mean.”

  “Well, yeah. Talk at high volume.”

  Terry did a lousy job of suppressing his grin. Looking over her head, he said, "I'm taking her back, Jimmy. If anyone gives you heat, tell 'em they can talk to me."

  She could tell Jimmy wanted to argue, but he didn't have the balls to challenge Terry.

  The musky animal smell grew sharper as they passed into the rodeo underbelly. Terry guided her to where the bull riders prepared.

  She heard Sol before she saw him. “I swear to God, the doofus believed every word. He wasn’t even that hard to convince.”

  Georgia extended her arm, her hand catching Terry mid-chest, forcing him to stop. She had to hear this. According to Mike, before he’d kissed her off—kissing being merely a metaphor since he had cringed from even holding her hand after the carousel ride—Sol had told him she’d had certain “enhancements.” She suspected she wasn’t getting the whole story, but Mike had sworn that was everything. Or at least the gist of it.

  “Wow. She must be a real bowser if he bought that.”

  “Hell, no,” another voice said. “I’ve seen Sol’s ex. This guy must be dumb as a stump to believe she was ever a man.”

  Georgia gasped. Sol had said she’d been a man? She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. A red haze settled in front of her eyes.

  “I’m going to kill him,” she muttered and started forward.

  Arms encircled her from behind, lifting her off the ground. Near her ear, Terry yelled, “Sol! Run!”

  She kicked and screamed, but Terry hung on. Her last glimpse was of Sol turning toward her, his gray eyes wide with shock, before Terry marched back toward the entrance with Georgia’s feet kicking his shins. He dumped her as soon as she was outside the restricted area.

  Georgia dodged him, trying to get back inside, but the gatekeeper stepped into her way. God, she hated little men with Napoleon complexes. Terry grabbed her around the waist and swung her around before she could mow the pipsqueak down.

  "That's enough, Georgia." She turned toward him, still determined to get back to Sol. Terry's face was set in stern lines, but the hint of laughter in his eyes made her want to add him to her hit list. "You can deal with Sol after his ride. Maybe you'll calm down by then."

  "Don't count on it," Georgia said.

  "Oh, I won't. But you're still gonna to have to wait."

  Terry wasn't going to bend on this. Georgia bit down on her rage, and straightened her shirt. Terry was smart enough not to laugh out loud at her attempt to make a dignified exit. She made her way into the bleacher seating and picked a spot to wait. Of course, with the way her luck was going, she sat within listening distance of two guys who seemed to know all about rough stock.

  It wasn’t a sport she enjoyed. If she’d followed the rankings, she wouldn’t be so bored between rides, but for the eight seconds or so each ride lasted, she longed for that boredom. Every year, riders were seriously injured. Some never walked again. A few died. Every year.

  Yes, other sports had fatalities, but Sol didn’t participate in those sports. He rode bulls, and so Georgia could hardly stand to watch. Every time someone was hurt, the thought burst into her head, what if it were Sol?

  She let her ire distract her, replaying what she’d heard, letting it feed her temper. Then she replayed the awkward good-bye with Mike, and her anger grew hotter. She hoped the bull would dump Sol on his head. What an ass.

  The barrel racing ended and the rodeo clowns came out to amuse the crowd while they got the first bulls in the chutes.

  The guys behind her started talking about the bulls that were there. “You got the list?” one asked the other.

  As Georgia dug into her bag for something to fan the heat away from her face, she heard the crackle of paper being unfolded. They were silent as they presumably scanned it.

  “There’s gonna be some good rides tonight.”

  “You jealous, Murph?” the other man asked.

  “Hell, yeah. I’d kill to be able to ride again. ‘Specially a bull like Colonel Mustard.”

  Georgia glanced back. The two men looked like they were in their forties—well past a bull rider’s prime. The hands of the one who missed riding rested on the top of a polished brown cane.

  “Yeah, Colonel Mustard’s a pretty rank bull,” his friend agreed. “You can make a good score on a bull like that. If you can stay on.”

  "Who drew him?"

  "Let's see . . . Sol McKnight."

  Georgia's heart tap danced in her chest. Half the score in bull riding came from how the bull performed, so a rank bull was a potential winning ticket. Her lips tightened into a grim line. Sol, she was sure, was delighted to have drawn the bull.

  "I've seen him ride," the crippled ex-bull rider said. "He could do real well."

  Or he could break his fool neck.

  It was a night of good karma. Some of the riders got bucked off, but most made the eight-second buzzer. No one got hurt, and Georgia's stomach slowly settled. Sol would be fine. At least, until she got her hands on him.

  Sol was the next-to-last rider. She saw him ease his lanky frame into the chute. His head was lowered, his hat hiding his face as he focused on the animal beneath him. Terry leaned over the side of the chute, pulling Sol's bull rope tight. Thirty seconds later, the gate was thrown open, and a cream-colored bull surged out with Sol on his back.

  Georgia’s stomach rolled over.

