Last Chance Rodeo

by Kari Lynn Dell

  Oh, come on. Donny was even older than Red, if slightly better preserved. Violet opened her mouth to argue, but her mother cut her off.

  “It’ll have to wait until morning.” Iris began stacking paperwork and filing it in plastic boxes. “Y’all go get your stock put up. We’ve got a date for drinks with the committee president.”

  And Violet had a date with her smartphone. Fate and Red’s bad knees had handed her an opportunity to breathe fresh life into Jacobs Livestock. She just had to persuade the rest of the family to go along.

  * * *

  Once the stock was settled for the night, Violet herded Beni to their trailer and got them both showered and into pajamas. She tucked him into his bunk with a stuffed penguin under one arm—a souvenir from a trip to the Calgary Zoo with his dad earlier in the summer.

  “Can I call Daddy?” he asked.

  She kissed his downy-soft forehead. Lord, he was a beautiful child—not that she could take any credit. The jet-black hair and tawny skin, eyes as dark as bittersweet chocolate…that was all his daddy. “Not tonight, bub. The time is two hours different in Washington, so he’s not done riding yet.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Beni heaved a sigh that was equal parts yawn. “He’s still coming home next week, right?”

  “He’ll meet us at the rodeo on Sunday.”

  He’d promised, and while Violet wouldn’t recommend getting knocked up on a one-night stand, at least she’d had the sense to get drunk and stupid with a really good man. He would not let his son down, especially after he’d been on the road for almost a month in the Pacific Northwest at a run of rich fall rodeos. The rodeos that mattered.

  She heaved a sigh of her own. Of course her rodeos mattered—to the small towns, the local folks, they were a chance to hoot and holler and shake off their troubles for a night. The contestants might be mostly weekend cowboys with jobs that kept them close to home, but they left just as big a piece of their heart in the arena as any of the top-level pros. Still, the yearning spiraled through Violet like barbed wire, coiling around her heart and digging in. It cut deep, that yearning. Nights like this were worst of all, in the quiet after the rodeo, when there was nothing left to do but think. Imagine.

  At legendary rodeos like Ellensburg, Puyallup, and Lewiston, the best cowboys in North America were going head to head, world championships on the line. Meanwhile, Violet had successfully wrapped up the forty-third annual Puckett County Homesteader Days. Jacobs Livestock had been part of twenty-nine of them. If her dad had his way, they’d continue until the rodeo arena crumbled into the powder-dry West Texas dirt, her mother and Cole trailing contentedly along behind.

  How could Violet be the only one who wanted more?

  “Night, Mommy.” Beni rolled over, tucked the penguin under his chin, and was instantly asleep.

  Violet tugged the blanket up to his shoulders, then pulled shut the curtain that separated his bunk from the rest of the trailer. Finally time for dinner. She slicked her dark hair behind her ears, the damp ends brushing her shoulders as she built a sandwich of sliced ham on one of her mother’s fat homemade rolls, a dollop of coleslaw on the plate alongside it. Before settling in at the table, she turned the radio on low. The singer’s throaty twang vibrated clear down to her heartstrings, reminding her that the only man in her life had yet to hit kindergarten, but it muted the tick-tick-tick of another rodeo season winding down with Violet in the exact same place.

  She prodded her coleslaw with a fork, brooding. Red had been operating on pure guts for weeks, so she’d made a point of researching every card-carrying professional bullfighter in their price range. Was her prime candidate still available? She opened the Internet browser on her phone and clicked a link to a Facebook page. Shorty Edwards. Gunnison, Colorado. His status hadn’t changed since the last time she checked. Good news! Doc says I can get back to work. Any of you out there needing a bullfighter for fall rodeos, give me a call.

  Shorty was exactly what they needed. Young enough to be the bullfighter of their future, but experienced enough to knock Hank into line. Good luck persuading her dad to bring in a complete stranger, though—and not even a Texan, Lord save her. She might as well suggest they hire the devil himself. Violet drummed agitated fingers on the table, staring at Shorty’s action photo. Jacobs Livestock needed new blood, an infusion of energy. Fans and committees loved a good bullfighter.

