by Roxie Noir
“When you’re a big star you ought to buy your own double-wide,” he says, still grinning. “Maybe get a house that don’t feel like it’s gonna fall over in a high wind.”
We’re leaning up against the barrier, and in the arena in front of us is a whole team of eight-year-olds, riding small horses around, fully decked out in their cowboy best as the announcer tells us all their names. Apparently these kids have won some kind of civic award from school, and their reward is riding a horse around in front of all these cheering people.
There’s a country song playing loud, there’s horses and cowboys and even a couple cowgirls, and out of the blue it gets me, just like it does every time.
It’s the feeling that I’m home now. That I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to do.
The music is cheesy and the announcer isn’t really funny, but I remember the first time I rode in a rodeo. I was even younger than these kids, sheep riding at the Converse County Fair back home in Wyoming.
I barely remember my first kiss, but that first ride is crystal clear, even now. Clutching the wool on the back of some old, cranky ewe. The gate opening and the sheep jogging out, me clinging to its back for all I was worth. The sheep never got above a trot, and I only lasted four seconds before I fell off anyway, but even at that tender age I was hooked.
Rodeo’s all I’ve ever wanted to do since. There just ain’t nothin’ else like it.
The kids on horses exit. The announcer talks for a minute about one of the sponsors, Ford trucks, and then the rodeo queen comes out, a smiling blond eighteen-year-old in full cowgirl regalia, rhinestone hat included.
She takes a circuit, followed by all the girls who wanted to be queen but lost, sitting proud on their big horses.
It goes on like that, people entering and exiting, girl scouts and boy scouts and the high school rodeo team, all that small-town America stuff that I grew up with and still love. I’m a country boy at heart. I like horses and big trucks and pretty girls and the smell of dirt. I can’t help it.
Speaking of pretty girls, I’ve been scanning for Mae but I haven’t seen her yet. I thought she’d be here somewhere, but maybe she decided to skip this and get a good night’s sleep. There’s no real sports happening right now, just the showy stuff.
Then Raylan nudges me and cocks his head at the announcer’s platform, on metal legs about fifteen feet above the ground, over the bucking chutes. On it is a blond woman wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a camera up to her face.
“That the photographer?” he asks, looking at up her.
She takes the camera away from her face, looks at the back, and adjusts something very carefully, a look of total concentration on her face.
“Yeah, that’s Mae,” I say.
“You failed to mention that she was a pretty young thing,” he says, and gives me a joking look. “From the way you talked about her, I thought she was practically an ogre.”
Something tightens in my chest, something unpleasant and ugly. I brush it away and shrug.
“You know now,” I say. “Besides, she’s working. Good luck.”
Raylan just laughs, like he’s not fooled at all.
“She turn you down?” he teases. “You’re sore about something.”
“Not in so many words,” I say. “I got a talking to from Darlene about her.”
“When has that ever stopped you?”
I look at Mae again. Now she’s standing on the platform. It’s got a railing around it, but the platform’s not too big and the railing doesn’t look that sturdy.
“Darlene made a good point about sleeping with the person whose article is gonna introduce you to bankers in Connecticut,” I admit.
“You’re not half as dumb as you act, you know,” Raylan says.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” I ask, grinning. “I’m plenty dumb. If I had any sense I’d have become a firefighter or a coal miner or some other safe occupation. I can pass one girl up. It ain’t like I’m hurting for pussy.”
He stops looking at Mae and sweeps his eyes around the grandstand, grinning.
“That’s God’s own truth,” he says. “Ain’t none of us hurting for pussy.”
Mae’s standing next to a guy in a suit and bolo tie, showing him something on her camera. As I watch, she slips the strap from around her neck, moving the camera so he can see it better as she points to something on the back of it.
In the arena, some teenagers are doing a cattle-roping exhibition, lassoing cows, knocking them over and tying their legs together. They’re not quite skilled enough to make it look effortless, but they’re pretty good.
They let the cow back into the chute. The next one opens.
Just as the steer bolts out, there’s a commotion on the platform above, arms waving.
Something falls into the sand about thirty feet from where we’re standing, something black and a little boxy. Raylan and I both watch it for a moment, frowning. Then I realize what it is.
It’s Mae’s camera.
Up above, she’s got both her hands over her mouth, as the steer and the cowboys chasing him tear around the arena, not paying her or it any mind at all.
The steer corners and then doubles back. A lasso falls into the sand behind it, and now the steer is bearing down on Mae’s camera.
I vault over the barrier and run for it.
7
Mae
This platform isn’t big enough for all the people up here, and it sways a little bit every time anyone new walks on or off. It’s unnerving, so I just try to keep my feet as I show the marketing guy from Ford the pictures I’ve been taking, removing the strap from around my neck so he can see a little better.
“That’s a good shot,” he says, looking at a photo of a kid flying off the back of a sheep.
“Thanks,” I say. “The trick is to get it right when they’re falling off.”
He laughs.