  Eight seconds was no time at all, and yet watching Sol on the back of the bull, his left arm swinging over his head, counterbalancing the jerks and twists of the bull’s motion, it stretched into an eternity. Oddly enough, that eternity didn’t play out in slow motion. The bull kicked and spun until Georgia felt dizzy. Sol stuck like a burr to the animal's back.

  An eon later, the buzzer blared and the crowd applauded. It wasn't enough to make Georgia release her breath. Sol was still out there. She'd never quite figured out how the cowboys dismounted. One second, Sol was on the bull's back; the next, his boots were planted on the ground. His center of balance was too far back though, and he landed on his butt, his back to the bull. Colonel Mustard spun, his horn cracking against Sol's skull. The impact knocked Sol onto his side.

  “Oh, God!”

  Georgia was on her feet, hands clasped over her mouth. She stood frozen as the bullfighter-clowns surged forward. Sol's fellow bull riders leaped into the arena. They raced to Sol, heedless of the danger, trusting the bullfighters to draw off the bull.

  He had curled into a ball, hands and arms covering his head and neck. The bull butted his rock-hard head against Sol's shoulder, plowing into him with enough force to scoot Sol across the ground.

  “Oh God, oh God, ohGod, ogod, ogodogodogod . . .” She barely breathed the words, repeating them until they ran together and lost all meaning.

  One of the bullfighters grabbed a horn and yanked.
The bull turned and went after him, and for a second, Sol was under Colonel Mustard's belly. Georgia couldn't tell if the bull stepped on him or not.

  As soon as he was clear, the cowboys converged on Sol, blocking her view.

  She wanted to be down there—needed to be down there—but she couldn’t move. Her feet might as well have been nailed to the floor, her legs cast of marble or bronze, but her knees seemed made of water and threatened to collapse out from under her. Then she was sidestepping out of the row so quickly she was in danger of tripping over her own feet.

  The crowd was still thick around Sol when she reached the arena level. She was about to clamber over the railing when Sol got to his feet. The crowd broke into applause, and the announcer said something, but Georgia barely heard it over the blood pounding in her ears. Her hands wrapped tight around the top rail, her breath coming in little gasps.

  The cowboys rallied around Sol, but when he hobbled toward the gate that led to the back, only Terry stayed with him. Rodeo cowboys were a macho bunch. As long as Sol didn't need a stretcher, they'd downplay any concern they felt.

  Georgia wasn't nearly as complacent.

  She'd never had what it took to be a good rodeo wife.

  The gatekeeper didn't stand a chance. When he tried to stop her, she glared at him but didn't slow down. He seemed to sense that she wouldn't have a qualm about running over him, grinding him into the dirt, and leaving his lifeless body for the vultures. He stepped aside at the last second.

  For all her hurry, she had to stop once she made it through. She wasn't familiar enough with the rodeo's underpinnigs to know where to go. They would have taken Sol to the first aid station, but where was that?

  A moment later, she caught sight of Terry coming toward her. Thank God.

  "How is he?"

  "I reckon he's gonna live. But he ain't pretty like he used to be."

  Georgia wanted to slap him for sounding so off-hand, but that was the way these guys were. She should be comforted. If he'd sounded worried, it would only be because Sol was either dying or already dead.

  But there was a lot of room between that and Sol being okay, and she wasn't going to stop worrying until she saw him for herself.

  "What's the doctor say?"

  "Sol's with him now."

  Once again, she heard her ex-husband before she saw him.

  "I'm fine."

  She'd know that growl anywhere. Whether he was fine or not, Sol was certainly annoyed.

  Which meant he was fine.

  Or at least not in danger of dying in the next two minutes.

  All of her earlier anger came rushing back, turbocharged by the worry of the past few minutes.

  She stepped into the room, prepared to finish what the bull had started, when the doctor spoke. "Maybe you're fine, and maybe you aren't. Concussions can be tricky things. I'd like to send you to the hospital—"

  Sol sat on the examination table, facing away from her, but she saw him wave a dismissive hand. "I ain't goin' to no hospital."

  Apparently, the doctor was no more surprised by his refusal than Georgia was, because with only the slightest pause, he said, "I'll let you go if you have someone who can keep an eye on you tonight."

  From behind her, Terry said, "We'll take care of him, Doc."

  Georgia stepped to the side, distancing herself from Terry's "we."

  The doctor looked Terry up and down. "'We' being bull riders?"

  "Yup."

  The doctor made a disparaging noise. "Yeah, and when he complains of a headache, one of you will give him a beer. Or a shot of whiskey." He shook his head. "That's not what he needs." His gaze landed on Georgia. “How about you?”

  “Me?” Georgia squeaked.

  Sol twisted around.

  Georgia gasped. He had a nasty lump just below his right temple that was already a dark purple-blue and nearly as big as her palm. His jaw was scrapped raw as well and there was a trace of fresh blood under his nose.

  "Oh, hell no." Sol glowered.

  She'd been about to beg off, but the force of his refusal irked her. "Why the hell not?"

  "Coz I want to survive the night."

  "You should have thought about that before you started telling lies about me."

  "I can't help it that your boyfriend's dumber'n a box of rocks."

  "Enough," the doctor said.

