Peggy Dulle - Liza Wilcox 04 - Saddle Up

by Peggy Dulle

  Next was the bronc rider event. Davis was there doing his job as the pick-up man, helping the riders off who were able to stay on for the entire eight seconds. I yelled for Shelton and Jody who both stayed on the horse but got different scores. Shelton got 78 and Jody an 82. I flipped through the program and learned that half the points are awarded based on the cowboy’s technique and the other half is dependent upon the horse’s bucking ability.

  They have some kind of strap across the horse’s middle which gets released by the pickup man after the eight seconds or after he has thrown the rider. Is that what makes the horse buck? Does it hurt the horse? I flipped through the program and found my answer. A flank strap is used to alter the bucking action of the horse by encouraging him to kick out straighter and higher with his hind legs. It doesn’t hurt the animal in any way. It is hung very loosely and very far forward on the bronc waiting in the chute. It is not pulled tight until the very last seconds before the bronc takes his first leap into the arena. It is never tied and loosens with each buck of the horse.

  Thank God for the program or I wouldn’t have any clue what was going on at the rodeo.

  I noticed a disturbance in the crowd milling around the vendors and glanced over. People were coming up to a stocky, muscular cowboy and shaking his hand. He looked toward the arena seats.

  I would know those pretty blue eyes anywhere. Tom was wearing blue jeans, boots, a striped Western shirt, white cowboy hat and a belt with a huge buckle. I like the man in a uniform but the cowboy outfit fit him just fine, too.

  Two young girls stepped in front of him, both pulling up their shirts exposing their bellies. He stopped short. The one with long blonde hair handed him a pen. He wrote something on each of their bellies and walked around them.

  He was stopped five times by people on his way to the seats. If it was men, they would shake his hand and talked to him for a few minutes. If it was a girl, they gave him a pen and had him sign a part of their body. What the hell was going on?

  He spotted me a few seconds later and started toward me. The next five people who came up to him, he ignored and kept walking.

  He tilted the brim of his hat up with his index finger and said, “Howdy, ma ‘am. Is this seat taken?”

  “I don’t know. I was saving it for my fiancé but since you’re some famous cowboy who everyone wants to talk to and have you sign their bodies, I guess I have to let you sit here.”

  Two young women, dressed in halter tops, jeans, and cowboy hats were walking toward us and I said, “Here comes more.”

  Tom turned and glared at them. They immediately backed away and left.

  “It’s nothing.” Tom leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

  When he sat down, I said. “I thought karaoke and golf were your only secrets.”

  “I don’t have secrets,” he insisted.

  I pointed to the buckle that had a bucking bull and rider on it.

  “I won a few events when I was in college,” he said.

  “Let’s not trivialize what you did,” I said. “I want the whole truth. How many events and why does everyone want to talk to you and sign their bodies?”

  “I was PBR World Champion two years in a row.”

  “That sounds like a big thing.”

  Tom shrugged. “There have been many before and since.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “What?” Tom looked around.

  “That means all your scars are from falling off a bull. I had fantasized about cop scenarios that had caused them.”

  Tom eyes glistened and he said, “You fantasized about my scars?”

  I blushed, realizing that I had, once again, said my thoughts out loud. I wonder if I was slipping into Alzheimer’s already.

  “Let’s talk about it later.”

  “I’m holding you to that, Liza.” He turned toward the arena. “What have I missed?”

  I gave him a play by play of the events.

  At halftime, the clown from the luncheon entertained the crowd with his dog tricks. They had a cowboy outfit contest for the local young kids. A three-year-old girl won with her pink cow-printed vest and skirt with silver fringes around the bottom. Under the vest was a shimmering pink, long-sleeved shirt. The outfit was accented by a white belt with silver tassels and a pink cowboy hat. It was very cute and she was adorable.

  Next was something called “Mutton Busting” and there were ten local children participating in the event. The children had their parents standing behind them when they were introduced. The crowd yelled and clapped for each. The last child introduced was Tanya Mullins. Her father, Henry, raised his hat at the introduction and then I noticed Grace Banner stood next to him. She was dressed in denim jeans, black t-shirt embossed with an American flag, and brown boots. It was quite a subtle outfit compared to what I saw her in yesterday. The man next to her must have been who Priscilla and the ladies at her table had been talking about. The man might be in his forties but he certainly wasn’t old enough to be Grace’s father. Had she dressed for the visit to the lawyer or because of this man?

  Mutton Busting was the scariest thing I had ever seen. Small children, maybe five to eight years old, enter a small chute and are placed on top of a sheep. Once the child is seated atop the sheep, the sheep is released and starts running all over the arena trying to get the child off. Thank God the kids were wearing helmets because they fell off backwards, sideways, and occasionally were trampled by the sheep.

  “I think this is the best event in the rodeo,” Tom laughed, pointing to a young girl who was being placed on a sheep.

  “Tell me when it’s finished,” I said and closed my eyes.

