by Laura Drake
“Why waste your time on a guy who probably won’t be alive on Monday?”
Another jumps in. “I’m a team-roper. We never get hurt. Will you go out with me?”
“No.”
I sneak a look over my shoulder. She’s smiling.
Score! No woman I ever met could resist a charming cowboy.
Including me.
I know Austin’s routine. He’s over shooting the bull with the guys, stretching and getting ready. If he bought lunch, it was from another vendor—I haven’t seen him. “Longing” is a pale shadow of a word compared to this thing…this feeling that I don’t have a name for. Like a magnet in my chest, pulling, always pulling. I haven’t found a way to turn it off, or ignore it. It’s there all day, every day. But especially at night; like in the dark, it goes searching. It finds him and pulls him into my dreams.
I swipe sweat out of my eye with the back of my wrist. I survived the fallout from that night in Albuquerque by putting the past behind me and facing forward; time to do that again.
* * *
Austin
Shane cinches my bareback rigging on the broomtail in the chute, turns, and claps me on the shoulder. “Go get him, Dude.”
The rodeo dog I had for lunch churns in my stomach. I know better than to eat before I ride. Too late now. I climb the chute and settle on the fidgety gelding.
Focus or die.
I shove my hand in the rigging, banging my fingers closed with my other fist. I scoot up, lean back, rest my spurs on the point of the bronc’s shoulder, and nod.
The horse rears out of the chute, and I’m balanced, lying back, until the first jarring thump of his front hooves. Then I pull my knees up…Toes out, toes out…Mud slaps me in the face; my neck explodes in a burst of pain from the whip. The bronc duck-dives away, heading right for the fence. There’s a roar. I don’t know if it’s the crowd, or it’s in my head. My hand is loosening, every buck, every—
Clang!
I lift my face out of the mud, thankful my knees hit the metal fence before my face did. Get up. Never let them see you…The world wobbles, and my knees follow. Black dots dance at the edge of my vision. Someone grabs my elbow. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Leggo.”
I swipe mud out of my eyes. When my knees firm up, I limp for the gate.
I’m too old for this shit. Bareback is the hardest event on a cowboy’s body. The best ride, you’re a rag doll, flopping around.
“Shit, Austin. You okay?” Shane knows better than to help if I don’t ask, but he’s hovering.
“Yeah. God, it’s a mud bath out there.”
“Bad luck that arm-jerker headed for the damned fence.”
“No shit.” I put my hand to my neck, and roll my head. No permanent damage, but this is going to hurt like a mother tonight. “You’d better get ready; you’re up in a few.”
He walks off, and I limp for my gear bag. Twenty-nine is ancient for this event. I need to quit bareback. But if I do, my chances for purse money go down.
But wait…My brain kicks in. Without Carly, I’ve got no reason to save anymore. All the joy has gone out of my dream of starting a rough-stock business. C&A is nothing without the “C.” Maybe I’ll just go to work for Dad, like he’s wanted me to, forever.
The sunny future I had planned now looks like a long, gray day. Forecast—icy rain. When I hunker beside my bag, my knees pop. Goddamn, that hurts.
Screw it. Ice and Jack Daniels will fix anything that’s not broken.
* * *
Carly
“Aw, come on, ladies.” Jake Straw, a bullfighter, stands leaning on the counter while we clean up. Well, him and five other cowboys. “There’s a beer truck, and a live band tonight. You don’t wanna miss this.”
Yeah, I do. After being on my feet all day, all I can think of is a hot bath, and bed. It’s got to be the bean that’s sapping my strength; I’m usually raring to go about now.
“I can vouch for most of these guys. They’re gentlemen.” He looks over his shoulder. “’Cept Skank Lewis…He’s a little sketchy.”
“Hey!” Skank’s offended shout raises a laugh.
“But luckily, I fight two-thousand-pound bulls for a living. I can protect you.”
I snap at his arm with a dishtowel. “Quit oozing all over that counter. I just cleaned it.”
