He didn’t speak but simply strode past her, hitching his boot on the low rung of the chute and throwing his weight up to hurdle the top.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, grabbing his shirt and yanking him backward.
He didn’t let her have her way, holding tightly to the chute. Finally, Dally leaned back and stared at her. “I’m going to ride the bull. Here and now.”
“I’m not going to stop you,” she said slowly, “but we need to talk first.”
“The time for talking is over.”
“I didn’t tell you everything, Dally. There’s more you have to know.” She pointed toward the tents of Clown Alley. “Could we go inside. I’m cold.”
Her cheeks were pale, her eyes bright with something other than tears. They’d made love last night in the rain and mud. He didn’t like that his first concern was worry and concern about her welfare. “You should’ve worn a shawl.”
“I’m finding out lately that I should have done a lot of things differently.” She made a move toward the tents. “Couldn’t your ride wait till we’ve had a cup of coffee?”
He didn’t agree; he just started walking toward the tents. The large one where she kept her props and costumes offered little warmth and was no more inviting than when they’d been outside. “You already got a fire going or do I need to start one?”
She grabbed a blanket from out of one of the trunks and wrapped it around her. “There’s a pot on the tripod still warm from Cookie’s fire. I try not to build one inside the tent unless I know I’m going to be here awhile to make sure the fire goes out when I’m finished.”
Dally waited until she poured two mugs of coffee and offered him one, sipping the brew with more gratitude than he felt at the moment. He took a seat on top of one of the trunks, waiting for her to tell him what he was doing here.
Damned if she didn’t look as pretty as he’d ever seen her. “You feeling okay? You look a little pie-eyed.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll get over it.” He didn’t mean to sound so curt, but he was tired of all this polite conversation
“You have a right to be angry with me,” she said, twisting one end of the blanket between her fingers. “And I want you to know this was the hardest thing I ever kept from you.” Augusta took a deep breath and met his gaze. “You have a daughter. Her name is Maddy.”
A daughter. Named after Mrs. Garrison. The baby was his. Hearing Augusta’s confession didn’t make it any easier to accept.
He thought he’d feel pleased that he would have the honor of being in her child’s life. He thought he’d be jumping in his boots with gladness that there hadn’t been another man involved. Instead he only felt an overwhelming sense of being cheated.
“How old is she?”
“Three and a half. I had just found out that I was with child the day your father died.”
Almost four. Joey’s words came back to haunt Dally. The man was trying to tell him. He’d been trying to be a friend while still not betraying Augusta’s confidence. Dally owed the man a huge apology.
“I couldn’t tell you that day, Dally. I just couldn’t. Then when you said you were going to ride Bone Buster or die trying, I…well, I knew I had to protect her from losing you. Just like you lost Flint.”
“Protect her from losing me?” He bolted to his feet, slamming the mug of coffee down on the trunk. The liquid would have burned him if it had been any hotter. He’d have had hell riding the bull. “Dammit, Augusta, you cheated me out of three and a half years of her life.”
“I had to think of Maddy.” Her eyes glared at him as sharp as an eagle’s protecting her nest. “Think about it, Dally. Can you imagine how it would be if you had ridden Bone Buster and died? She would have just known you long enough to care. This way, well…she never knew you. Never loved you enough to have to feel the hurt you experienced after Flint’s death.”
“It should have been my choice,” he argued, slamming one fist into the other. “You don’t know how things could have been.”
“I know that you wouldn’t have let anything, not even Maddy, make you give up the ride.”
“The sad thing is that I would have, Gus.” His heart spoke for him. “If I’d been given a chance. She was life. And I would always choose to protect what was best for our baby. I love you, dammit. I wouldn’t have loved her any less. I want to know her, Augusta. To be part of her life.”
Augusta’s eyes glistened, tears turning them a deeper shade of blue. “I know you do.”
“So where do we go from here?”
She patted the seat beside her. “Could we sit and talk together? Without yelling?”
