Cowboy Crush

by Liz Talley

  Cal nodded. “I always play fair with the bulls. I owe them that. And they don’t owe me a damn thing but a hard ride. A healthy bull brings a better score if you do your job right.”

  Wyatt pulled on the helmet and stepped onto the lower slat of the chute.

  Hal Sawyer moseyed over. “You ready, kid?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Sawyer. I was born ready, born to do this like Cal was.” Wyatt grinned, looking somehow younger in the bull rider protective gear. His borrowed chaps flapped around his thin legs the same way they had when he was a kid playing cowboy in the front yard.

  Cal didn’t miss the flicker of doubt in his old friend’s eyes. “Let’s see it, then.”

  Wyatt scrambled up and hoisted himself over the fence. Cal couldn’t see an ounce of fear in the kid, which was both admirable and scary. Cal leaned over and helped get the rope adjusted around the girth of the bull, double-checking the position, shaking the bell down.

  Cal’s stomach contracted with nerves as his brother stepped over the back of the bull that bumped against the chute. Wyatt slid the loop down under the belly just as Cal had showed him, cinching the rope tight so the rosined part sat in the correct spot. Then the kid tied the rope off like a pro. The bull didn’t like the tightening and twisted its head. Cal wanted to reach over and pluck the kid out, refusing to let him ever climb back in the chute again. But he knew that wouldn’t work.

  He helped Wyatt position his hand, pressing at his abs. “Get the posture right, Wy. Chest up. When he dips low, use your legs.”

  Sawyer nodded to the ranch hand standing in the small dirt arena, making sure he was ready to swoop in and distract the bull when the rider came off.

  “You call it, kid,” Sawyer said, tugging his stained ball cap down and signaling the ranch hand managing the gate.

  Wyatt looked at Cal, his brown eyes filled with excitement, with something Cal recognized—determination. The kid nodded. “Cal taught me good. I’m ready.”

  The ranch hand released the gate and the bull did what it was supposed to do—exploded into the arena, jerking Wyatt. The kid’s hand went up but came quickly back down as the bull kicked its back legs. The bull arched into the air, clearing a good foot of air beneath him. Roaring back to earth, the bull spun 180 degrees. Wyatt bounced around like a crash-test dummy, arm flailing, legs flying. A second later his brother went flying over the head of the two-year-old beast. Wyatt hit the ground and then scrambled to get out of the way as the bull turned, head down, coming for him.

  “Move, kid,” Sawyer muttered under his breath.

  Cal felt sour acid rush into his throat. His legs felt like jelly. He’d watched hundreds of guys get tossed in the arena, but he’d never been related to any of them. He’d seen horns puncture sides and hooves sinking into muscle and never felt one bit sickened. But this was his kid brother. Fear pressed against him, squeezing him in its vise grip.

  “Goddamn it,” Cal yelled, scrabbling over the fence. “I’m coming.”

  Sawyer caught hold of his leg. “The boys have it, Cal.”

  Cal paused as Wyatt hightailed it, boots churning up the dust. One of the ranch hands pulled the bull’s attention away and the bull turned, lowered his head and bore down on Wyatt’s savior who spun expertly out of the way. The escape gate bounced against the metal enclosure and the bull headed toward it, the promise of hay waiting.

  Wyatt ran for the fence, scrambling over almost directly opposite where Cal and Sawyer stood. The boy’s straw hat sat smashed in the center of the arena, the only casualty on the ride.

  “Jesus,” Cal sighed, slinking off the top of the fence with relief. He’d never felt so hopeless as he watched the kid hit the dust and have the bull turn on him. Cal wanted to be nonchalant, like he knew this was part of the sport and the toss-off was run-of-the-mill. But for some reason it didn’t feel that way.

  Hal Sawyer let out a rusty laugh. “Different when it’s your kid. Aw, I know he ain’t yours, but it’s the same concept. Probably have to clean his shorts, but he’s fine.”

  “Right,” Cal said as he headed toward Wyatt. Rounding the corner he saw the kid grinning and his heart sank. The kid hadn’t been rattled in the least.

  “Woo,” Wyatt said, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. “That was crazy, man.”

  Cal nodded, unable to find his words. He wanted to lecture him but also wanted to praise him for having the balls to ride. What route should he take? He’d been so sure riding a bull would scare the shit out of his little brother that he hadn’t planned on something to say when the kid beamed up at him happy as a pig in sunshine after the two-second ride.