“Aw, Carly, you don’t mean that. You tell Nevada how sweet I am, willya?”
Nevada is watching them out of the corner of her eye. They’re watching her butt sway as she cleans the grill.
I step over to her and lean in. “These are nice guys. You wouldn’t have to worry about any of them.”
“Huh,” she chuffs. “Do I look like I’d be scared of a couple of good ol’ boys?”
“Then go. Have a good time. I’ll finish up here.”
She shoots a look back at the guys. “You’re not coming?”
“Nah. I want a bath and a nap, and I don’t even care which order they’re in.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.” I turn back to the window. “Someone who is sober will need to drive Nevada back to the hotel. Do you think any of you can promise that?”
Pete Stevens raises his hand. “I can. I’m not old enough to drink yet.”
“Okay, Nevada says she’ll come. But she’s a city girl, and doesn’t know all y’all’s ways. So, anybody gets out of hand, you’re gonna answer to me, y’hear?”
“Yes’m, Carly.”
“We’re perfect gentlemen.”
Nevada steps up beside me. “I can about guarantee we’re not going to have a problem.” Snick!
She holds up a switchblade and the light flashes off the wicked steel.
The guys take a step back.
I hiss at her, “Jesus, Nevada. Put that pig sticker away. You’ll scare them off.”
Her smile is mostly mischievous, with a sliver of scary as she pushes the blade back in.
Oh, she’ll do just fine.
Chapter 12
Carly
So, did you have fun last night?” I’ve managed not to ask until we’re getting set up at the rodeo. I keep my eyes on the counter and wipe. I know if I make a big deal of Nevada coming in at one a.m., she’ll close like Unforgiven after the sun goes down.
She sniffs. “Considering I was two hundred miles from any kind of civilization, surrounded by a bunch of dumb cowboys, it was okay.”
“Sweet, you witch. You’re not going to give me any details?”
“Nope.” She turns her back, displaying today’s T-shirt slogan: WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU, DISAPPOINTS ME.
I shouldn’t expect miracles.
The announcer begins his sound check. I glance to the arena, watching for broad shoulders and long legs. There are lots of them over there, but not the ones I want to see. The magnet in my chest pulls hard, and I rub my knuckles over my breastbone to ease it.
“You got heartburn? I hear that when you’re—” Nevada shoots a look around. “you know…that you get that a lot.”
“Nope.”
She follows my glance. “You want to go watch today? I can handle it.”
“Nah, but thanks.” I turn back to rearranging cellophane-wrapped sweets. This trip has been too drama-filled and painful to be a visit to my glory days, back before I knew the yoke of responsibility, or that, someday, I’d need more than this.
I sigh, and move on to filling the chip clips.
We lived in the moment back then, not sparing a thought that those days would someday end. But they have; at least for me. I don’t belong here anymore. I may not know what the future looks like, but this is my past—I feel the fact solid as a chunk of quartz.
I try to remember that last rodeo Austin and I shared, but find that I can’t. All of them coalesce into a sum of the moments I remember. You often don’t know when something is the last of its kind. I can’t decide if that’s a blessing, or a curse.
And that makes me sad.
I’d love to go find Austin. To see him, just once more in his el
ement. This element that used to be ours. But we’ve said everything. And that makes me empty.
Will I look back someday and see Austin as my past as well? I don’t want to believe it, but before this trip, I didn’t think I wouldn’t fit in at the rodeo, either.
Looking back now, I can see that this time on the road has been an interlude. A time to say good-bye to the old, accept today’s reality, and—dread, like a bolt of electricity, shoots down my spine. Tomorrow, I go home.
To tell Nana and Papaw, about who their granddaughter really is. To decide how I’m going to tell the town.
To face whatever happens next.
* * *
Carly
By two o’clock the rodeo is over, and Nevada is standing by my bike waiting for me to get ready. A dusty four-by-four pulls up to the food truck and Shane rolls down the window. “Hey, Carly. Yo, Nevada, you going to be at the Roundup in Clovis next weekend?”
