Handful of Sky

by Cates, Tory

  Shallie nodded a hasty good-bye to the rodeo committeeman and ran as fast as her boots would allow across the spongy earth of the arena. She scrambled up the metal gates leading to the catwalk that ran behind the chute and overlooked a dusty sea of denim and leather churned up by a dozen bareback riders preparing for their event.

  In the center of the chaos of cowboys rifling through the canvas duffel bags containing their gear, helping one another to pin contestant numbers onto the backs of shirts, and testing their rigging, was one cowboy limbering up. He was seated on the dusty ground, his legs angled out from him. As he bent his long torso forward, the muscles of his shoulders swelled and strained against the tight cloth of his yoke-back shirt in a way that caused her breath to catch. He stretched still more, grabbing a polished boot with both his hands and pulling himself down even farther to limber the powerful muscles in his thighs. Shallie couldn’t see the cowboy’s face but noticed a knot of scar tissue at the base of the middle finger on his right hand.

  Shallie watched the almost ritualized movements with satisfaction. This was the one single moment she liked best. There was something about the quiet intensity of the contestants as they prepared for their few seconds in the arena that made her feel she knew what the director of a ballet, the producer of a play, went through in those final backstage moments before the curtain went up. Being a rodeo contractor wasn’t so terribly different. Without her and the stock she provided, this drama between man and beast couldn’t be played out.

  As she turned from the scene a knot of tension tightened her nerves. Hoskins and Cahill were stretched out in a patch of shade beneath the bleachers, finishing off both a cigarette and their dissection of her.

  “Wade, Pecos,” she called, capturing their unwilling attention. “Get those broncs unloaded. We’re here to put on a rodeo.” Her tone held no room for argument. The pair lethargically dragged themselves up and moved toward the horse trailer.

  Shallie had to work twice as hard as her hired hands to compensate for their deliberately sluggish pace. Her anger seemed to fuel the determination that had driven her for the past two years: She would be taken seriously in the world of rodeo. She wasn’t going to be defeated by a couple of Neanderthals like Hoskins and Cahill just because they had trouble taking orders from a woman. Working from the list Mr. Eckles had given her, Shallie separated out the broncs that were slated for the first go-round.

  “Hoskins,” she called out as she drove the fractious horses from the truck down to the bucking chutes, “get the gate on six.” With an exaggerated slowness, the beer-bellied hand crawled up on the catwalk and manned the sliding metal gate that partitioned off the last enclosure. Shallie drove a snorting dun-colored bronc down the metal-sided aisle. Pecos stood above the chutes on the catwalk yelling until the dun reached the end, then Wade lowered the gate to trap him. The air filled with the sound of steel gates clanging, horses snorting, rough cries, and dust as they repeated the same procedure until each of the six chute divisions held a bareback horse raring to be turned loose.

  By the time Shallie had gotten the bareback broncs sorted out and ready for the first event, the stands were filled. Nervousness hung in the air as thick as ozone behind the chutes. She looked into the contestants’ faces and saw nothing there except iron concentration as they set their minds to the task at hand. The public-address system crackled to life and the rodeo announcer began his spiel.

  “Welcome, folks, to our thirty-eighth annual Rodeo and Cowboy Reunion. As you know, the rodeo is held each year at this time to give all our local hands a chance to show their stuff and pick up a little of that prize money. This year, for the fifth year in a row, stock is being furnished by the Double L Rodeo Contracting Company out of Mountain View, New Mexico. Walt Larkin and his crew have always done a real fine job for us and we’re pleased to have ’em back with us. Take a bow, Walt, wherever you are.”

  Shallie glanced up at the wooden box built over the bucking chutes, which held the announcer and a few officials. Mr. Eckles was whispering in the announcer’s ear. The announcer, a florid man in a maroon double-knit Western suit and string tie, covered his microphone and pointed down to where Shallie stood. She saw disbelief crease the man’s chubby face.

  “Heh-heh, folks, excuse me,” the announcer chuckled over the PA. “Appears I’ve made a mistake. Walt’s niece, Shallie Larkin, will be producing this year’s rodeo. Let’s wish the little lady the best of luck.”