He took a seat beside her. “So talk.”
Her eyes searched his. “Do you forgive me about Flint?”
All night he’d thought about what she’d done and couldn’t fault her for trying to give the man his opportunity. “I’d have done the same if given the chance. Nothing would have stopped him from making the ride, we both know that.”
“I was scared, Dally. Seventeen, scared and stupid. Can you forgive me for not trusting you and walking away?”
Maybe if he hadn’t been so intent upon doing things his way, been too proud to accept the money. Maybe if he hadn’t been so afraid that everything was out of his control, he would have been more aware of how she needed him. The fact that he’d failed her miserably was something he had to live with the rest of his life. “I was scared too,” Dally admitted, wrapping his arm around her trembling body. “Afraid that I couldn’t handle everything life threw at me, no matter how hard it came.”
Dally confessed that his pursuit of the bull led nowhere but to a future without Augusta. “Don’t you see? If riding Bone Buster means losing you and Maddy for good, then I lose and my father rode for nothing. Bone Buster would win twice.”
To his surprise, she grabbed his hand, stood and pulled. “Come on, I’ve got something I want you to do.”
He allowed her to lead him back to the Spring’s Hotel. When they reached the lobby, she told him to wait there and she’d be right back. Minutes later, she came rushing back with a little girl cradled at her hip. The child was dressed in a Stetson the same color as Dally’s, with big expressive blue eyes the shade of a clear Texas sky peeping up at him. Lustrous curls of red curled from beneath the Stetson.
“T-This is Maddy,” Augusta’s said tentatively, though her face beamed with pride as she introduced father to daughter. “And, Maddy, this is Dally Angelo.”
“He’s got a name just like me.”
So Augusta had given Maddy his last name. Pride unlike any he’d ever known compelled Dally to pull Augusta into his arms and look at his daughter in wonder. “Will you please tell your mama to answer me, yes or no?”
Staring at the woman whose face would always be the most beautiful to him, no matter if she wore painted freckles and a big, fat nose or she looked as lovely as she did now, he asked, “Which is it, Gus. Will you marry me or not? Yes or no?”
“Let’s leave it to the luck of the draw, shall we? Maddy take off your hat and turn it over.” Augusta’s laugh ended in a snort, instigating an echo from her daughter.
At the sound, Dally grinned from ear to ear. Maddy was her mother’s daughter. He couldn’t wait to see how much of her was like him.
Maddy held the hat out to him upside down as instructed. He looked inside and there in a dozen pieces of paper or more was all the answer he’d been hoping to hear. On every single piece of paper one word had been written…yes.
“Mommy said to draw one.”
Epilogue
Augusta watched as Slim Doogan and Gill Puckett loaded Bone Buster into the chute. Each man was pulling for Dally and all attention was riveted on the rank bull. The beast bellowed discontent against the confined space, kicking its hooves and trying to lock horns with the wooden prison to free itself.
Anticipation
hung in the air as all eyes watched Dally throw his leg over the brindle and tighten his suicide wrap around his hand.
Augusta’s eyes met Dally’s, and she gave him a thumb’s up. She and two other tramps, Joey among them, were positioned on each side of the corral to play bullfighter if Dally got into trouble.
Dally patted the pocket of his vest where he’d placed his mama’s note and gave Augusta a brief nod of thanks for patching up his father’s vest so that he could wear it for the ride.
“Let ’im go, boys, let ’im go!” Dally yelled, giving the signal that he was ready.
The flag went down. The gate swung open. Augusta’s gaze latched on Dally’s face. She forgot to breathe, forgot to blink, forgot that she stood seconds away from danger herself.
A ton of muscle and fury left the chute fast, sunfishing into the air so high that she could see the brindle’s underbelly. Then just as quickly as he’d reared left, Bone Buster sucked back and changed directions, kicking his hind legs so high she was sure he would flip forward. Dally had his hands full just to stay seated but, to Augusta’s surprise and great relief, he settled into a spurring lick, matching the action of the animal, buck for buck.