The platform sways again, and almost in slow motion, the marketing guy sways too. Then he stumbles, throwing his arms out to catch himself, but instead he knocks into me.
My camera flies out of my hands and goes off the platform, and I think time stops as it falls. My heart collapses in on itself.
Even through the noise of the rodeo, I swear I hear a soul-crushing crunch as it hits the ground.
I hit the platform floor on my knees, gripping the edge, and watch the cattle chute gate swing open. A steer busts out of it and gallops around the arena, followed by two cowboys, my camera just sitting there, ready to get trampled.
I feel nauseous, my head spinning. The guy who bumped me is saying something, but the blood is roaring through my ears because I just dropped five thousand dollars’ worth of equipment and it’s about to get smashed into smithereens.
Just rope it over there, I think. Just stay on that side, and then I can go down there and get it back, please, God, please...
The steer makes a sudden turn. A lasso misses, and now he’s headed back toward us from the opposite side of the arena. I can’t even breathe. I can’t believe how stupid I am.
There’s a quick flash of motion down below.
Someone vaults over the barrier, lands on his feet, stumbles, and then runs hell-for-leather for my camera, his hat covering his face.
My fingertips go cold.
What is he doing, I think.
“Don’t!” I shout uselessly. “Get out of there!”
Not that anyone can hear me.
Please, God, don’t let this idiot die to get my camera back, I think.
I feel lightheaded.
The steer’s bearing down. It’s going straight for my camera and this moron trying to grab it, galloping and snorting. I’m gripping the railing around the platform so hard my hands are white, holding my breath.
I don’t want to watch someone get trampled, but my eyes won’t shut. He’s feet away, the steer still coming on, and then in one quick motion he bends down, his hat falls off, he grabs the camera by the strap, and
then he keeps going, a split second before the steer tramples that exact spot.
Then he leaps onto the gate of the bucking chute right below us. The steer blows past, the two cowboys chasing after it, both of them hollering at the top of their lungs. The guy who saved my camera waves at them and looks up at me.
It’s Jackson.
He’s grinning like he just won the lottery. People start cheering, and he gives the grandstands a wave too.
He’s insane, I think. Jackson Cody is an actual lunatic with a death wish.
The adrenaline is still rattling through my veins, and I feel shaky as I stand up, getting dizzy for a moment. My heart’s pounding in my chest, and I barely hear the guy behind me apologizing as I head for the aluminum steps down to ground level, everyone watching me.
When I get there Jackson’s standing just this side of the bucking chutes, blowing sand off my camera like it’s a seashell he found at the beach. Even the way he stands has this cocksure swagger to it, like he’s absolutely confident of everything he does, like the world revolves around him.
A knot tightens in my stomach, because I can feel people looking at me, looking at us. Maybe he’s not famous famous, but everyone in this arena right now knows who he is, and he just risked his life to save some idiot’s camera.
I walk over, still shaking, my heart beating wildly. He looks up at me and grins, the camera in his hands.
“You drop something?” he asks.
“What were you doing?” I say. “That thing almost trampled you to death!”
Jackson laughs.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“You can’t just do that,” I say, suddenly angry. “What if you’d gotten run over? Then it’s my fault you’re dead, because I dropped my camera.”
“Nobody’s gonna put you on trial, darlin’,” he says. “I’m not known for doing things I don’t want to.”
“Are you known for being a complete and utter idiot?” I ask, my voice pitching a little higher.
I’m not being very nice, but the last thing I want is Jackson Cody’s blood on my hands. People are still looking at us. If I caused his death somehow I’d probably get lynched.
“I’m a professional bull rider,” he says, his voice teasing. “Being a complete and utter idiot is all I’m known for.”
He steps closer to me and holds the camera out. I feel eighteen again. There’s some deep, primal part of me that still likes this: the swagger, cockiness, the sheer enthusiasm for danger.
He just risked his life for a camera. My camera. It’s stupid and reckless and macho in the very worst way, but God help me, it’s still making my insides flutter and I hate myself for it.
“I’m not known for causing needless deaths,” I say. “Would you mind if we kept it that way?”
I take the camera and our hands touch, but he doesn’t let it go.
“You got a good grip on it?” he asks, teasing, those hazel eyes looking down at me like we’re alone in this arena of a thousand.
“I can handle it,” I say.
He slides his fingers over mine as he lets go, and they’re rough and calloused, hands used to farm work and heavy labor.
I slip the strap back over my neck and look down at the camera, praying it’s not too broken from the fall, but Jackson doesn’t leave, he just stands there in front of me.
“How busted is it?” he asks.
I hit the power button and hold my breath. The screen comes on, though the picture is blurry.
I exhale.
“Not as busted as it could be,” I say.
Something’s broken for sure, but the camera’s in one piece, not a thousand.
Still, I can’t believe what an idiot I am.
“Can you fix it?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of himself and looking down at it like he’s examining a truck engine.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably not, but I’ve got a backup camera. This one’s better, but I’m not totally screwed.”