  Sawyer came on his heels. “Good ride, kid.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sawyer. Scared the hell outta me, but I loved it. It’s like a rush I’ve never felt before.” Wyatt dusted himself off and grinned at Cal. “Now I know why you do it.”

  And Cal could see Wyatt did understand the euphoria, the challenge, the need to win. Ruth Whitehorse was going to kill her oldest son. “Yeah.”

  Wyatt slapped Cal on the back. “We could be a family dynasty, right?”

  Cal was silent, managing a nod.

  Sawyer grunted, eyeing Wyatt. “How tall are you, son?”

  Wyatt’s grin flickered. “Uh, I’m nearly six foot.”

  “And not through growing,” Sawyer noted, his expression growing serious. The older man knew Cal’s concerns, though Cal had not come out and asked the old cowboy to pop Wyatt’s bubble. Something hot flashed across Cal’s gut because he knew the man was going to do what he could not. “I’m not sure you’ve looked around PBR and the PRCA, but most bull riders are squirts. No offense, Cal.”

  “None taken,” Cal said.

  “Ain’t many six-foot riders and most of them started riding when they were little things. I ain’t saying you couldn’t do it. You got guts, but you have some things stacked against you. It’s a hard life—ask Cal.”

  Wyatt looked over at him. “I thought you liked being a bull rider. All those girls, all that money, being on the road. You’ve always made it sound pretty damn good.”

  Cal nodded. He had always made his life sound good. He figured it helped his mama to know he wasn’t lonely or missing her bad cooking. He’d never wanted her to know how crappy he felt nursing a concussion alone in a hotel room or scrabbling to find a few dollars so he could wash his clothes in the laundry mat. So he embellished. “I don’t have regrets. But it’s rough sometimes. Lonely.”

  “So?” Wyatt shrugged, walking toward the equipment shed that cast a fat line of shade onto the dusty ground.

  Sawyer turned to Cal. “I got the boys pulling Sunny D. He’s the grandson of Disastrous D and he’ll give you all you want.”

  “Ranker the bull the better. I haven’t ridden in months and need the best you got,” Cal said with a smile. He didn’t feel like smiling, of course. He felt like a man awaiting execution for some reason. Which was insane. He’d never feared a bull. Whichever one he drew, he rode. No complaints. No qualms. Just a healthy dose of respect for the power of the beast and the damage it could do.

  But today he felt different.

  Because he knew he wasn’t even close to 100 percent. In the past he’d ridden with a bum knee or a few stitches in the side of his head. He’d ridden with a cracked rib, wrists banged and bruised, and once he’d ridden with a cast on his forearm. But the shoulder felt different—sharp pain that took his breath at times and limited range.

  The ride would hurt. No doubt about it.

  Fifteen minutes later, he tightened his rope and fit his gloved hand beneath the loop, gripping the freshly rosined tail, staring at the curved horns of the massive beast beneath him. The bells on the side of the bull quivered, much like Cal’s gut.

  “Get him off the gate,” Sawyer cautioned as Cal settled his boots against the flanks.

  “Got him,” Cal said, giving a nod.

  The gate pulled and Sunny D shot out, a cannon unloading into the dusty Texas afternoo
n. The bull bucked hard, leaping, twisting. Cal hung on, allowing his body to anticipate the bull with a naturalness that came to him. He’d done this a thousand times before. Hold on, move. An airhorn sounded. Cal gave a perfect dismount, rolling into the dirt, springing up to look for Sunny D bearing down on him. Instead the bull trotted toward the exit.

  Scene. Roll tape. Action. Cut. Couldn’t have been scripted any better.

  “Hell, yeah!” Wyatt gave a fist pump. Sawyer and his ranch hands wore grins. Cal felt as though he could vomit. The pain was bad, the adrenaline soaked him with sweat that had nothing to do with the hot sun bearing down on them. His legs wobbled as he managed to jog to the perimeter and pull himself onto the fence near where everyone looked on.

  “You looked good,” Sawyer observed, clasping his hands together. “Not top form, but Sunny D looked atypically sluggish. How’s the shoulder?”

  Hurt like hell. “Little stiff but good.”

