by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
“Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid I need to prepare for the rodeo this evening, and I don’t have time.”
Mr. Clark nodded. “I can understand that well enough, son. Maybe another time.”
“Sounds good,” Heinrick returned, a smile pushing at his mouth. He tossed a last glance at Lilly, one eyebrow cocked, and an inscrutable, almost teasing look pulsed in his eyes. Lilly gasped, and the blood simmered in her veins. The nerve of him, suggesting she was wrong and he could be accepted as a friend into their family! Well, her father didn’t know he was shaking hands with a German in front of the entire town. Lilly shot Heinrick a halfhearted glare. To her chagrin, Heinrick only gave her a delighted smile. Then he pulled on his hat again, spurred his quarter horse, and trotted toward the Torgesen T.
“Who was that?” gasped Bonnie, her eyes saucers.
Lilly produced an exaggerated shrug, turned away, and pulled Chris from Olive’s arms. Olive’s dark eyes smoldered. Lilly offered an innocent smile. She’d done nothing to encourage their father’s offer, and could she help it if Heinrick had been the only cowboy willing to lend a hand to a scared ten-year-old boy?
Heinrick’s comment puzzled her, however. He couldn’t possibly be riding in the rodeo, could he? Certainly, Mrs. Torgesen and Clive wouldn’t allow him off the ranch to share their little secret. She still hadn’t figured out how he’d come to work for them in the first place. But she would never know, because she would never ask.
The blistering sun was on its downward slide, and the heat was dissipating. Still, sheltered in a merciful trace of shade next to the Clark wagon, little Chris’s downy curls were plastered to his head in a cap of sweat as he nestled against Lilly. She’d spent the last hour watching her nephew sleep and harnessing her relentless obsession with the mysterious German. Thankfully, thinking upon the events of the fair gave her some respite.
Practically overnight, their little town had become a metropolis, including a fine display of motorized vehicles and parasol-toting French prairie ladies. Their stylish outfits seemed outlandish, however, among the handful of sensible farm wives who wouldn’t be caught dead at a picnic in spike-heeled boots and a suit coat. Even so, Lilly and her sisters wore their Sunday best: high-necked blouses, puffy sleeves with lace-trimmed cuffs, and empire-waist cotton skirts. Her mother had even dusted off her wide-brim fedora, saying, “It will keep my face out of the sun.”
The picnic started shortly after the race with a weight-guessing contest. Someone suggested they guess the weight of Erica Torgesen, who wasn’t there, fortunately, and the townspeople erupted in good-humored laughter. They resorted to guessing the weight of Hans Sheffield’s prize burnt-red duroc, and Lilly cheered when Frankie nabbed the prize with a guess of 942 pounds.
Since no one had a scale, they took the word of Hans, who was delighted to hand over the city’s prize—free lemonade at Miller’s. Frankie and a flock of boys migrated into town and started a stampede that lasted most of the day, until Miller announced he’d run out of juice.
The rest of the picnic continued with an array of harmless amusements from prairie dog chasing to pie eating to rock skipping in the shallow, muddy Missouri. Lilly stayed glued to Olive, watching little Chris and avoiding curious looks from Mobridgites who, she supposed, toyed with the idea she might have been kidnapped. Gratefully, she heard not a scandalous word, and, by the end of the day, Lilly decided the entire event had succumbed to a quiet, merciful death.
“I’m going home now.” Olive’s lanky shadow loomed over Lilly. “Are you coming with me?”
Lilly considered Chris’s sleeping form. His eyes were so gently closed they looked like film. Not a worry lined his face. A small spot of drool moistened her blouse where his lips were propped open and askew. Oh, to be so young, naïve, be gathered inside safe arms and believe the world was in control. “No,” Lilly said. “I’m going to the rodeo.”
Lilly ignored Olive’s vicious glare. She climbed to her feet, eased Chris from her arms, and gently handed him to Olive. Olive marched away, his head bouncing against her bony shoulder.
Lilly beat back the hope of seeing Heinrick and ambled toward the rodeo grounds.
Chapter 10
The rodeo grounds teemed with spectators, animals, and anxious cowboys. A pungent brew of dust, animal sweat, hay, and manure hung in the air. The familiarity of it moved a memory in Lilly and she couldn’t stop the twinge of guilt. Last year, it had been Reggie she’d come to watch.