“Good,” he says. “I was afraid my pretty mug might not make Sports Weekly.”
“So that’s why you risked your own hide to get this thing back?” I say.
“My hide?” he says, and laughs. “You’ve been around cowboys too much already, darlin’.”
Crap.
I’ve mostly shed the West Texas twang I grew up with. Back in New York, when I tell people where I’m from, they’re usually surprised.
But here, where everyone talks like this? I can practically feel my accent elbowing its way back into my speech.
“Please don’t call me darlin’,” I say, still looking down at the camera.
“It’s just a nickname,” he says.
“I’ve got a real name,” I say, and finally look up at him, into his laughing eyes. “It’s Mae.”
“You sure Mae’s not a nickname?” he asks. “It’s awful short is all.”
My stomach twists and I narrow my eyes.
Does he remember?
“Nope,” I say. “Mae’s what’s on my birth certificate.”
Technically, it’s true.
“All right, Mae,” he says, and then someone calls his name.
We both look at another guy waving Jackson’s hat in the air. One side of it’s a little crushed, but it could be in worse shape.
Jackson nods, then looks back at me.
“We’re gettin’ drinks at Betty’s Lounge when this is over,” he says. “You should come by. There ought to be some good photo opportunities. And if we ask real nice, they’ll turn on the karaoke machine.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Have some fun for once, darlin’,” he says, and winks at me.
Then he walks away before I can even open my mouth to protest, and I watch him go.
Heads turn after him — male, female, it doesn’t matter. He nods at two girls, both dressed up in their rodeo finest, and says something. They both burst into giggles once he passes, and I feel a pang of solidarity with them. No matter how prickly I am to Jackson on the outside, deep down, I turn to jello when he looks at me.
I wish my camera weren’t broken, because this could be a good shot: a cowboy walks away, heads turn after him.
Then he turns a corner and I feel invisible again, like I fade into the background, and I take a deep breath of relief.
This is how I prefer things. I’m behind the camera, after all.
When the rodeo’s over for the night, Bruce and I hold a quick conference on the way back to the motel. I don’t want to talk about dropping my camera, but he saw the whole thing, of course. Thankfully he’s nice enough not to lecture me.
“You brought a backup, right?” Bruce asks.
“Of course,” I say.
He nods, and we move on.
We go over the plan for the next day — a parade, barrel racing, a bunch of roping events — and then we’re at the motel.
“I think I’ll turn in,” he says. “I’m bushed. You?”
I hesitate.
“I heard all the cowboys are going to a bar to celebrate,” I say.
Bruce raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.
“I might go down and document a little,” I say. “Get some flavor for the article.”
“If you’re not too tired, it’s a good idea,” he says. “Oh, to be young again and able to stay up all night. Have a good time.”
I parallel park our small white rental car right in front of Betty’s Lounge, amazed at the sheer amount of street parking that’s available here.
I could park anywhere, in front of whatever store I want. I don’t even own a car in New York, but I’m familiar with the nightmare of trying to find a parking spot. In Kettle, Oklahoma, I’ve got my pick.
Bettty’s is a pretty standard bar, and everything about it screams regular America: the neon beer signs in the window, the men wearing jeans and baseball caps at the bar, the news on the TV over the bar. As soon as I walk in I hear a shout go up and look over to the right, where a group of co
wboys are sitting around on some couches around tables and doing shots.
Jackson’s in the middle, and he puts the shot glass down on the table, shakes his head from side to side, and shouts, “Yeah!”
There’s already a girl next to him, wearing tiny cutoff shorts and a plaid shirt even in November, smiling up at him and laughing.
You’re here for flavor, I think. This is flavor.
I get a good grip on my camera and walk toward them.
8
Jackson
I’ve only had three shots of tequila but I’m starting to get buzzed. They keep showing up and so I keep doing them, and I’ll probably keep going until they stop coming or I can’t do another one.
There’s a cute blonde on my left and a cute girl with golden-brown hair on my right, and every time I say something they both laugh, so that’s good. Betty’s is filling up, even though it’s still only nine-thirty.
I don’t think Mae’s gonna show up, and the disappointment chafes at me like a stiff tag in a new shirt, even though I try to ignore it. I shouldn’t have even invited her in the first place, so it serves me right.
Betty herself comes over. She’s in her forties, her hair just going gray, and she brings a pitcher of beer and a slew of pint glasses.
“On the house,” she says, setting it all on a table. “Y’all are good for business, you know.”
Raylan laughs.
“I’ll drink to that,” he says.
“I know you will,” Betty says, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ll drink plenty to that.”
“Cheers,” Raylan says. He pours himself a beer, clinks it against the pitcher, and then drinks half of it.
“You ladies want some?” I ask the girls on my left and right.
“Sure!” says Left.
“I’d love some,” says Right.
I’m a gentleman, so I pour their drinks before I pour my own. Someone’s shouting something a couple feet away, and I hear the clink of shot glasses again. People hoot. Another girl comes and sits next to Raylan.