Each of the thirty calves had a number affixed to their rump. Three wore zeros, three wore ones, three wore twos, up to nine. A number was randomly drawn when the riders entered the arena and announced after the flag was raised, signaling the start of their time. Until then, the riders didn’t know which three calves to cut from the herd.
Noting unique identifying marks helped. Anything to shave seconds off the team’s time. One number seven had a crooked ear. One number nine sported a white patch on its left shoulder. The black two and brown four constantly hugged the fence.
If her team drew any of those numbers, she’d point the calf out to Deacon. While he went after it, she’d locate a second calf with the same number and be ready for her turn.
A lot of strategy. When it came to team penning, some said calf-smart was more important than horse-smart. Liberty thought it was a combination of both.
The announcer’s voice blared from the overhead speakers. “Thirty seconds remaining.” With only one calf cut from the herd, the team currently competing had better hurry.
Their last-ditch efforts, though admirable, fell short. They ended the allotted sixty seconds with only two calves in the pen and officially out of the running.
“Team one-oh-four.” Cassidy’s voice blared from a bullhorn. “One-oh-four. You’re on deck.” She exchanged the bullhorn for a two-way radio and spoke into it. Part of her job during penning competitions was to maintain constant contact with the announcer’s booth, which happened to be manned tonight by their parents.
Funny, Mercer wasn’t with the livestock. That was typically the livestock manager’s job. Not that Walter wasn’t more than qualified to handle it. But Mercer had said he wanted to learn the ropes.
Apparently being with his ex-wife took precedence. More than ever, Liberty was convinced her mother was receptive to the idea of reconciling with Mercer. Already this week they’d conferred with a contractor regarding repairs to the barn and arena and traveled to Tucson to check out a stud horse for potential breeding—all part of Mercer’s goal to expand the bucking operation.
Questions continued to haunt Liberty. She believed her mother would be more willing to answer them if she was on better terms with Mercer. Anger at him was what had motivated her lies in the first place.
“Ready?” Deacon asked when Cassidy called their team on deck.
“Let’s do this.” Ricky nudged his horse forward.
The team currently competing was performing well. Their time would be the one to beat. Liberty studied Deacon rather than the calves. The furrows creasing his brow looked less like concentration and more like anger.
What had happened today? She’d seen him coming out of the office right before he joined her. Had he met with her mother or researched more records? Liberty had gotten busy immediately after that and forgotten about it up till now. Maybe she should have paid closer attention. Especially if they wanted to win tonight. Distractions were costly.
Speaking of which...she promptly took her own advice and got into the zone. As an employee of the arena, she didn’t share in any winnings. If her team placed, her portion of the proceeds went to a fund that sponsored youth riders.
Donating her share didn’t lessen her desire to win.
Okay, Mercer was right. She was a little like him in that she’d inherited his competitive nature. Just like her brother and sister.
One of the wranglers swung open the gate. It was their cue to enter the arena. Riding three abreast, they started down the length of the arena at a slow, steady walk. The pen stood to their right. A row of panels hooked together created a barrier to aid in driving the calves into the pen.
At the midway point, a flag was raised and the announcer called, “Number two, number two.”
Deacon and Liberty broke into a trot. Ricky stayed behind, his job to keep the rest of the calves away from the pen and the number two calf—once collected—in close proximity. “Eleven o’clock,” Deacon called, giving the location of the first calf.
“Four o’clock,” Liberty responded, pinpointing a second one.
Almost immediately, the number two calves bunched up behind their buddies and hugged the wall. This was not going to be easy. Liberty relied on her mount’s natural abilities. The gelding moved as if an extension of her body, responding to the slightest pressure from her legs or hands.
Deacon pulled on his reins and veered left. The small huddle of startled calves sprang apart. Number two made a dash for freedom. With heart-stopping accuracy and skill, Deacon cut the calf from the rest and drove it along the arena fence to Ricky. The crowd in the bleachers cheered. Regardless of whom they were there to support, they respected good technique when they saw it.
It was Liberty’s turn next. She kept her number two calf in constant sight while also watching Deacon. Relaxing her hands, she let the gelding do his job, correcting him only when necessary.
The calf zigzagged. Liberty and her horse stayed on him. At the exact right moment, she separated the calf from the herd and headed it down the arena. More applause sounded from the bleachers.
Only one calf remained. Deacon was already in motion. In less time than before, the calf was loping toward the others. Ricky rounded them up, holding them near the pen until Liberty and Deacon arrived. All three riders had to push the calves into the pen for the run to qualify.
The buzzer went off, and Liberty’s glance traveled to the board. An instant later, their time appeared, along with their ranking. Second place. Not bad.
“Bueno, mis amigos.” Ricky raised his hand for a high five.
She returned it enthusiastically, then said to Deacon, “We make good partners.”
His reply was to ride ahead.