  When I opened them, Tom said, “I guess our kids won’t be riding any sheep.”

  “Not in my lifetime,” I told him. “I bet the legal waiver is five pages long that these parents sign just so they can have their child participate in that barbaric event.”

  Tom put his arm around me and smiled.

  “What?”

  “That’s the first time I’ve mentioned kids that you haven’t flinched.”

  I turned and looked at him and said, “I’ve made some decisions about that.”

  Tom’s eyebrows shot up.

  “But I suppose, this isn’t the place to discuss it. I’ll tell you later.”

  Before he could comment, a young girl, maybe ten, came up and sat next to him.

  “You’re Tom Owens, right?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “My dad says you are the best bull rider there’s ever been.”

  “Not really,” Tom told her.

  “Did you actually get a score of 99?”

  “Once, but you’ve got to remember half that score is for the bull, not me.”

  “What was the name of the bull?” she asked.

  “Terminator.”

  “Like the movie?”

  Tom nodded.

  “So who lost the one point, you or the bull?” she asked.

  “Probably me.”

  “My brother rides bulls, too.”

  “Is he competing today?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’s third up. His name is Jackson Hayworth. He pulled a bull named Violent Storm. Is he a good bull?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom told her.

  “Is Jackson staying at Sheryl Ann’s house?” I asked, wondering how many Jacksons there could be who rode bulls.

  “Yes. My whole family is here but Sheryl Ann doesn’t have enough rooms for all of us. We’re staying with the Costellos. My parents used to know them before we moved away from here.”

  “Tom and I are staying there, too.”

  “Jackson didn’t tell me that you,” she pointed to Tom and continued, ‘were there.”

  “I asked him not to say anything.”

  “Can I have your autograph for my dad?” She handed him a napkin and a pen.

  “I’ve got something better for you.” Tom slipped off his belt and handed it to her.

  Her eye
s widened and her face morphed into a huge smile. “You’re giving me your PBR World Championship buckle.”

  “I’ve got another one at home.”

  “Thanks, but what about your autograph?”

  Tom turned the buckle over and it was engraved with his signature.

  She jumped up and ran away, carrying the buckle close to her chest like it was worth a million dollars. Maybe it was?

  “That was nice of you,” I told him.

  “It looked like it means more to her than it ever did to me. I just started bull riding because Pam wanted to be a Rodeo Queen.”

  “And then your competitive nature kicked in and you did it until you became the best. I’m surprised that you did it for two years.”

  Tom smiled. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. “How much money does a World Champion bull rider get?”

  “I pulled in close to two million the first year and three the next, mostly from endorsements.”

  I started coughing.

  “Didn’t know I was a rich guy, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Of course, Pam got half of it.”

  “Community property?”

  “Yep, but I had enough left to buy my property, have a house custom built and put some away.

  “I had to live with my parents for three years and save every dime, just to put the down payment on my townhouse.”

  “I guess you should have learned to ride a bull,” Tom suggested, then laughed and pulled me close. “I’ll give it all to you if you’ll tell me what decisions you were talking about earlier. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “No, I want a nice romantic dinner with candles and some chocolate melting cake. Then I’ll spring it on you.”

  “Okay, now I’m scared.” He frowned.

  “Why?”

  “The last time you had chocolate melting cake people kept getting killed around us.”

  “Oh that reminds me, I forgot to tell you a few things.”

  While a truck came into the arena to set up barrels for the Barrel Racing event, I told Tom about Ray Jenkins’ death, seeing my dad at the parade, the FBI agents crawling all over town and what Justin had found out about Blue Stripe Enterprises.

  The Barrel Racing was not as exciting as the bronc riding or team calf roping, but it was fun to watch and I found myself cheering the horse and its rider to move faster. Tom laughed at me when I leaned my body back and forth along with the horse. Bull riding was next and I didn’t even need the program because Tom would be able to explain it all to me.

  The first rider was Henry Trexler from Texas. He was a very short stocky man. He wore a helmet and several pads on his knees and elbows. After listening to Tom’s injuries it seemed like a very good idea. He got on the bull inside the chute and the bull, named Thunderdome, thrashed up and around already trying to dislodge him.

  When the gate to the chute opened, I held my breath. It was scary to think that Tom used to do this as I watched the bull kick, spin, and buck. When I glanced over at Tom his eyes were intent on the rider and I did see a forgotten longing in them. I guess you never get over something that was an exciting or important part of your life.

  My heart beat faster as the clock seconds spun downward. At exactly two seconds, the bull wrenched his head to the right and threw the rest of his body to the left. Henry flew over the bull’s massive horns and landed just two feet in front of the angry bull who lowered his head and headed straight for the rider. I held my breath afraid that he would be gouged by the horns or trampled by the bull’s huge hooves. But the clown and several other men dressed in brightly colored pants ran over and distracted the bull, so the rider could get up and limp from the arena. It was very exciting to watch the men open the gate and have the bull charge out trying desperately to buck the rider off.

