The True Father

by Steven Anderson Law

  I escorted Bella to the gate area, then joined Jeremiah and Jodie in the VIP seats. We sat just to the right and above the chute area, and luckily for me, in plain view of Boyd and all the other cowboys as they prepared for their event.

  Though I could hear their heckles, I did my best to ignore them and watched the barrel racers as they performed.

  Jeremiah leaned to me. “You mind telling me what's going on?”

  “Nothing I can't handle.”

  “That might be foolish of you.”

  I figured I might as well appease him. “Boyd has this thing for Bella, and I guess I'm in his way.”

  “I see. Well just remember that you've entered another world down here, and cowboys like Boyd like to protect their turf. Especially when they feel intimidated.”

  “Yeah, and it's my fault.”

  “Why is that?”

  “At first he wanted to fight, but I talked him into a different method to settle our differences.”

  “What method was that?”

  After I told Jeremiah the complete story, all he could do was laugh and finally agree that I had myself in a genuine cowboy predicament.

  “How do I get myself out of a 'genuine cowboy predicament'?”

  “There's only one way, and that's play along until you're both tired and call a truce.”

  “I guess Jettie never had the chance to call a truce.”

  This comment seemed to catch Jeremiah off guard. “How does this have anything to do with what happened to your pa?”

  “It all started with a dare. If Jettie would have just walked away he'd be alive today.”

  “Yeah, you're right. But there's a big difference between having a little fun and going so far as to risking your life. Those young bucks that dared your pa were dumb and foolish. They knew how to get Jettie riled and they get their amusement out of seeing people get hurt.”

  “Somehow I think Boyd is the same way. He's not going to stop until he sees me bleeding and cowering like a child.”

  “Then that's where you need to stay sober and keep your head on straight.”

  “Well, then I guess I have nothing to worry about.”

  Jeremiah chuckled and patted my shoulder. I'm sure he believed me, but I'm not so sure I believed myself. Not only did I have the pressure from Bella to settle matters with Boyd, but I had this new desire to be more like Jettie, even if it meant taking over his dares.

  Nineteen

  Bella did fabulous in her barrel racing event, scoring a 16.12 and the best ride of the evening. We all met her in the livestock area to congratulate her. I had found a vendor selling roses and bought her two; a yellow one for the win and for the friendship that she had shown me since my arrival, and a red one for the love she had shown my father. I didn't bother explaining the color association to her, I figured that their common symbolic meaning was already enough. Regardless, I could see in her eyes and from her smile that she appreciated the gesture.

  The next event was the saddle bronc competition and Jeremiah explained to me the history of how it all began on the ranges of the Old West, and how it evolved to such a renowned contest. The image of the bucking horse and the cowboy that rode it brought back memories of the painting by Frederic Remington in Jeremiah and Jodie's living room. I was impressed by the painting then, but even more so now as I observed the portrayal in action.

  After the saddle bronc competition, the calf roping event took over the arena. Having spent so much time sorting them on the ranch, I recognized every one of the little critters that came charging out of their special tunnel. I even felt a little sorry for the harmless creatures as the cowboy charged after them on his horse, threw a rope around their neck, then jumped off and tied their legs together with a rope that he'd held in his teeth. Jeremiah said the rope in the cowboy's teeth was a “piggin' strang”, which had me a bit perplexed, not just from his dialect, but wondering where the pig came into the picture. But I just let it go.

  Regardless of the treatment of the calf, the method and talent of both roper and horse were very impressive. The coordination that had to be required to ride and throw a rope, then jump off, keep one's balance and manhandle the animal to tie its legs together, would place anyone who had never seen it before in a state of awe. But if those weren't enough reasons to be impressed, to observe how the horse stepped backward and kept the rope tight for the cowboy as he tied the calf, really had me shaking my head. This event alone gave me an added appreciation for the people and animals of this sport.

  After the conclusion of the calf roping event, hard rock music began to play over the loud speaker, and the announcer added a bit of excitement to his voice which made all the fans stand up and cheer.

  It was time for the bulls.

  Jeremiah wanted me to get a little more from this next event than just a good view from the VIP seats so he took me down to the chute area where all the cowboys prepared to ride. Boyd appeared to be a little surprised to see me, but even more so when Jeremiah asked him for a minute of his time.

  “What's up, Jeremiah?” Boyd asked with a slight quiver in his voice.

  “Let's cut through the shit, Boyd.”

  I already disliked the situation. I felt as if Jeremiah was trying to deal with my problem, like an overprotective daddy, and even a city boy like me knew that such a stand could turn out to be a political nightmare.

  Jeremiah continued. “Now I don't know what you and Trevor got against each other, and quite frankly I don't give a rat's ass. But if you ever fuck with any of my livestock or tack again I'll make sure you never ride another bull in a PRCA organized event. You understand, cowboy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And don't forget, them's my bulls you're ridin', so the game you started is one you'd never win.”

  This made Boyd swallow, and then he nodded.

  “All right,” Jeremiah said. “Now if you and Trevor want to beat the shit out of each other, then go do it. Just keep it out of the goddamn arena.”