“Something the matter with him?” Ricky asked as they exited the arena through the gate.
Across the way, the team waiting to go next discussed last-minute strategy.
“Not sure,” Liberty said, intending to find out. Catching up with Deacon at his truck, she demanded, “What the heck’s wrong with you?”
He hauled the saddle and blanket off his horse and stowed them in the truck bed. The bridle came next.
“Don’t you even care how we did?” Talking to him from atop her horse was stupid. She swung down and, doing precisely what she’d warned her nephew not to, dropped the reins. “We’re in second place.”
Brush in hand, he stopped just short of running her over. “You can give my share of the winnings to the youth riders, too.”
“What’s bothering you? Tell me,” she insisted when he began vigorously brushing his horse.
“Nothing I can talk about with you.”
“Because it involves my family,” she guessed.
He moved to the horse’s other side.
“My mother,” she concluded, thinking Deacon wouldn’t have gotten this upset with Mercer.
“And your sister.”
Ah. That explained a lot. “Those two can upset anyone.”
He didn’t concur, just continued grooming his horse.
Nice hands, Liberty thought. Large and strong and well shaped. She’d touched them. The back of one to be specific. And she’d felt them gripping her arms and waist when they’d kissed.
What would it be like to hold one between her own hands, their fingers linked as they walked side by side? In some ways, that would be more intimate even than kissing.
“I asked her some questions about the accident.”
So much for contemplating hand holding.
Her gelding took a few steps toward Deacon’s mare, his nose extended for a sniff. Liberty didn’t care as long as they played nice. No nipping or kicking.
“What did she say?”
Deacon threw the brush in the truck bed. “That she also didn’t think I left the gate open.”
“Then
why are you angry?”
“She still let me take the fall. Said she had to protect your family and the arena.”
Liberty sighed. “My mother’s like that. Willing to hurt one person if, in her mind, it protects another. Heck, she lied to me my entire life. For my own good, according to her,” she added with a bitterness she felt to her core. As much as she loved her mother and tried to understand why she’d done what she had, Liberty still struggled with forgiving her. “I realize that’s no consolation.”
Deacon untied the mare’s lead rope with a hard yank. “I need to walk her out.”
“I’ll go with you.” She stooped to retrieve her horse’s reins. Luckily, the gelding had behaved himself. Otherwise, she’d have a lot of explaining to do.
She and Deacon didn’t talk during their first circuit behind the barn. Eventually, he broke the silence.
“I placed a lot of calls today to former Easy Money employees and got nowhere.”
That accounted for his mood.
“Talking to people is a good idea.” She gave him a pointed look. “You just didn’t pick the right one.”
“I’ve already asked Walter,” Deacon said. “He doesn’t remember much about the accident.”
“Not him.” Liberty paused and waited for his gaze to meet hers. “Ernie Tuckerman.”
To his credit, Deacon didn’t react. “I told you already, he won’t see me.”
“How do you know?”
They stopped at the tack room, where Liberty tethered her horse to the hitching rail.
“Our last conversation wasn’t pleasant,” Deacon said. “I visited him in the hospital the day after the accident.”
“What happened?”
“He accused me. I called him a liar. And a name or two I won’t repeat in the company of a lady.”
“We all say things we regret when we’re mad. He may not hold a grudge against you.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?”
“Actually, he comes to the arena now and then. He’s always nice to us.”
“Because he doesn’t blame you for what happened.”
“Talk to him,” Liberty urged. “He’s the only one who saw the entire accident.”
She would have bet money on Deacon refusing. Apparently he wasn’t as easy to read as she thought.
“Fine.”
“Really? When?”
“Saturday. I’m tied up with work until then.”
Beaming broadly, Liberty said, “Great! Make it in the afternoon, and I’ll go with you!”
Chapter Eight
Deacon had completely lost it.
What other explanation could there be for letting Liberty accompany him to Ernie Tuckerman’s sorry-looking single-wide trailer in a run-down RV park? It had been her idea, and he wouldn’t be doing it without her insisting. Still, he should have come alone.
Ernie might feel less threatened with only one person questioning him. Questioning, Deacon reminded himself, not confronting. Then again, Ernie might be more comfortable with someone he knew and, according to Liberty, was nice to.
“Did your mom ever talk to Ernie about the accident?” Deacon asked.
Liberty turned away from the passenger window to answer him. “She was in on the interviews with the insurance investigator.”
“Did Ernie cooperate?”
“He must have. He blamed—” She stopped short.
“Me.”
Great. All signs pointed to this adventure going awry big-time.
Deacon parked on the side of a dirt road traversing the center of the RV park. There was only one tiny space beside each trailer. Ernie’s was occupied by an older model ready-for-the-junkyard sedan.
“Whoever said Reckless doesn’t have a wrong side of the tracks is mistaken,” he commented.