  Because you think I’ll need it, Shallie fumed as she turned on a smile she didn’t feel in response to a thin smattering of polite applause. On a couple of the older, male faces in the crowd, she read open resentment. They’re mad, Shallie realized. Mad that a “little lady” was trying to invade their cozy, masculine world. Well, she thought determinedly, it would take more than a few sour stares to chase her away.

  “Now, let’s welcome the Cavalcade Riding Academy,” the announcer continued over the scratchy PA. A troupe of flamboyantly costumed equestrians thundered into the arena, executing a series of intricate maneuvers on horseback. The announcer broke in.

  “It gives me great pleasure to introduce this year’s rodeo queen from Coalla County, Miss Bridgie Sue Gates.” A heavily made-up young woman wearing a kelly-green pants suit with a white hat and white boots galloped full tilt into the arena, carrying an American flag unfurled behind her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our National Anthem.”

  Those words signaled a halt for Shallie, and suddenly the banging of steel gates and the shouts of her helpers stopped. As a vintage recording of the “Star Spangled Banner” blared over the loudspeaker, hats were whipped from foreheads that the sun rarely touched, and heads were lowered.

  Shallie too lowered her head, but it was to sneak a surreptitious glance at the list of horses and riders to double-check that each one had been loaded in the right chute. She went down the list: Zeus, Mercury, Vulcan, and the others. She knew each of them like an old friend and had named them accordingly. Zeus, a dun-colored gelding, was the strongest horse in the string; Mercury, the fleetest; Vulcan, the most explosive. She’d taken the names from mythology, feeling they fit the animals’ innate nobility better than the standard, hackneyed rodeo names—Rocket, Midnight, Widowmaker. Once people accepted the novelty of the names, she was often asked why she hadn’t used the most obvious name of all—Pegasus, the mythical winged horse. But Shallie was saving that name, keeping it in reserve for a truly special horse. There could only be one horse fit to be christened Pegasus and she hadn’t seen that animal yet.

  Before the final chords of the National Anthem had scratched into silence, Shallie was hurrying the bareback riders along.

  “Come on, gentlemen,” Shallie called down to the cowboys, repeating the words she’d heard her uncle use so many times, “let’s ride some horses.”

  The cowboys swung up onto the catwalk carrying their leather riggings. With some help from her, they set the riggings on the back slope of the horses’ withers. Shallie watched one cowboy, a fresh-faced boy no more than sixteen, wearing bright red chaps. After he and a buddy had gotten his rigging cinched down tight on the horse he’d drawn, he grabbed hold of the railing and squatted, bouncing up and down to loosen the muscles in his legs, which were drawing tight with fear.

  “The first event this afternoon will be bareback riding,” the announcer began his stock commentary. “Most cowboys will tell you that riding these bareback broncs is the most physically demanding event in rodeo. All that holds the cowboy to that keg of dynamite under him is a leather rigging twenty-two inches long. He can use only one hand to hang on to that strip of leather. The rider must spur the horse in the point of the shoulders the first jump from the chute and continue spurring throughout the eight-second ride . . .”

  Shallie tuned out the announcer’s voice. She’d heard the same spiel hundreds of times at hundreds of rodeos. She looked over the men who would be trying to win money riding her horses. She knew that the nervous young cowboy in the
red chaps would get nothing more than a short flying lesson for his entry fee. Next to him was an old veteran on the amateur rodeo circuit. Laughter, hard weather, flying hooves, and gouging horns had all left their mark on his wrinkle-pleated face. She remembered hearing that he’d tried making it on the professional circuit and had ended up with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion. The concussion had passed but the shoulder had never been strong enough again for him to try and take on the big boys. She guessed he’d make a solid, if unspectacular ride.

  Her appraisal slipped to the next contestant. He was a short, stocky fellow who looked as if a horse might have put a hoof in his face at one time. He was buried beneath a mountain of angry concentration, like a man looking forward to taking his revenge. Shallie checked the horse he was to ride: Odin. That was a relief; he was one of her stoutest animals. He’d give the angry cowboy a run for his money.