Her high ponytail swings with her head shake. “Don’t know. Don’t look that far ahead.”
His smile droops. “Well, maybe I’ll see you there. Buy you a rodeo dog?”
She sighs and sweeps an arm over the truck. “Do I look like I need you to buy me a hot dog?”
“N-no, but—”
“If I’m there, you can explain this bulldogging thing to me. I don’t get it.”
His smile cranks to blinding. “Be proud to. See you there.” He floors it, kicking up mud and fishtailing his way to the main road.
Nevada watches until his truck disappears. “God, they’re immature.”
“Yeah.” I check the bungees holding my duffel to be sure they’re tight. “But they’re damned cute, aren’t they?”
“Marginally.” She pulls a map from her back pocket. “Now what’s this hairball idea you have?”
I show her on the map. “We’ll go back to Ruidoso, then take 70 south to 244, to 82 and take it west.”
“Why are we taking the long way to Alamogordo?”
“It winds back through the mountains. I hear it’s just gorgeous.”
“But way longer.”
“Come on, city girl. We’ve got until noon tomorrow to drive seventy-five miles. You need to take a back road now and again in life.”
“Oh, all right, if it’ll make you shut up about all the Rocky Mountain High shit.”
“You won’t say that after you see it.” I throw my leg over and settle on the seat. “And thanks for the ear worm.”
She tips up her nose. “Oh, that’s a song?” She walks to the truck, tosses the map on the passenger seat, and pulls herself behind the wheel. “Lead on, biker chick.”
The main road snaking through Ruidoso is packed with tourists. Since the truck usually breaks trail, I’m doubly careful, watching for traffic pulling out. But when we hit 244, the divided road becomes two wide lanes that lead up into the mountains.
The bike seems to float over the pavement and easy, sweeping curves make my right wrist itch to bury the throttle. But a glance in the rearview of the truck lugging along nixes that. There’s almost no traffic, so I’m able to take in the towering Ponderosa pines, the brick-colored soil, the cotton-ball clouds. The fringe on my dad’s jacket flips in the brisk wind, but the sun is warm on my shoulders. I smile, realizing I’m humming a tune from the guy with the floppy hair and round glasses. What was his name?
We pass the entrance to the Inn of the Mountain Gods, the Mescalero Apache Ski resort and casino. There’s a funny kind of irony there. We used to tempt them with trinkets. Now they tempt us with chips. I hope they’re making a mint off the tourists. We crest the long, steep hill and the road levels out. Nevada flashes her lights, then pulls off the road. I pull over, shut down the bike, and walk back to her. “Isn’t it beautiful here?”
She’s frowning at the dash. “The truck is overheating.”
I look in the window. The temp gauge is pegged in the red. “Did you have the A/C on?”
She rolls her eyes and tsks.
“Just checking.” I pull off my helmet. “It’s probably from climbing that huge honking hill. We’ll have to wait until it cools. Should be fine.”
“Hope so.” She looks around. “We’re in the butthole of nowhere.”
“Nah, not yet. Didn’t you see the casino back there?”
“Proves my point. They only gave the shitty land to the Indians.”
“My Nana would say, you’d bitch if you were hung with a new rope.”
She frowns. “Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m starving. I’m going to make a sandwich while we’re waiting. You want one?”
A half hour later, the little bean is fed, the engine has cooled, and we’re back in business. A handful of miles up, I take the turn onto 82. It’s a small two-lane road that winds through trees and mountain meadows so green they hurt your eyes. Tiny creeks bisect them, root beer–colored water tumbling over rocks and deadfall. When I sweep around a corner, fifty feet into the meadow, a doe raises her head. I point so Nevada doesn’t miss seeing it, then slow a bit. That’s as close as I want to get to a deer. I’m sure she’d agree.
Five minutes later, I’m singing at the top of my lungs when I glance back. No truck. Jesus on a skateboard, what now? I pull over, check both ways, duck-walk the bike into the opposite lane, and head back the way I came. She better not have hit that deer…
The truck is on the side of the road, steam shooting from under the hood, water spraying below. This can’t be good. I ride slowly past, repeat the duck-walk maneuver, and pull off the road ahead of it. This is more than a fifteen-minute stop. I put my helmet on the gravel next to the bike, shrug out of my jacket, and hang it on the sissy bar.