  Wyatt slapped him on the back. “Man, you rode that son of a gun like a mofo.”

  “That’s just one bull.”

  “Still,” Wyatt said, looking at the crushed cowboy hat in his hand. Cal’s gaze stuck on the ripped fibers, bashed and dirty from the bull’s hooves. Was that how he’d looked after Rasputin had gotten through with him?

  No. He was Cal Lincoln, two-time world champion, a top money earner and resilient cowboy who covered bulls. He wasn’t damaged goods. He could live with the pain. Not like he hadn’t done it before.

  “Thanks, Sawyer, for letting us grab a ride today.”

  “My pleasure, though I have to admit I wish my bull would have performed better, but I like having riders on my stock. Anytime, fellas.”

  “Let’s go back to Coyote Creek, Wy.”

  * * *

  A WEEK PASSED. Then another. Maggie worked on the house. Charlie, Wyatt and Cal helped her. Floors got refinished, and she painted the exterior a fresh white and added crisp navy shutters. Window boxes were filled with heat-tolerant coreopsis that spilled out, and roses gave a color splash to the whitewashed fence. Cal erected the American flag off the shady porch with its new rocking chairs and porch swing. The Triple J had gone from looking like a crack house to looking like it could grace the cover of Country Living.

  The box with Bud’s ashes in it stared down at her from the top of the pantry like a gynecologist’s appointment circled on her calendar. Maggie eyed it several times a day, wondering when she’d get up the nerve to do what she’d promised. It sat waiting, reminded her time slipped away. Soon she’d sign papers on the sale of the house and bid her bull rider adios.

  The thought made her heart ache.

  But what could she do?

  The closer the date Cal would leave got, the more strained their relationship had grown. They’d not even made love last night. After a dinner of nachos in front of the TV, she’d fallen asleep. She could blame it on the new plush couch or the fact she’d been exhausted from spending the day working in the flower beds. Cal had woken her and she’d shuffled off to bed. When she’d awoke that morning, she discovered he hadn’t slept with her last night. She’d been alone.

  For a moment, lying in the soft dawn light, she’d experienced a loss so severe she couldn’t breathe. Her hand moved over the pillow on the left side of the bed—the side he’d chosen for the past month without even asking—and her heart broke apart.

  The agreement for a “mutually beneficial, no strings attached” relationship had backfired on her. Because even though they would end as planned, it wasn’t going to be painless. No “all the fun, none of the heartache” Cal had promised. She hadn’t gotten fat by indulging in a frolic with Cal, but she’d gotten hooked. Her cowboy was a drug. And come Monday—a mere five days away—she’d start rehab. A hard time lay ahead.

  Compounding the loss of Cal would be the loss of the Triple J. Though she’d tried to keep perspective, she’d grown to love the place. Bud had been right. It was the sort of place a person found himself or herself. The grasses blowing in the hot wind, the lazy spin of the windmill on the neighboring ranch and the sight of a horse, old as she was, trotting in the early morning dawn was salve to any soul. She’d miss Wyatt with his sleepy morning hair sticking up and the cows that trudged over the hill each evening, coming in for their feed and fresh water. Heck, she’d even miss the irascible Charlie with his weird truck and taciturn manner. And the kitty girl she’d named Tussy after the little witch scratched her. The kittens hadn’t even been born yet. What if Maggie never got to see the wee things?

  Five days.

  “Maggie,” Cal called from the front porch.

  She set her iPad down. “What?”

  “Mom’s here to see the house,” he called back.

  Maggie leaped up and started clearing away the dishes left out at breakfast. Cal had stomped in for coffee around seven o’clock and left the creamer out. Papers she’d used yesterday to line the floor while she chalk-painted the cabinet in the guest bath sat in a jumble. But then she paused at the absurdity. At that moment she’d reacted like a daughter-in-law might have acted. Like she was part of a regular family.

  But they weren’t a family. She didn’t even rank as girlfriend. Hell, technically she was Cal’s boss. She sat the cereal bowl down with a clunk.

  Pushing out the swinging door, she donned a smile. “Hello.”

  The older woman turned. “I can’t believe how incredible this place looks. You two ought to take this act on the road.”