  Georgia felt heat rise in her face.

  "Is there anyone else you could draft?" Doc asked Sol.

  "I don't need a babysitter," Sol said. "I'm fine."

  Calling Sol stubborn was like calling an outhouse aromatic. It just didn't quite capture how intensely frustrating he could be when he dug his heels in like he was gearing up to do. She didn't want him going off on his own to die like a wild dog. How would she ever explain that to his daughter?

  "I'll take care of him." She fought the urge to look behind her for someone to blame the words on.

  ###

  "He'll probably have a headache. He can take Tylenol, but no aspirin or other pain killers. And he may have trouble with his concentration, memory, judgment, balance and coordination." As she listened to his instructions, Georgia read the list of things to watch for that doc had given her.

  "How long do I need to monitor him?"

  "Twelve hours at least." He glanced at Sol who was struggling into his shirt. "Twenty-four, if he'll let you.

  "Going to sleep is okay, but I want you to wake him up every two or three hours for at least the first twelve. Ask him a few simple questions. Watch for any changes in his appearance or behavior."

  "So if he starts acting like a reasonable human being, I should worry." Terry and the doctor laughed. Sol scowled.

  The written symptoms in her hand also mentioned increased irritability. That would be tougher to identify.

  "And Sol—" Doc said.

  Sol turned around.

  "No alcohol."

  The sky had darkened and the wind was gusting by the time they left the rodeo grounds. The heat was still oppressive, but the air had the heavy feeling of an impending storm.

  They drove to the cheap motel where Sol had planned to spend the night, so he could get his stuff. While Georgia waited in the car, a bolt of lightning split the sky. Finally, she thought. This would break the heat spell that had everyone so cranky.

  The first, fat raindrops hit the windshield as Sol walked out of the motel room, an old battered and shapeless bag in one hand.

  He threw it in the backseat of her Kia then got in the passenger side only to scowl out the window at the rain. Lightning flashed in the distance.

  They didn't speak at all on the drive to Georgia's apartment.

  Walking in the door, Georgia decided to let go of her anger. They were going to be together for the next ten hours or so, and she didn't want to be miserable the whole time. She couldn't let it go though without saying something, but she could try to keep it light. “You’re at my mercy now,” she said as she hung up her keys.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t sound worried enough to suit Georgia.

  “Do you think you’re not going to have to pay for what you told Mike?”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Her good intentions faded. The man was so damned arrogant.

  “I was all set to kill you, you know.”

  “I know. But that was then. This is now.”

  “You think I won’t?”

  “I know you won’t.”

  Georgia's temper spiked. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  “Look, Georgie, you—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Okay. But you won’t kill me in cold blood. In the heat of passion, maybe. But in cold blood? No way. You wouldn’t do that to Eden.”

  Damn him. She hated how hard it was to bluff a man who wasn’t afraid to get on the back of a one-ton animal with horns and a short fuse.

  "You look like crap, you know."

  Sol lifted his hand to his bruised temple. "I know."

&
nbsp; "Maybe you should think of Eden once in a while."

  "I'm always thinking about Eden."

  "You weren't thinking about Eden when you told Mike all that crap about me." Or when he was getting on the back of that bull.

  "Sure I was. I was thinking how Eden didn't need some muscle-bound doofus for a step-dad."

  Georgia gritted her teeth. This wasn't the first time Sol had submarined her love life; it was just the most offensive. And he always claimed he did it for Eden.

  "So where is Eden?"

  She wanted to take offense to his question, to act as though he'd impugned her mothering skills, but Sol had told her too many times what a good mother she was for it to take hold. "She's spending the night with a friend."

  The corners of Sol's mouth turned up in a smug smile.

  "Oh, no. Don't even think that."

  "Think what?"

  "That you can talk your way into my bed."

  "I would never do anything you don't want me to."

  Yeah. Right. But she knew from experience that he could make dumb ideas sound like good ones. That's how they'd ended up married right out of high school.

  Sol wandered over to the couch. He fell more than sat on it, his head falling back and his eyes closing. Pain etched his face, making him look tired. Georgia experienced a reverse déjà vu moment where she could see how Sol would look as an old man with his face lined and creased by life, his dark hair salted with gray.

  He would still be handsome in a craggy way, his face full of character, the way his dad's was.

  "Don't get comfortable there."

  He opened one eye—the one on the bruised side of his face—and hiked an eyebrow at her.

  "You don't need to sleep on the couch when Eden's bed is empty."

  "Right." He swayed when he stood up. Before Georgia could reach him, he stumbled backward half a step and stabilized.

  "Dizzy?" she asked. Trouble walking was on the list.

  "Just stood up too quick."

  Georgia shook her head. Sol's mantra: never admit to weakness.

  ###

  The rain still fell, punctuated now and then by thunder and lightning. With Sol in Eden's room, Georgia felt like she could relax for the first time since she'd seen him at the carnival. She turned off the air conditioning and opened a window in her room. The cool air made her shiver, but it was a welcome relief from the heat. The smell of the rain washed away the last of her anger at Sol.