Lilly spotted Erica Torgesen perched in all her green finery on the seat of her covered surrey and went to greet her.
“You’re looking wonderful tonight, Mrs. Torgesen,” Lilly said, grinning.
Mrs. Torgesen winked at her. “You’re an angel, Lilly. Already Alpha Booth from Eureka and Eve Whiting have asked for your name. And I gave it to them!” She clasped her hands together, beaming as if she’d just published her best apple pie recipe.
“Thank you,” Lilly replied before blending into the swelling crowd. Mrs. Torgesen’s reference could mean more business for her, which would in turn help her family. Glancing over her shoulder, she giggled, deciding the eccentric Norwegian resembled a queen upon her throne, peering over her subjects with her little bird in a nest.
Lilly threaded through the crowd to the makeshift bleachers, constructed from dead cottonwood and oak trees dragged from the drying riverbed. Those who didn’t want to sit on the skeletons of old trees found stumps or stood on the back of wagons.
Marjorie had commandeered for them a place on the upper branch of a wide peeled cottonwood at the south end of the corral. Lilly climbed aboard next to her friend just in time for the first event. Somehow, the town officials had rounded up more than a smattering of eager cowboys. A group of cowpunchers lined up at the animal pens, adjusting their spurs, straightening their fur chaps, and wiping the sweat from the lining of their Stetsons.
Ed Miller mounted the announcer’s platform and yelled over the audience. He read the names of the contestants for the steer wrestling competition. Twenty brave cowboys lined up, and, one by one, young steers were loosed. Lilly’s heart beat a race with the hazers as they kept the animals on course. She winced when the bulldoggers ran a steer down on horseback, tackled it, and wrestled the hapless animal to the ground. But the animals pounced to their feet, unscathed.
Occasionally, she broke her attention to search the stands for Heinrick. He was nowhere to be found.
The bulldoggers worked quickly, and a cowpoke named Lou out of Pierre took first prize. Calf roping was next, and another set of unlucky creatures ran through the gamut. Two cowboys from Rapid City won the ten-dollar prize. Sandwiched between events, a clown, Ernestine’s Willard, entertained the crowd with cornball antics. His real job was to protect the cowboys from dangerous, enraged animals. Lilly decided he was the perfect clown.
Frankie claimed fifth place in the youth barrel racing event on an exhausted Lucy.
The grand finale was bronco riding, and Lilly was shocked to hear Clive Torgesen’s name announced as a contender.
“I saw him bucked off a mustang just last week,” she whispered into Marjorie’s ear. Marjorie arched her brows in astonishment. Lilly knew Clive’s bragging often left an entirely different impression, so she nodded and returned a grim look.
From Ed Miller’s introduction, Lilly found out that Clive’s bronc, dubbed Jester, had a habit of slamming his body into the fence, squashing his rider’s legs. Lilly leaned forward on the branch and held her breath, suddenly thankful for Willard.
The bronc tore out of its pen like a frenzied bee, furious and craving blood. Clive made a valiant show and stayed on for five entire seconds. When Jester finally threw him, he hung in the air, as if taking flight upon a hot gust of wind, and the crowd held their breath in a collective gasp. When he hit the ground, Lilly heard his breath whoosh out as clearly as if he’d landed in her lap. The stands quieted while Willard raced after the bronco and quickly succeeded in snaring his loose reins. He pulle
d the skittering beast through the exit gate, then rushed to Clive.
Clive rose feebly to his elbows, and it seemed all of South Dakota erupted in a massive cheer. Even Lilly clapped, wondering how he’d managed to stay on that bronco.
The prize went to a fresh young cowpoke from Minnesota, Patrick Hanson. A congregational murmur of appreciation ascended from the stands. The rodeo had managed a decent showing.
Disappointment flickered briefly in Lilly’s heart. She doused it quickly, disgusted that she’d wanted to see Heinrick at all, let alone see him perform in a rodeo. But why had he lied to her father?
Ed Miller shot a rifle in the air, the sound creating a cascade of unhappy responses from nearby livestock, as well as mothers with sleeping babes. He held up his arms, and the crowd settled into expectant silence.