  The next contestant puzzled Shallie. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and the bottom half of his face was hidden behind a bandanna. Either one would have set him apart from all the other contestants and most cowboys anywhere. But on top of that, he was wearing a tailored shirt of cream-colored challis tucked into a pair of jeans sporting a crease that only a laundry could put on denim. Her gaze traveled up to his face, unreadable behind the reflector lenses.

  Shallie wondered why this mystery man was trying so hard to keep his identity a secret. Probably some city dude who wanted to play cowboy for a day. Whatever. As long as he paid his entry fee, he had the right to make as big a fool of himself as he liked.

  Judging by the relaxed set of his broad shoulders, however, the dude didn’t even know enough to be scared. Shallie glanced down to the chute below him and shuddered inwardly. Of all the luck, the poor sucker had drawn her most powerful horse, Zeus. She cringed, thinking of his coming humiliation. He’s going to need all the help he can get, Shallie thought and began edging toward him.

  But as she approached him, something began to bother her. The dude in the aviator sunglasses projected a quiet, sure intelligence unlike the usual braying jackass who thought that with one eight-second ride he could prove he was a man.

  “Would you like me to hold on to your glasses while you ride?” Shallie asked.

  The cowboy turned toward her. All she could see was her own reflection in his lenses. “No, ma’am. Believe I’ll just wear them.” His answer, even muffled by the bandanna, had a calm, masculine strength.

  Shallie knew only too well that rodeo had a way of magnifying the male ego and she’d learned to tread carefully around that volatile area. “Of course, I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do,” she went on, trying to hide her dismay at the man’s foolishness. “But when you get thrown the glasses could be dangerous. And it wouldn’t be too safe for the other cowboys if you were to leave the arena littered with broken glass.”

  “Who says I’m going to get thrown?” His question had more understated assurance than the kind of blowhard cockiness she usually encountered in onetime rodeoers. Still, she was tempted to abandon him to his fate. But there was the very real chance that he could be seriously hurt, so she tried again.

  “Have you limbered up?” At least, Shallie thought, if his muscles are loose he’ll stand less of a chance of having them jerked out of his shoulder. When he didn’t respond, Shallie demonstrated to him how he should swing his arms in wide arcs like the cowboys.

  “You mean like this?” He imitated Shallie’s propeller motions.

  “Right.” In the dusty area below the catwalk she caught a glimpse of her two hired hands watching her with amused smirks on their faces. “Come on.” She stopped the arm-flapping demonstration. “I’ll help you get rigged up.”

  The dude stood back, obviously not knowing the first thing about setting a rigging.

  “Here, hold it like this,” Shallie directed him when she had the rigging in place.

  As he bent near her, Shallie experienced an odd claustrophobic feeling as if his smell, his nearness, his gaze, all had a physical weight that was pressing down on her, driving the air from her lungs. It was a strange sensation. To hide her discomfiture, Shallie brusquely grabbed the latigo and cinched the rigging down tight on Zeus’s back. As she recoiled from the hurried motion, however, she was thrown into even closer contact with the stranger. Large, strong hands closed around her shoulders, steadying her.

  “Whoa. There now, are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine. Perfectly fine,” Shallie babbled, completely flustered. She stumbled quickly away, her thoughts scattered about like flushed quail. She forced herself to fix her thoughts on the announcer’s words.

  “In chute number one we have Willie Poteen. Willie’s a local boy and he’s riding a horse called Mercury. As we go down the list today you will notice that a lot of the Double L bucking stock have the names of pagan gods and such like. Walter told me last year that his little niece, Shallie, picks them out.”

  Shallie arched her brow in annoyance. Would she ever be thought of as anything other than a “little lady” or a “little niece”?

  “Looks like Willie is getting set.”