Unable to unseat his rider, the bull hurled himself toward Joey. He was a headhunter that one, looking for someone to vent his fury upon. The bull just didn’t want to throw Dally, he meant to hurt someone in the process. Joey dodged, Augusta darted, the other clown started hollering like a squealing piglet as he ran out of the raging bull’s path.
Some help they were. If the clowns continued to help the bull riders, they were going to have to be braver souls than the three of them.
Dally held on, bending so far backward that Gus thought he would surely lose his hat. Bone Buster’s shoulders rolled one way, his haunches the other.
“Seven,” the crowd began to chant. “Eight…”
“Nine,” Augusta counted with them, tears erupting in her eyes as she dashed out of harm’s way. The gun went off, the flag dropped. “Ten seconds!” she yelled. “Dally, you did it. You rode him.”
A cheer went up over the countryside when Dally removed his hat and fanned the beast’s head, the worst insult a cowboy could give an animal he rode. Finally, Dally threw his Stetson high into the air in exaltation. He bailed off the bull, ran straight for Augusta and gave her a resounding kiss for all the world to see.
“Way to go, Angelo,” yelled Slim from the gates. “Kiss the gal and break that old brindle.”
Together Dally and Augusta hurdled the fence and found themselves laughing and holding each other in pure delight. Something stronger than fear had defeated the mankiller today and both of them knew what had conquered the beast—their love.
“Hey, Dally, look at me,” Maddy hollered, trying to catch his attention. “Think I can ride ’im?”
Augusta looked over to where her daughter played with several other small children. Each rode atop a lamb no bigger than its mother’s knobby knees, doing their best imitation of Dally’s ride.
“You’ll ride that woolly, sweetheart. You come from a lucky family.” Dally laughed again, wrapping his arm around Augusta and staring proudly at their child. “And that’s Daddy, darlin’. Not Dally.”
Author’s Note
My readers often ask me how I get ideas. I wanted to share with you how I got this one. After we experienced the tragic passing of my youngest brother, my older brother had to find a way to deal with his grief. The way he did that was through a cowboy song he wrote. I was so touched by this that I asked him if I could write a novel about Dally. Such a hero deserved to have a special heroine to love him. With my brother’s permission, I share his song with you.
Thanks, Jim, for allowing me to give Dally the love and resolution he deserves.
“Ki Yi, Ki Yi”
All he had from his momma
he had folded in his shirt.
A saved piece of paper held the words his momma wrote.
“Son, you were such a little guy
on Daddy’s roping steer you’d ride.
Daddy laughed and yelled, ‘Son, do or die.’
You’d holler back, ‘Ki yi, ki yi.’”
Dally gathered up his rigging.
It was time to rodeo.
Strapped it on that killing Brahman
that took his daddy’s soul.
Bull bucked the chute in anger.
Cowboy’s face was full of fear.
He remembered Momma’s promise,
“I know your Daddy. He’ll be near.
There’s no guarantee.
You just ride on luck and skill.
You got to bow your head and ask the Good Lord
to bless you, if He will.”
He was born to ride; it was Daddy’s life.
Swing that gate and let him go.
Lord, that cowboy’s gold was the bull he rode.
Hey, long live rodeo.
Cowboy cry, “Ki yi, ki yi.”
Keep the Good Lord’s spirit deep inside.
God is your strength: Fear knows no pride.
Fire up and ride!
“Ki yi, ki yi.”
By permission of Jimmy Williams, November 2008
TEXAS TEMPEST
LINDA BRODAY
Chapter 1
The smell of dust mingled with brimstone as McKenna Smith rode past the cemetery that perched on a rise above Kasota Springs, Texas. Under the midday sun, he paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
A lone woman caught his attention as she stooped to lay fresh flowers on the last of five neatly lined graves that were separated from the rest of the dearly departed by an ornate iron fence. It wasn’t that the smartly dressed woman bore the weight of grief, or that she wore a scarlet dress instead of the usual black mourning apparel, which caused the spit to dry in his mouth.