  Though it seemed that Jeremiah didn't try to fight my war, I don't imagine he really was too concerned about his tack or livestock. Nevertheless, the differences between Boyd and I were still very much in the open and yet to be resolved.

  Boyd gave me a hard stare then went back to his fellow cowboys. Jeremiah and I climbed up on a gate and watched the bulls come down their narrow isle and into their designated chute.

  “You wouldn't really do anything to Boyd's bull, would you?”

  Jeremiah grinned. “No, but he don't know that.”

  The beastly animal that came in the chute below us snorted and pounded his stubby horns and sinewy flesh against the fence rails and I could feel the vibration all the way to my bones. Jeremiah said that he was an F1/Brindle, which F1 described the breed, the first result of mixing two purebreds, and brindle the tan and grayish, almost tiger-like streaks of its hide. He also said the bull's name was Rock Solid.

  A stocky young cowboy rested his feet on a rail on each side of Rock Solid. Black leather chaps with fancy red and white lettering and red fringe hanging from the edges covered his short legs. He wore a straw cowboy hat with sweat stains above the hatband, several dirt stains on the brim, and a small rectangular Bud Light logo stuck on the side of the crown. The evening air was muggy and sweat beads had formed on the cowboy's forehead and were now starting to run down his face. Over his plaid western shirt he wore a thick black vest, that looked similar to a bulletproof vest I'd seen cops wear in the movies, which also had Bud Light logos on the front and a paper sign pinned on the back that indicated the cowboy's contestant number.

  Once the bull seemed to settle, the cowboy lowered himself onto the animal's back. The bull let everyone around him know that he disapproved of the cowboy's position by jerking his powerful body against the fences and trying to buck. I watched the cowboy closely—the intensity in his facial expression was enough to realize just how serious an attempt like this was, and also how much courage was required to follow through. It
also made me think of Jettie and his fatal ride, and how a drunk person had no business on an animal like the beast below me now.

  The cowboy gripped his left-gloved hand under a handle on a rope somehow attached behind and around the bull's thick, bulbous neck. With his free hand, he beat on the rope to make sure the tightness was to his liking, then raised the hand above his head.

  “Remember, Freddy,” another cowboy said to the rider. “This bull just likes to buck.”

  Freddy nodded. “All right, let's do it.”

  Tom Sawyer by Rush played over the loud speaker, the gate flew open, and the bull had almost turned a full circle into the arena before the gate swung completely open. Clowns tried to tempt the bull but it seemed to ignore their presence. Like the coaching cowboy had said, Rock Solid bucked with very little spin action and Freddy handled the ride like a champ.

  When the whistle sounded, Freddy jumped off and landed on his feet and raised his hands in the air. The bull snorted and flung a long string of saliva at one of the clowns but eventually saw the open gate and took his temperament back into the stock area.

  The announcer asked the crowd for a round of applause for a great ride from Freddy Jiles of Waco, Texas. But when the official score came across the scoreboard the crowd booed, and Freddy kicked dirt with his boot and walked out of the arena an angry cowboy.

  “Is 88 a bad score?” I asked.

  “No,” Jeremiah said, “but it's not good enough to win.”

  “I don't understand. If he rode the full eight seconds, then why didn't he score better?”

  “A lot depends on the judges and what the bull does, but I can tell you right now that Freddy didn't spur enough. He read the bull well and came out of the chute real good, but he rode lazy.”

  “So he scores better if he rams the bull with his spurs?”

  “In this case I'm sure he would have.”

  We watched two other cowboys position and mind themselves only to get thrown before the eight second whistle. Unlike Freddy's ride, they both were defeated by the bulls unpredictable maneuvers.

  Then came Boyd's turn to ride. He drew a bull called Midnight Storm, a black Angus and Brahma cross, which Jeremiah said was also very unpredictable and a lot of spurring wouldn't be necessary. “It would be a major accomplishment just to say on this one,” he said.

  Boyd went through the typical psyche ritual, which I'm sure any man would need in this type of challenge, and I wondered if Jeremiah's recent scolding effected his concentration. But like his show on the mechanical bull, he squirmed and positioned himself, took several deep breaths, and seemed intently focused.

  Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard played over the loud speaker. After the gate flew open the bull darted straight out of the chute as if powered by a rocket. But Boyd must have anticipated this move because he rode it perfectly—his body anchored to the bull and his free arm stood high above his head. Then the bull twisted and bent his mammoth body as he bucked, creating a ride that in no way compared to anything a mechanical bull could do. Then it spun, like a dog chasing it’s tail. But Boyd persisted and the crowd announced their wow with standing applause, which he likely used as fuel to help him last the full eight seconds.

  He fell off the bull landing on his hands and knees and stirred a large cloud of dust underneath him. The clowns did a perfect job distracting the bull and lured him away from Boyd and out of the arena. Boyd jumped to his feet, raised his fists and grimaced like a gladiator to the crowd. They cheered him on and when the score came across the board, the announcer called out the large number that flashed in green digitized dots.

  “How about a big 93 for the kid from Oklahoma!”

  The arena rumbled from the crowd's excitement.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “That was a damned good ride,” Jeremiah said.