  Her dad had said she should make some calls. As business manager for Jacobs Livestock, she would write up the contract and sign the paycheck, so why not get a jump on the process? She could discuss it with her parents before making a commitment.

  Her heart commenced a low bass beat that echoed in her ears as she dialed his number. He answered. Her voice squeaked when she introduced herself, and she had to clear her throat before explaining their situation.

  “Three rodeos?” he asked. “Guaranteed?”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  “And you can give me a firm commitment right now?”

  “I…uh…”

  “I’ve got an offer in Nevada for one rodeo. If you can give me three, I’ll come to Texas, but I promised them an answer by morning.”

  Violet’s mouth was so dry her lips stuck to her teeth. She’d never hired anyone without her dad’s approval. But it wasn’t permanent. Just three rodeos. Sort of like a test-drive. If Shorty turned out to be a lemon, they could just send him back.

  “Well?”

  “Three rodeos, guaranteed,” she blurted.

  “Great. Sign me up.”

  She ironed out the details then hung up the phone, folded her arms on the table, and buried her face in them. When the first wave of panic subsided, she sat up, pressing her palms on the table when her head spun. Chill, Violet. She was twenty-eight years old and her dad was always saying the best way to get more responsibility was to show she could handle it. They had a problem. She’d solved it. Once the rest of them saw Shorty in action, they’d have to admit she’d made the right choice.

  Because you have such an excellent track record when it comes to picking men…

  Violet slapped that demon back into its hidey-hole. This was different. This was business. She was good at business. As long as Shorty Edwards was exactly as advertised, she was golden.

  Chapter 2

  The last Brahma to buck at the Puyallup, Washington, rodeo was a huge red brindle named Cyberbully. Three jumps out of the chute he launched his rider into the clear blue sky. The cowboy thumped into the dirt like a hundred-and-forty-pound sack of mud and stayed there, motionless, while the bull whipped around, looking to add injury to insult.

  Joe Cassidy stepped between them and tapped Cyberbully’s fat nose. “Hey, Cy. This way.”

  The bull took the bait. Joe hauled ass, circling away from the fallen cowboy with the Brahma a scant inch behind. The big son of a bitch was fast. Caught out in the middle of the arena, Joe couldn’t outrun him, so he opted to let Cy give him a boost. With a slight hesitation and a perfectly timed hop, he momentarily took a seat between the bull’s stubby horns. Startled, Cy threw up his head and Joe pushed off. As he was thrown free, he saw a flash of neon yellow—his partner sprinting in from the opposite direction. “C’mere, Cy, you ugly bastard!”

  The bull hesitated, then went after Wyatt. Joe landed on his feet and spun around to see Wyatt vault up and onto the fence next to the exit gate with a stride to spare. The bull feinted at him, then trotted out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, give a hand to our bullfighters, Joe Cassidy and Wyatt Darrington!” the rodeo announcer shouted. “That’s why these two are the best team in professional rodeo.”

  The air vibrated, fans whistling and stomping their appreciation as Joe jogged over to check on the cowboy, who had rolled into a seated position.

  “You okay, Rowdy?” Joe asked, extending a hand to help him up.

  “Yep. Thanks, guys.” Rowdy swiped at the
dirt on his chaps and strolled to the chutes, unscathed and unfazed.

  Wyatt folded his arms, glaring. “We should let the bulls have the ones that are too dumb to get up and run.”

  Joe snorted. That’d be the day. Wyatt was hardwired to save the world—even the parts that didn’t want saving.

  “That wraps up our rodeo for this year, folks!” the announcer declared. “If you have a hankering for more top-of-the-line professional rodeo action, come on out to Pendleton, Oregon, next week for the world-famous Roundup…”

  One more rodeo, then six weeks off. Seven days from now, after Pendleton, he was headed home. Fall was Joe’s favorite time of year in the high desert of eastern Oregon, weaning this year’s crop of colts and calves under the clear, crisp sky.

  He twisted around, checking the spot where the bull had tagged his ribs. Not even a flesh wound thanks to his Kevlar vest, but the big bastard had ripped a hole in his long-sleeved jersey. “Damn. That’s the third one this month.”