What brought discomfort was the way she lovingly brushed Panhandle dust from each tombstone. Those who rested beneath the soil evidently meant something special to her.
The lady spent time to keep the graves tidy.
McKenna’s blood chilled. No one would give a damn when he passed on. No one would shed a tear. And no one would bring him as much as a smelly weed.
His would be a cold, untended grave on some rocky hillside. When the time came and he found himself in a corpse ’n cartridge condition, they just might leave him to the vultures where he fell without bothering to dig a hole. He’d used up all his chances for a long peaceful life. He faced the harsh reality that befalls the fate of someone like him, particularly one who’d become a legend of sorts from outrunning the results of hard living and dodging bullets.
Not that he’d dodged them all. The pain in his shoulder was quick to remind him.
The leather creaked when McKenna slid sideways in the saddle. From beneath the low brim of his hat, his narrowed gaze assessed the row of granite tombstones. It appeared the climate in Kasota Springs was a tad on the unhealthy side, either by disease or misfortune.
For a moment he pondered whether the bad luck was catching and considered bypassing the Panhandle town. He could ride past and keep going. After all, he had a far piece to travel. But he guessed one place was as fitting as another when it came time to turn up his toes. The good Lord wouldn’t care.
It didn’t ease his mind any to know that every undertaker from Cimarron to Austin kept his measurements in a handy place, just itching to be the one to use them.
Suddenly, the petite mourner in the cemetery rose. She removed the sheer black veil that shrouded her features and folded it carefully. Completing the ritual she’d likely repeated umpteen times, she tucked it and her fancy handkerchief inside the beaded bag on her arm and snapped it briskly shut as if the handbag locked up the souls of her deceased kindred and she was afraid they’d get out.
She met his curious stare, lazily peeling some flimsy, spidery sort of gloves from each of her fingers.
A flush rose that she’d caught him watching. But, in truth, he couldn’t turn awa
y. The slow, sexy way she skinned the bits of lace away held him in a spell. She stripped out of one person into another right before his eyes like an actress who played many parts, with each involving costume changes.
McKenna’s chest tightened from the quick intake of air. The lady’s fingers were long and well formed. They could probably unkink all the knots in a lonely man’s soul and take him straight into glory.
Damn, the woman invited too many thoughts of the purely sinful variety!
He was an authority on hands and long fingers. Take his for instance. He had calluses on the outside of his thumb where the gun handle molded into his palm much too often. But his fingers were nimble enough to undo the tiny row of buttons down a willing lover’s dress so he could caress her skin.
Still holding his gaze, the striking grave-tender cocked her left eyebrow. Jamming the bits of black lace into her pocket, she flipped out a pair of rawhide work gloves and had them on in a flash. A jolt skittered up his spine the way a skittish horse danced around when a rider put his foot in the stirrup.
Before he could blink twice, she hitched up her skirts. Pulling the hem between her legs, she tucked the tail into her waistband to form the feminine equivalent of britches.
Her long stare never wavered from his face as if daring him to comment. Without waiting for one, she untied a spirited, bloodred bay from the fence.
Dumbfounded by the swift transformation from a sedate picture of womanhood into a scandalous wanton, he could do nothing but touch the brim of his hat and give her a nod with a quirk of his head. Had he gotten his tongue unglued from the roof of his mouth he might’ve spoken a word of greeting.
Except he couldn’t.
Thrusting one dainty foot in the stirrup, she threw her leg over the saddle while the horse made a tight circle.
Someone oughta tell her that was too much horse for such a slight woman, although he wasn’t fool enough to apply for the job. He had enough trouble without adding headstrong fillies to the list. It turned out he shouldn’t have worried over her lack of ability. Expecting to have a ringside view to her unseating, he was once again surprised.
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