Liberty opened her door. “This place wasn’t always such a trash heap. The previous owner kept it kind of nice. He died, and his wife hasn’t been able to manage things on her own.”
“Too bad. It’s a decent location. Has she ever considered selling?”
“I don’t know her well. Mom does. Her husband used to serve on the school board with Mom.”
The address numbers attached to the side of Ernie’s trailer hung crookedly. Crisscrossing tears had left a star-shaped hole in the lower half of the screen door. Years of exposure to the sun had faded the original tan color of the trailer to a bland white. Deacon didn’t let himself think about what the inside looked like.
On the stoop, he rang the doorbell. No chime sounded in return.
“Try knocking,” Liberty suggested.
He did. Instantly, the deep bark of large dog sounded from inside the trailer. A few moments later, the door rattled as a series of locks was undone. The excessive security was probably completely unnecessary. All anyone wanting inside had to do was pry open one of the flimsy windows.
The door continued to rattle, and the dog’s barking increased. Deacon’s gut clenched. He hadn’t told Liberty on the ride over how nervous he was about meeting Ernie, but, unless she was completely self-absorbed or incredibly insensitive, she’d probably guessed as much.
Her suggestion to talk to Ernie was a good one. He’d thought of it before. Several times since his return. But he’d always dismissed the idea.
Because he was afraid.
As much as Deacon believed he’d shut the gate on the bulls’ pen, a very small part of him allowed for the possibility he had forgotten. Finding out the accident really was his fault scared him.
“Remember,” he warned Liberty in a low voice, “I do all the talking.”
“Sure, sure,” she whispered.
He wasn’t buying it.
The trailer door suddenly opened, accompanied by a whoosh of air from the evaporative cooler mounted in the window. Ernie stood there, staring at them through the screen door and holding a huge Rottweiler by a chain collar. The barest flicker in his expression was all that gave away his alarm at seeing them.
“I’m busy,” he said over the sound of the barking dog. “What do you want?”
“To talk,” Deacon coaxed, employing his best attorney demeanor. “If you have a few minutes.”
“About what?”
“Can we come inside?”
“No. I got company.”
If he did, the company was staying out of sight. Or couldn’t be heard over the dog. Deacon thought the excuse was more likely fabricated. Nonetheless, he respected the man’s wishes.
“I could come back later,” he suggested. “At a more convenient time. Or meet you in town. Buy you a beer at the Hole in the Wall.”
That stirred a reaction in Ernie. It was quickly followed by a vehement head shake. “Can’t. Car’s not running.”
“He can pick you up,” Liberty interjected.
Deacon silenced her with a warning glance.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Ernie’s gaze narrowed as his voice rose. “I’m not going with you until you tell me what you want.”
The dog lunged at the torn screen door. He’d have come through the hole if Ernie didn’t have a firm hold on his collar.
Liberty flinched.
Deacon instinctively put himself between her and the dog. “I see now how the screen was damaged.”
“Leave it, Samson,” Ernie commanded. “And be quiet.” As if a switch had been flipped, the dog instantly sat and stopped barking. Twisting his giant head around, he licked the part of Ernie’s arms he could reach. “Good boy.”
Deacon was impressed. Maybe Ernie wasn’t such a bad guy after all. He had suffered a grave injury that left him partially disabled. That would turn anyone into an ill-tempered recluse.
With the dog subdued, Deacon moved closer to the door. “I w
ant to discuss the accident.”
Something flashed in Ernie’s dark eyes. With the screen between them and partially obscuring Deacon’s view, it was hard to determine what. Anger? Resentment? Hatred?
Possibly. In addition to his physical injuries, Ernie probably suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. It was common in people who’d survived serious injury, and Deacon bringing up the past could have triggered a reaction. Without professional counseling, and with lingering injuries, Ernie might still be struggling to cope.
He’d been a handsome young man, though it was hard to tell that today. And talented. Too bad he’d also been cocky and overconfident. He’d been one of Deacon’s tormentors. The worst, in fact, often egging his pals on to greater heights.
Funny how their lives had changed. Deacon ventured a guess that neither of them had ever figured this was where they’d be eleven years later.
“What about the accident?” Ernie demanded.
“I’m trying to piece together what happened.”
He visibly tensed. “Why?”
Deacon debated his answer, then settled on the truth. “I believe someone other than me left that gate open. May have even intentionally sabotaged the gate to get back at me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Another possibility is they were targeting you.”
“Me!” He rocked unsteadily on his bad leg.
“I thought if we sat and talked, had a beer, you might remember more about the day of the accident.”
“I remember all I need to. I was standing by the bull pen when all of a sudden, Heavy Metal came charging through the gate and ran over me like I was an empty pop can in the road. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Liberty pushed her way closer to the door. “Why were you standing by the bull pen?”
More Than a Cowboy (Reckless, Arizona) Page 10