  Wyatt took off his cowboy hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with a shirtsleeve. “You’re gettin’ old and slow, pardner.”

  “Five years less old and slow than you.”

  “Yeah, but I take better care of myself.”

  “Says the guy with five shiny new screws in his ankle.” Joe nodded toward Wyatt’s right leg, supported by a rigid plastic Aircast. “How’s it feel?”

  “Like they drove the bottom two screws in with a hammer.” Wyatt rotated the ankle, wincing. “Still works, though, so they must’ve got ’em in good and tight.”

  Joe rubbed the sting from the elbow Cyberbully had smacked with the top of his rock-hard skull. He ached from head to toe with the cumulative fatigue of six straight days of rodeo piled on top of all the other weeks and months of bruises and bodily insults. “What the hell is wrong with us?” he asked.

  Wyatt started for the gate. “I’m in it for the women and free booze. Let’s go make that stupid shit Rowdy buy us a beer.”

  “Just remember, you’re driving,” Joe said, yawning.

  Wyatt sent him a sympathetic glance. “Long night, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Tension crawled up his back at the memory. Goddamn Lyle Browning. Someone should’ve castrated the bastard by now. His wife had plenty of reasons to cry, but why did she insist on using Joe’s shoulder?

  Wyatt shook his head. “I shouldn’t have left you alone at the bar. You were already upset before the weepy woman.”

  “I wasn’t upset.” The tension slithered higher, toward the base of Joe’s skull.

  “Bullshit. Your old man lives fifteen miles from here and couldn’t show up to watch you in action. That sucks.”

  “I’m thirty years old, not ten. It’s not like he skipped a little league game.” But he’d missed plenty. Most of Joe’s high school sports career, in fact.

  But that was ancient history. Joe tipped off his cowboy hat, peeled the ruined jersey over his head, then balled it up and gave it a mighty heave. It landed three rows up, in the outstretched arms of a little girl in a pink cowboy hat, who squealed her excitement. Joe smiled and waved and kept moving. He wanted to be gone. Far, far away from Puyallup and any expectations he hadn’t been able to stomp to death.

  “I haven’t seen Lyle’s wife around today,” Wyatt said.

  “Probably still hugging the toilet.”

  Or maybe she’d finally smartened up and left. ’Bout time. Lyle Browning was a sniveling dog, dragging along on the coattails of his dad’s successful rodeo company. They’d grown up in the same small town and Joe had started working summers on the Browning Ranch when he was fifteen, but he and Lyle had never been friends. Early on, Joe had had some sympathy. Had to suck for Lyle, his mom dying when he was so young, and his dad not exactly the nurturing type. At some point, though, a guy had to take responsibility for his own life.

  As they stepped into the narrow alley behind the bucking chutes, a hand clamped on Joe’s shoulder. “Hey, asshole. I need to talk to you.”

  The words were slurred, the voice a permanent whine. Joe turned and found himself face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see. He brushed off the hand. “Whaddaya want, Lyle?”

  Lyle Browning tried to get in Joe’s face, but came up short by a good six inches. Even at that distance, his breath was toxic. “You fucking prick. How long you been sneaking around, fucking my wife?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Lyle rolled onto his toes, swaying. He smelled like he’d passed out in the bottom of a beer garden dumpster. Looked like it, too. “Everybody saw you leave the bar together, you son of a bitch, and she told me what happened when you got back to her room.”

  The fuck she did. But Joe could think of a dozen reasons Lyle’s wife would want her husband to think she’d gone out and gotten a piece. At the very least, it’d sure teach him to screw around every chance he got. Lyle had mastered the art of trading on his daddy’s name with the sleaziest of the buckle bunnies who hung around looking for a cowboy-shaped notch for their bedpost. Too bad for them, they got Lyle instead.

  “See?” Lyle crowed. “You can’t deny it.”

  Joe ground his teeth. Hell. He couldn’t. Not without humiliating her all over again in front of the gathering crowd. “You’re drunk. Crawl back into your hole and sleep it off. We’ll talk later.”

  “We’ll talk now!”

  Joe put a hand on Lyle’s chest, making enough space to take a breath without gagging. “Back off, Lyle.”