  In the first chute Shallie watched the young cowboy in red chaps ease down onto his mount’s back. He jammed his hat down so hard on his head that his ears stuck out like the handles on a jug. With a jerky nod he signaled for the gate to be thrown open. Mercury bolted out with all the speed of his namesake and the chaps became a red blur hurtling through space. The embarrassed hometown cowboy landed right where the chaps didn’t cover.

  “Ready on two?” Shallie asked the next contestant.

  “I was born ready, ma’am,” the leathery old veteran shot back.

  “Then let her rip.” Shallie laughed, turning her attention to the next contestant. Shallie didn’t watch the ride, she was too busy hurrying along the stumpy, muscle-bound cowboy who’d drawn Odin. Uncle Walter always prided himself on running a fast, well-paced show.

  “You let too much time pass,” he always said, “and the people in the stands are going to start noticing how hot it is or how hard the seat is and next thing you know they’re asking themselves why in blazes they ever left their plasma TVs and their internets to come out to some old rodeo. Then you’ve lost a paying customer, and we’ve got too few of them as it is.”

  “The judges have given J. T. Watkins a whopping big eighty-one for that last ride, folks.” The announcement brought a round of applause for the battered old veteran.

  The dude, who was the fourth rider, after the angry cowboy had his turn on Odin, was standing back helplessly. The third contestant was almost ready to call for the gate. There wasn’t much time. If she didn’t baby him along he’d hold up the action.

  “Okay, mister.” She eased alongside of him. “Step aboard.” She indicated Zeus’s back. The dude straddled the planks above the horse and settled gingerly down. In the next chute the third contestant nodded for the gate.

  “Grab ahold of the rigging,” Shallie coached the dude. He gripped the rawhide handle with both hands as if he were picking up a heavy suitcase. Shallie sighed and shook her head. She hoped this town had a good emergency room.

  Out in the arena the last rider picked himself up from where Odin had thrown him and beat the dust out of his hat, looking angrier than ever.

  “Let’s hear a big round of applause for Elroy Stivers on Odin,” the announcer coaxed the crowd, “because your applause is all he’ll be taking home tonight.”

  “Here, hang on to it like this.” Shallie demonstrated to the dude how he should slide just his right hand in underneath the grip with his palm pointed upward. Her pupil shook his head in understanding and switched his handhold.

  “Scoot up on your hand,” Shallie directed, holding her fist in front of her hips to demonstrate the position he needed to assume. Down by the gate Wade and Hoskins were elbowing one another and snickering at her impromptu bareback riding lesson. She was again about to give up the effort when she realized he wasn’t wearing a glove.

>   “Your riding glove. Where is it?” When the dude shrugged she turned and borrowed one from the nearest cowboy.

  “Here, stick this on your riding hand.”

  He held up his right hand. Shallie tugged on the leather glove. As she did, she noticed a mound of pink scar tissue. This was the cowboy she had been so entranced with as she’d watched him limbering up. She stepped back, a sick feeling gathering in her stomach. It spread as she watched the “dude” settle his firm buttocks down on Zeus’s back and scoot forward until he was nearly sitting on his gloved hand. Zeus kicked a hoof against the chute in protest. Then, in a low, commanding voice she heard:

  “Turn him out, boys.”

  The gate rattled as it sprung open. Shallie swung back around. She witnessed exactly what she was afraid she might see—a freeze-action picture of perfect bareback riding form: The “dude’s” free hand was held high, and both his dull spurs were planted high in the horse’s shoulders. Zeus seemed to be suspended in midair, all four hooves off the ground and his body bowed into a shuddering arc. It was the image of a prize-winning champion, not the first-time novice he’d fooled Shallie into believing he was.

  Zeus landed hard on his forelegs with a shock which almost always unseated whatever pesky human was attempting to stay on his back. The sunglassed cowboy absorbed the shock effortlessly, his right arm seemingly welded to the leather rigging. His timing was so perfect that he and Zeus appeared to have choreographed their moves. For eight seconds this unknown cowboy epitomized the best in rodeo, the mastery that was much more fluid grace than brute strength. Shallie became so caught up in it that she forgot the anger which had surged through her when she realized she’d been made a fool of.