Nevada yells out the window, “Where the hell did you go?”
I walk to the front of the truck. “I was communing with my Zen. Pop the hood.”
Steam billows when I open it. “Oh, shitsky.”
Nevada stands next to me. “It must be bad. That’s the closest I’ve heard you come to swearing.” She glances at me. “Well, except for the Costco Conflict.”
I give the engine compartment a quick glance. “The only way Cora’s baby is getting out of the mountains is on the end of a tow chain.”
She peeks in. “How do you know?”
“The water pump is trashed. Can’t you see?”
“I don’t know a water pump from a breast pump. How do you know?”
I unhook the support arm, and drop the hood. “I grew up on a farm. You learn to fix things with bubble gum and cat hair.”
“Well, we’ve got the gum. No cat hair, but maybe you could go ask that deer…”
“Very funny. I’ll go get my phone and look up the nearest tow. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and there’s one in Cloudcroft.”
“I’ve gotta pee.”
“Well, have at it.” I retrace my steps to the bike.
“There’s no bathroom.” The small voice comes from behind me.
I stop. “You’re kidding me, right? You have like eight zillion trees here, and no traffic. Go in the woods, city girl.”
She eyes the trees. “But what if there’s bears?”
“Oh, for cripe’s sake. If there are, they’re only little black bears. They’re not going to bother you.”
“You mean there could be bears?”
“Where’s all that tough now? Take some napkins from the truck and go take care of business. If a bear comes, you can scare it off with your sarcasm.” I point to the trees. “Go.”
She snatches some napkins from the console and minces her grumbling way into the woods.
By some miracle, I’m able to get two bars, but that’s where our luck runs out. The closest tow service is—
“IIIIEEEeeeeeee!”
My head snaps up at the Psycho-scream and my feet are beating pavement for the truck, my heart trying to crack my ribs. From the terror in that yell, this is not a drill.
I find the trail in the wet grass that Nevada made going in and follow it, full tilt. Barely inside the t
ree line, she almost barrels into me, running as fast as a human can with their pants around their ankles.
I grab her shoulders to keep her from falling. “What? What is it?” I don’t see claw marks, but the terror in her eyes isn’t faked.
“I’m bit! A rattlesnake bit me!” She whips her head to look behind her.
“Where? How do you know it was a rattler?”
“Back there.” She points back into the trees. “I may have never seen one before, but even I’ve seen a Western movie. I know the sound.”
“I mean, where did you get bit?”
She turns her back, so I can see the puncture wounds on the back of her right thigh, about three inches below her butt. “Oh, shit.”
She whips around and grabs my arm. “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”
“You’re not going to die.” But this is not good. We’re fifteen miles of mountain roads from Cloudcroft, and it’s so tiny, I doubt there’s medical help there. No vehicles have passed since we’ve stopped. “What the hell were you thinking? You never pee in the woods without looking around first.” My fear comes out garbled, more like anger.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” She reaches to pull up her shorts, then thinks better of it, and throws her hands in the air. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Every woman on the planet knows that.”
“Well, I don’t, dumbass! I’m from the Houston projects. All the snakes there have two feet.”
My mind clicks through the scenarios. Most of them don’t end well. “Jesus F. Christ, Sweet, if you’d actually open up and communicate, someone might—”
“Are you saying this is my fault? You’re the hick, you should’ve—”
“Hey, I’m not the one with holes in my butt. You’re responsible for your own booty. I can’t think of everything!”
“Everything? Really?” She leans in, her face inches from mine. “Since when do you think of anything besides yourself?” She lays the back of her hand against her forehead. “Woe is poor widdle homecoming queen me! Life didn’t turn out like I planned. Boo the fucking hoo.” She’s breathing hard and if looks could do it, I’d be dead meat.