  “Don’t push me, asshole!” Lyle reared back and took a wild swing.

  His right fist plowed into Joe’s stomach. Even if Lyle wasn’t a weenie-armed drunk, it would’ve bounced off Joe’s Kevlar vest. His left fist grazed Joe’s chin, though, and that was too damn much. Joe popped him square in the mouth. Lyle squealed, arms flailing, then toppled straight over backward, his skull smacking the hard-packed dirt. He jerked a couple of times before his eyes rolled back and the lights went out.

  Joe barely had time to think oh shit before Dick Browning’s voice sliced through the crowd. “What the hell is going on here?”

  A whole section of the onlookers peeled away to clear a path. Dick crouched over his son and gave him a not-very-gentle tap on the cheek. “Lyle! You okay?”

  Lyle moaned, his head lolling off to one side. Dick jumped up and spun around to face Joe. Where Lyle was scrawny, Dick was wiry, tough as a rawhide whip. He was only a hairbreadth taller than his son, but somehow, when Dick decided to get in your face, he made it work.

  Joe took a step back and put up his hands. “He took a swing at me.”

  “What did you expect? You mess with a man’s wife—”

  Like Lyle was any kind of man, but Joe didn’t dare say so. Sweat beaded on his forehead, part heat, part panic, as his gaze bounced off Dick’s and around the curious crowd. This was not the time or place to set Dick straight. “Can we talk about this later, in private?”

  “You disrespect my family, assault my son—there is no later,” Dick snapped. “Consider yourself unemployed. And don’t bother showing up at Pendleton, either.”

  Joe flinched, the words a verbal slap. “That’s crazy. You know I wouldn’t—”

  “Then why would she say so?”

  Joe opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Goddamnit.

  Wyatt yanked him backward and slid into the space between Joe and Dick, smooth as butter. “If that piece of shit you call a son could keep his dick in his pants, his wife wouldn’t be out at the bar drinking herself into a coma.”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “If it’s Joe’s business, it’s mine. We call that friendship—not that you’d know.” Wyatt leaned in, got his eyes down on Dick’s level. “Don’t give me an excuse, Herod, or I’ll lay you out in the dirt with your spawn.”

  Joe grabbed him, afraid Wyatt might actually punch the o
ld man. “You can’t—”

  Wyatt yanked his arm out of Joe’s grasp. “It’d be worth the bail money.”

  For a long, tense moment they remained locked eye to eye. Then Lyle groaned, rolled over, and puked. Dick jerked around, cursing. “Somebody give me a hand getting him over to my trailer.”

  Out of reflex, Joe took a step. Wyatt jabbed an elbow into his sternum. “Don’t even think about it.”

  He hauled Joe away, around the back of the grandstand, over to the sports medicine trailer that also served as their locker room.

  “Who is Herod?” Joe asked, unable to process the rest of the scene.

  “The most evil fucking tyrant in the Bible, but only because Matthew never met Dick Browning.” Wyatt yanked open the door to the trailer and dragged Joe up the steps.

  Matthew. Herod. Christ. “Who says that shit?”

  “I’m a preacher’s kid,” Wyatt said. “I get my gospel up when I’m pissed.”

  Preacher. Hah. Try Lord High Bishop of Something or Other. Wyatt’s family learned their gospel at Yale Divinity. He read big fat history books for the fun of it. For two guys who had nothing in common, Joe and Wyatt had been a dream team from the first time they worked in the same arena, and hell on wheels outside those arenas. The mileage added up, though, and a thirty-year-old body didn’t bounce back from hangovers the same way it used to. Joe sure didn’t miss them, or waking up next to woman whose name was lost in his alcohol-numbed brain.

  As they stepped into the trailer, one of the athletic trainers grabbed a gauze pad and slapped it on a split in Joe’s knuckle. “You’re dripping. Wipe it off, then I’ll see if you need stitches.”

  Wyatt leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “What he needs is a rabies vaccination.”

  The trainer’s head whipped around in alarm. “It’s a dog bite?”

  “No,” Joe said.

  “Close enough,” Wyatt said. “He cut it on Lyle Browning’s face.”