“Stick around, folks, we have a new event this evening! Fresh from Wyoming, where cowboys know how to ride the wind, comes—bull riding! This Brahma bull will make your blood curdle! One look at this beast will remind you why cowboys don’t ride bulls. We’ve even found three courageous cowpokes who will give it a go! Please welcome Lou Whitmore from Pierre, Arnie Black from the Double U, and Henry Zook from the Torgesen T!”
Lilly’s heart went dead in her chest. It couldn’t be. “Heinrick,” she whispered.
Marjorie shot Lilly a quizzical look.
Lilly sought out Erica Torgesen’s face in the crowd. The woman smiled and chatted with her neighbors, unaffected. Something wasn’t quite right. Maybe it wasn’t Heinrick….
Then, there he was, on the platform, next to Lou and Arnie, waving his hand to the crowd, his crooked grin flavoring his face with amusement.
What was Heinrick thinking? Those bulls had horns—sharp ones!
“Is that your Heinrick?” Marjorie breathed into her ear.
“He’s not my Heinrick,” Lilly hissed.
“Of course he’s not,” Marjorie said indignantly. “You know what I mean.”
Lilly bit her lip and nodded slowly.
“He’s got spunk,” said Marjorie in amazement.
“He’s going to kill himself,” Lilly replied, horrified.
Lou from Pierre sailed through the air. He landed with a grunt and scrambled to his feet. The bull raced after him like a dog to a bone. He swung his massive head, slashing the air, and missed skewering Lou by a hair as the bull rider dove under the fence. The Brahma’s bulky frame thudded against the corral. The wood cracked, the sound like a whip, stinging the crowd and extracting a chorus of gasps from terrified women and children. Marjorie covered her mouth with her hands and went ashen. Lilly clenched her fists in her lap.
Having dispatched Lou, the bull turned and memorized the horror-struck crowd, as if searching for his next victim. His black eyes bulged, furious. He breathed in great hot gusts. Fear took control of Lilly’s heartbeat. Heinrick was a greenhorn, a laborer from Europe, big but inexperienced. He would be, in a word, sausage. He was either a fool or the bravest man she’d ever met.
Arnie Black from the Double U fared worse than Lou. He escaped the bull’s razor-sharp horns only because Willard the Clown rolled a tall rain barrel in his direction. Arnie dove in a second before the bull grazed the backside of his britches. The Brahma rammed the barrel around the corral until it lodged under the bottom of a flimsy fence rail. Arnie scrambled out, breathing hard.
Willard, turning out to be a braver man than Lilly assumed, opened the exit gate and flagged the bull through where three cowpunchers herded him into the starting pen.
Heinrick straddled the pen, one leg on each side of the narrow stall. When ready, he would wind his hand under the rope that encircled the bull’s massive body and jump aboard. Lilly held her breath. Heinrick rolled up his sleeve, worked his ten-gallon down on his head, and tugged on his leather glove. His face was grim, his mouth set, and he didn’t spare a glance at the crowd. After an eternal moment, he slipped his hand under the belt and nodded. Lilly’s heart skidded to a stop.
The bull shot out of the pen, snorting, heaving his body as if possessed. His powerful back legs kicked; he threw himself forward, jerked his head from side to side, whirled and twisted. The stunned crowd was so silent, Lilly could hear Heinrick grunt as the bull jolted him. But he hung on. Five seconds, six. The disbelieving crowd began to murmur. Then the Brahma started to spin, a frenzied cyclone of fury. Lilly covered her mouth to seal her horror. How would Heinrick stay on for the required eight seconds? He would whistle off like a piece of lint, and the bull’s horns would spear him on takeoff. Lilly squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open.
Willard grabbed a red handkerchief and readied himself to dash into the ring.
Suddenly, Heinrick freed a war whoop that sounded like a forgotten echo from the valley of the Little Bighorn. He flung his hand up over his head and rode the bull, melding into the whirlwind spin. Man and beast seemed to flow and dance as if they were one.
A nervous titter rippled through the audience.
Round and round the pair twirled. Lilly lost count of the turns and only watched, mesmerized. Heinrick’s powerful legs gripped the sides of the bull and his hat flew off, his blond hair a tangled mass flopping about his head. Lilly could see the muscles ripple through his wide forearm, steady and taut as he clung to the belt. The violence of the event made her reel, yet the raw courage that it took to wrestle a two-ton beast awed her.