  “In another lifetime,” Cal said gruffly, looking hot and tired. He, Wyatt and Charlie were painting the pens. A real estate appraiser would be out soon to do a valuation so Maggie could give Hunt Turner a number. He’d already sent an inspector who’d suggested some conditions. One was the state of the pens. That had pissed Cal off and sent him on a mission to make the pens pristine. “I’m out. I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”

  “It’s me and you,” Ruth said to Maggie, taking her elbow. Maggie had met Ruth only briefly one day when they stopped to pick up Cal’s mail. The woman treated her like an old friend.

  Ruth’s effusive praise warmed Maggie as she escorted her around the completed rooms. Ruth specifically oohed over the kitchen, not seemingly bothered by the mess left on the counters. “This range is gorgeous. Not that I cook all that much.” Ruth ran a hand over the stainless steel.

  “I love to cook, but when you’re a party of one, takeout is easier,” Maggie said.

  Ruth grew thoughtful. “Maggie, what are your thoughts about Cal’s shoulder?”

  Uh-oh.

  “He’s doing well,” she said neutrally.

  “Has he talked to you about it?” Ruth pressed.

  “Not really. He told me there was a tear that needed repairing, but he’s been training and doesn’t seem to be having issues.” There. That was the truth. No need to mention he often woke at night in obvious pain...or that she’d discovered a new prescription for pain pills...or that Cal grew thunderous when anyone mentioned any concern with his shoulder. He’d nearly taken Charlie’s head off for asking how it felt yesterday. She wasn’t going to tattle to his mommy.

  “Hmm,” Ruth said, drumming her polished fingertips on the new granite. “His surgeon is more than concerned. He doesn’t feel like his shoulder can hold up. I had hoped I might talk you into bringing it up. Perhaps, probing a bit to see if he might consider having the surgery.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because he cares for and respects you. I can tell. He’s never had a woman in his life he trusted other than me and he doubts my motivations. But he trusts you.” Ruth walked toward Maggie and placed a hand on her arm, squeezing. “Please. He’s so stubborn. I don’t want him to end up crippled or disabled or dead because of stubborn pride.”

  “I don’t, either, but I don’t have the right to manipulate him that way.”

  “Oh, not manipulation. Just out-and-out telling him he’s a fool.” Ruth sounded as though she teased her, but her eyes, ones so similar to Cal’s, were r
ock steady. The woman actually intended Maggie to work on Cal and get him to follow doctor’s orders.

  “I can’t do that, Mrs. Whitehorse.”

  “Ruth,” she said, dropping her hand. “And why not? Don’t you love him? Or at least care about him? You don’t understand bull riders. They get on those bulls when they can’t even see straight. Some of them die because they don’t have the sense God gave a billy goat.”

  Fear curled in Maggie’s stomach. Again the vision of Cal crumpled in the dirt, a drooling bull scooping him up and tossing him into the air, bloomed in her head. Would Cal riding with an injured shoulder lead him to misjudge things during the ride? Would his balance be off? Would the pain cloud his decision-making in the arena? Maggie didn’t know. She didn’t know anything about the sport of bull riding other than it was dangerous and required a cocksure, experienced cowboy. “I understand your fears, but you should talk to him. You’re his family.”

  “I have. He gets angry, lies to me about the pain. He’s always been unreasonable, and you seem such a reasonable girl. Like you could talk a snowman into buying ice cubes.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Just a little talk about making wise decisions. It could make a difference.”

  Maggie knew she couldn’t convince the woman she had no sway over her son so she nodded. “I can try.”

  “Oh, good. I’ve been so worried about him. You know, he’s headstrong like his father. Whatever Dave wanted he was going to get and to hell with everyone else. But Cal’s been different these last weeks. He seems more at peace. More comfortable around me and Wyatt. He’s never realized how much he’s belonged here. I guess I don’t want him to end up like his father, always searching, never thinking about others. He needs a home, a place he feels safe. I think he feels that way here with you.”

  “You know I’m selling this place, right? That I’m going back home?”

  Ruth stepped back. It was obvious she thought differently. “But what about Cal? I thought you two were—”

  “We’re not what you think we are, Ruth.”

  “I have eyes. You two are in love.” Ruth looked at Maggie like she was an idiot for not seeing something so obvious. But what Ruth saw was her son in a relationship. Of course the relationship was as temporary as the tattoos Maggie used to slap on her arm each summer, but Ruth didn’t know that. She saw what she wanted to see.