  The next rider did better, lasting the entire eight seconds and then getting a score of 78.

  “That’s all? Only 78?” I asked Tom.

  “The cowboy did everything right. He definitely showed constant control and good body position throughout the entire ride. His score was probably in the forties. Did you see how he was spurring the bull?

  “Spurring the bull?”

  “Yeah, it’s when the rider touches the bull’s back flanks with his feet.”

  “So it was the bull’s fault the score was so low?” I asked.

  Tom nodded. “The bull was kind of sluggish coming out of the shoot, didn’t change directions very much and certainly never did any body rolls.”

  “Body roll?”

  “It’s when the bull is in the air and kicks either his hind feet or all four feet to the side. The more of these a bull displays during a ride, the higher the mark is for the bull. The judges should let him have a re-ride.”

  “Re-ride?”

  “The bull’s score was so low that it affected the cowboy’s score. If he wants he can ride again on a different bull after everyone else has gone.”

  “Will he?”

  “It depends on what the other’s score. If he thinks he can beat the top score, he probably will go again.”

  Jackson stayed on his eight seconds and got an 86.

  “Is that good?” I asked.

  “Yes, he might have a high enough score to win.”

  “How much do you get at a single event like this?”

  “In a little rodeo this size, maybe $2500.”

  “Not bad for an eight seconds ride,” I told him.

  “It’s to pay for all your medical expenses. During the two years I participated, I broke my right hand and both wrists, injured my pelvic bone, was gouged by a bull’s horns on my back, stomped on by one, and had three concussions, not to mention the bruises and scratches I received that didn’t require stitches, x-rays or casting.”

  After two more riders, the rodeo was over for the day. Everyone was invited to a dance back at the Saddle Club and then the mass of people got up in unison and walked toward the exit. It was organized chaos and I always prefer to let most of the people get out of a place before I even stand.

  “Let’s go to the dance,” I told Tom.

  Before he could answer one of the agents I saw but hadn’t met from earlier in the day sat next to Tom.

  He leaned in and whispered something to Tom who laughed and turned to me.

  “Agent Bart Souza wants to ask you a question but he doesn’t want you to ask for a lawyer again.”

  “He can ask anything he likes, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to answer.”

  Tom turned to the agent and said, “Go ahead.”

  The agent leaned forward and said, “We know that your dad is already here. The pickets started early this morning at the power plant and the lagoon.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Okay, we’ve also heard that there is some discontentment in the group’s ranks. We just want some simple information. We don’t want you to tell us anything that might lead us to your father, but we are afraid something bigger than he can control is going to happen here in Ridgedale.”

  “Spit out the exact problem, Agent Souza,” Tom said.

  “There’s a core group of ten that have always been together and then there are five or six new members that are a bit more radical than the others.”

  “How so?” Tom shifted closer to the agent.

  “Her dad’s group is always very careful about collateral damage. In fact there are several agents that would applaud what they do, but these new members are only interested in making a big statement. They don’t care who gets hurt.”

  “And how am I supposed to help you?” I finally said.

  “Talk to your dad.”

  “That’s not going to happen with all your agents following me all the time,” I told him.

  “I’ll find a way to get them pulled off for tonight.”

  “I thought the other agent was in charge. Agent Brown wasn’t it?”

  “Peter is, but h
e’s only focused on your dad. I want to make sure that lives aren’t lost this weekend.”

  “If I see my dad, I’ll ask him,” I told him. I wasn’t even sure if my dad was in town and not at one of the two rallies.

  “That means that you’ve got to get lost, too, Tom. Her dad won’t come around with you in the picture, either.”

  “I just got here. I’m not turning around and going any place.”

  “How about this? I tell Agent Brown that you’ve seen her dad and are willing to go around with him to the two rallies and see if you can spot him. It would mean lives would be spared and isn’t that the most important thing?” he pleaded.

  Tom looked at me and said, “I just got here. It’s your call. I’d rather have a nice candlelight dinner with you and have chocolate melting cake for dessert than spend even a minute with Agent Brown.”

  I looked at the agent and said, “Put your fingers in your ears. I don’t want you to hear this.”

  The agent complied immediately. You’ve got to love well trained men.

  “What’s up?” Tom asked.

  “My dad couldn’t come up yesterday because he was having some problems with the group, so this agent might be telling the truth.”

  “Wait, that means that you really were here without either your dad or me yesterday.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m fine. I think I’d like to talk to my dad about this. Would you mind spending some time with Agent Brown? I promise you that dinner and dessert later.”

  “You and I have some communication issues. You always conveniently forget to tell me some things.”

  “Sometimes they’re for the best reasons,” I told him.

  Tom frowned and held up his pinky finger. “I want a pact right now. You are not to accidentally on purpose forget to tell me something.”

  I started to interrupt but he held up his hand and continued, “even if you think it would be better that I don’t know. I want to be the judge of that.”

  “But what if you don’t like it?”

  Tom narrowed his eyes at me and said, “What could you do that I wouldn’t like?”