A shot fired, and Lilly nearly bolted from her skin. The eight-second mark! Heinrick spurred the bull, and the Brahma burst out of his erratic dance into a headlong stampede for the fence, bucking forward and back. A dusty hazer on a quarter horse shot up to the animal. Heinrick let go of the bull’s belt, wrapped an arm around the waist of the cowboy, and slid off his perch. The bull snorted and bolted toward Heinrick. Heinrick hit the ground running and dove under the corral fence. The barrier stopped the Brahma, but as he pawed the dirt, his furious snorts pursued the escaping bulldogger. Willard whooped and sprang into the middle of the ring. The bull turned, considered, and then launched himself toward the next available prey. Willard’s quick dash to the exit fence drew the animal like a magnet, and in a moment, he’d dispatched the bewildered bull into a safe holding paddock.
The crowd paused for a well-earned sigh of relief, then exploded in triumph. Henry Zook, whoever he was, was some sort of cowpuncher to last over eight agonizing seconds on a raging bull! Lilly’s heart restarted in her chest. She trembled, blew out long breaths, and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. Heinrick was a strange brew of interesting surprises, at the very least.
Lilly watched the handsome blond German dust off his coal black chaps and climb the announcer’s platform, embedded in riotous applause. Clive Torgesen followed him, waving to the crowd as if he himself had ridden the bull. Lilly’s eyes narrowed. What was Clive up to?
Heinrick accepted the handshake and congratulations of a flabbergasted, but beaming Ed Miller. Clive Torgesen stood beside his hired hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Ed Miller raised his arms and calmed the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the winner of the first annual Mobridge bull riding contest—Henry Zook, from the Torgesen T!” The crowd burst into another chorus of applause that could have been mistaken for thunder roaring across the prairie. Then, as Ed handed the envelope containing the fifty-dollar prize money to Heinrick, Clive reached over and plucked it from Heinrick’s grasp. The clapping died to a spattering.
“And, on behalf of Henry, who represented the Torgesen T in this momentous event, the Torgesen family accepts this award!” Clive waved the envelope above his head, and Lilly noticed Heinrick inhale deeply, his barrel chest rising. But the ever-present white smile never lost its brightness. The crowd offered a modicum of confused applause, which quickly died into a raucous murmuring as Clive thumped down the platform steps.
Lilly gaped in bewilderment. Why would Heinrick risk his life, then hand over the prize money—a half-year’s salary for a cowhand? It didn’t make sense at
all. Heinrick Zook was a confusing tangle of secrets, and he intrigued her more than she wanted to admit.
Chapter 11
Long shadows crawled over the rodeo grounds. Lilly threaded through small clumps of townspeople absorbed in conversation. A sense of reluctance to abandon the illusive normalcy the rodeo, picnic, and fair provided hung heavy in the air.
Lilly was oblivious to the cheerful conversation. Heinrick and his perplexing behavior consumed her mind to the point of distraction. She meandered toward the cattle pens and stopped at the bullpen, where the Brahma raised its head and considered her. A thick rope was tightly knotted around his nose ring, and his wide sides moved in and out in largo rhythm. His eyes were fathomless black orbs, as if he, too, was trying to comprehend the evening’s events.
Why did Heinrick give up his painfully earned prize money for a family who loathed him? She turned over the question in her head, examining it from every angle, discovering nothing.
Gooseflesh prickled her skin a second before clammy breath lathered the back of her neck. Lilly whirled. The pithy odor of whiskey hit her like a fist.
“Well, Miss Lilly. What are you doing over here, staring at the cattle?”
Lilly reeled as Clive Torgesen grabbed the rail behind her. His eyes were dark and swam with trouble.
Fear pounded an erratic beat in Lilly’s heart. “Get away from me, Clive.” She started to slide away.
Clive snaked out a hand and grabbed her by her slender arm. “Where are you going, Lilly?”
Lilly trembled, and her pulse roared like a waterfall in her ears. Her voice seemed but a trickle behind it. “Let go of me.”
“You’re such a pretty thing, Lilly. Don’t think I haven’t noticed over the years.”
Lilly twisted and pulled her arm, but his grip tightened. A cold fist closed over her heart.
“Why, Lilly, it seems to me you should show your boss a little respect.”
“You’re not my boss,” she bit out.