  After a series of exhibitionist type gestures to the crowd, Boyd came back to the chute and eventually looked my way. Though I knew very little about the sport and what was required to accomplish what he had just done, all I had to do was absorb the energy around me to know that it was something spectacular. With that in mind I could do nothing more than offer him a thumbs up and a slight smile.

  He slowly nodded back to me, which I hoped was a sign that he knew he'd earned my respect, and that maybe there was no more need for the child's play that had previously taken so much of his energy.

  Later in the evening, Jeremiah and I walked through the stock area and I saw Boyd with several other cowboys. By the way he gestured with his hands and body, he appeared to be telling the cowboys about the picture-perfect ride. But when we approached, and they alerted him to our presence, the show stopped and all turned quiet.

  “That was a mighty fine ride,” Jeremiah said, shaking Boyd's hand.

  “Thank ya,” Boyd said.

  He seemed hesitant at first, but he accepted my hand as well.

  “Very impressive,” I said.

  His face grew firm, as if he were a little uncomfortable. “Appreciate it,” he said.

  I nodded to him and walked away with Jeremiah, and after a couple steps took a long, deep breath.

  “Handled that like a man,” Jeremiah said.

  “I just had to settle it and this seemed like the perfect time.”

  “I don't think you've settled anything, yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “He may have made a good ride, and you've probably made it harder for him to continue being an asshole. But there's still the real challenge.”

  “What's that?”

  “Bella.”

  “Bella? She was my father's woman, for Christ's sake!”

  “That don't mean shit. There's more developing between you two than just a friendship and you know it.”

  The more I thought about it, I supposed he was right. As strange as the situation was, Bella stirred my blood more than any woman ever had. She was talented and beautiful, and unlike Amber, when I held Bella there was something magical in her touch. I suddenly wondered if she felt that way too, or if there had been enough time for her to let go of Jettie and let someone else in. The more I thought about it, I couldn't imagine it being possible. And then there was Boyd. I had never been the type to fight over a woman who wasn't mine in the first place. Boyd seemed to try and stake claim on her as if she were some type of property out for the taking. It's my belief that a woman has a choice in the matter, but apparently Boyd didn't see it that way.

  Twenty

  Bella and Boyd went home winners, and both seemed to be at a positive momentum that could help gain enough points to qualify for the National Finals. I had learned that a lot of good things could come to a rodeo athlete who makes the finals. Besides extra income there was the possibility of sponsorship and also endorsements if they placed high enough in the ranks, especially if they became the champion of their event. Neither Bella nor Boyd had ever been there, but it was their goal every year, and this year was as promising as ever.

  But what I liked most was seeing Bella smile, which had been minimal since my arrival at Spiro. I was amazed at how much a simple win could put so much spring in her step.

  We had camped another night in Hugo and drove home Monday morning. Bella and I both helped Jeremiah unload the livestock and unpack and organize the supplies. This is the part about Rodeo that I assumed most spectators didn't see. All they saw was the contest, the show, and not the continuous rotation of work required to prepare and recover from such a weekend.

  Jeremiah parked the Sundowner beside the horse barn and Bella and I unloaded the tack while Jeremiah turned our horses to pasture. She looked very different today, wearing a tan cap rather than a cowboy hat, but her long black hair still flowed out beautifully and tucked behind her ears revealing small studded earrings. She also wore a white T-shirt advertising Justin boots, faded wrangler jeans frayed at the cuffs, and a pair of worn and scuffed work boots. When I entered the barn carrying a saddle she turned and smiled at me offering more of her new spir
it.

  After laying the saddle on its stand, I turned a large white plastic bucket upside down and sat on it then looked up at her.

  “It's real good to see you this way,” I said.

  “I feel good.” She hung a bridle on a hook then looked back at me. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel good, too.”

  “Learn a lot about the rodeo?”

  “Yes, I did. And I had a great time.”

  “That's good.”

  The tone of our conversation seemed different than any we'd had before, almost awkward. I supposed her new high put her on a different thinking level, and doubted the subject matter at hand was as exciting as the image of the road ahead.

  “I want to help you,” I said.

  “Help me what?”

  “You know, make it to the finals.”

  “I wouldn't know what you could do. It's pretty much just me staying focused, trained, and in good physical shape.”

  “I can help you with all of those things. If anything, just be here for you, for support.”

  “That's sweet. But that's not what you're here for. You're here to learn about Jettie.”

  “There's plenty of time for that, too.”

  She paused and smiled. “Okay.”

  I watched her continue to put things away, admiring her in every way. Not just her looks, but also in the way she took care of things. The meticulous way she organized the tack and put it in it's proper place. All that she did was done with so much pride.

  “You know,” I said, “you have an admirer.”

  “Oh, who?”

  I lowered my voice. “Big, bad, bull-ridin' Boyd!”

  She chuckled. “Oh, that's nothing new. He's been chasing me for years. Even when Jettie was around.”

  “What did he say about it?”

  This question seemed to take a little of her high spirit away and I was starting to regret asking.

  “He ignored every bit of it. He wasn't the jealous type and he never tried to control me. That's one of the things I liked about him and something that's so difficult to find in men my age.”