by Linda Berry
Justin kicked a rock up the road in front of him. He didn’t like talking about himself. “I didn’t want to drop out. My scholarship lasted two years. I didn’t have the money to continue. My plan was—”
“Make some quick money and continue your education?”
“Pretty much.”
“How’s that been working for you?”
Justin looked away, embarrassed.
They reached an enclosed pasture and several horses trotted over to meet them at the fence. Justin and Hank reached out and stroked their long silky necks. A red dun mustang with a deep chest and short back blew softly into Justin’s hand as he stroked the velvety underside of his mouth. “Man, you’re one handsome animal.”
In response, the mustang pawed the ground with one leg and tossed back his head, dark mane flying. Justin laughed. “He’s got spirit.”
“I see you like horses,” Hank said.
“Yeah. Grew up with ’em. Never owned one though.” He sighed. “Someday …”
“This is Porter.”
“He a Kiger?”
“He is.” Hank looked at Justin with appreciation.
“A herd of Kigers was discovered in southeastern Oregon in 1977. Their lineage can be traced back to the Spaniards in the seventeenth century.” Justin combed his fingers through the mustang’s dark mane. “Left alone in the wild for hundreds of years toughened them up. They’re sure-footed and fearless.”
“You know your mustangs.”
“I trained a few.”
“At the Cotter ranch?”
Justin nodded, not inviting further conversation. Neil Cotter had worked Justin to the bone. He lost ten pounds in the eight months he lived there, part from hard labor and part from depression. Neil wanted to officially adopt him, but Justin’s track coach became concerned and fought Social Services to get him out of there. Justin went back to St. Teresa to await his next sentence to foster care, not knowing the worst was yet to come. The McKinley clan, and Jessica.
Hank dragged a hand over his jaw. “Neil’s old school. A tough old cowboy.”
“Nice way of putting it.”
Hank studied him carefully, his eyes narrowing as though reading Justin’s thoughts. “How many foster homes were you in?”
Justin looked at him sharply. “How’d you know that?”
“I make it my business to know who works for me, Justin. How many families?”
“Thirteen.” He tugged his hat lower on his forehead
“More than me.” Hank’s expression shadowed and his jaw tightened for a moment. “Tough life, isn’t it?”
“You an orphan too?”
Hank nodded, looking straight ahead over the heads of the horses. He turned to Justin, half smiled. “Porter’s yours while you’re here.”
Justin blinked. Deeply pleased, he tried not to show it. “He’s really fine. Needs some grooming. That winter coat needs brushing off.”
“You own a saddle?”
“No sir.”
“We got plenty in the tack room. Look for the one decorated with pieces of beaten silver. It’ll fit Porter well.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep it in good condition.”
“Good.”
They stood in comfortable silence, continuing to give the animals affection.
“Wanna see our bulls?” Hank asked.
Justin grinned. “Just waiting for you to ask.”
Hank led him past the barn to a large corral that was configured to mimic a rodeo arena. Two of the cowhands sat mounted in the center and Bear was up on the rail overlooking the chute. Hank signaled. Bear released a bull. Justin immediately recognized Crash Course, the Sterling claim to fame. Big-league rodeo star, three time PBA Best Bull of the Year. The bull burst into the arena bucking furiously, propelling his two-thousand-pound frame into the air as though weightless, crashing back down. With spectacular speed and force, the bull spun to the left, then the right, executing maneuvers that would force a rider to make instantaneous, difficult adjustments. Justin had seen many skilled riders fly off his back inside of three seconds. Out of ninety-six tries, seventy cowboys had been tossed in the dirt. Justin’s adrenaline spiked as he watched the bull’s performance. “Man, that reverse spin is a killer.”
“Spinning is bred into our bulls,” Hank said with unmistakable pride. “It’s what makes them hard to ride. Comes with decades of breeding specific genetic factors.”
Mounted on first-rate quarter horses, Billy and Nelson galloped into the center of the arena and steered Crash Course out of the corral.
“I’d love to give that bull a shot,” Justin said, hearing the yearning in his voice.
“That idea entered my mind after you rode Cyclone.” Hank put one foot on the bottom rung and rested his forearms on the top rail. Justin did the same.
“Cyclone’s a young bull with a lot of potential, that’s why I’m testing him at smaller rodeos. I butted into your business at Red Rock, Justin, because I saw your talent, knew your background, something of your character, and thought we could help each other out.”
“I appreciate the loan,” Justin said sincerely. “I intend to work it off.”
“I like your enthusiasm. I heard Cody really piled it on yesterday.”
“No complaints.”
He turned to Justin, somber gray eyes holding his gaze. “Manual labor isn’t what you’re here for. You’re too valuable, and too smart, to be spending your time thickening your calluses.”
Justin drew in a breath. “What am I here for?”
“There’re lots of opportunities if you apply yourself.” Hank turned to watch Bear herd another bull into the chute. “You could learn to run a ranch from the ground up. Ranching is a complex business with lots of facets, all equally important.” Hank pressed his fingertips together. “It’s impossible to sustain a ranch and make a profit without understanding the management side, as well as the livestock side, the hay-making side, the rodeo side.”
“It’s a corporation with lots of divisions.”
Hank nodded at him, his tone passionate. “You bet it is. We both know that a bull rider’s career is short. Like me, you’ll probably be out of the game in ten years or less, due to injuries. It’s important to learn how to earn a living that will sustain you beyond your rodeo years.”
“I majored in business, Hank,” Justin said. “I plan to have my own spread someday. But I can’t lie to you and pretend I’m ready to give up bull riding.”
“Our thinking is aligned in that department. You’re also here for training.”
“Bull riding?” Justin’s voice held an edge of excitement.
“Bingo.” A wide smile creased Hank’s tanned face.
Justin felt a surge of adrenaline. Hank Sterling, world champion bull rider two times over. He’d be the best trainer in the world!
“So, you ready to take a shot?”
Justin didn’t want to act too eager. “What’re you getting out of this partnership?”
“I’ll take a percentage of your winnings. As your sponsor, our reputation as a breeder would get a boost. Down the road, maybe you’ll be my ranch manager. My daughters won’t be around forever.”
“Bear said last night I’d be working under him.” Justin scowled.
Hank’s gaze traveled across the arena and settled on Bear, a deep frown creasing his brow. The look in his eyes was unmistakable. Dislike, plain and simple. Surely Bear had expectations of moving into the manager position once he married Sarah. Bringing Justin into the mix would throw a nasty wrench into the natural order of things. No wonder Bear had given him the evil eye last night.
“Nah, he was mistaken. You work for me,” Hank said firmly.
Justin felt relief.
“If you can ride my bulls, you can ride anything out there. My goal is to get you competing at top rodeos. A decade of wins should give you a pile of trophies and plenty of money.”
Justin felt a roller coaster mix of excitement and fear. It was a hell of a tall
order, going from small rodeos to the big leagues. Could he do it?
Hank signaled Bear. The chute opened and Cyclone shot out like a force of nature. The bull’s agility and athletic performance made the hair rise on Justin’s arms. Cyclone went into a spin, a reverse spin, and then launched himself into the air, kicking all four legs to one side before coming back down. Justin’s hands tingled as he relived his moments of glory mounted on the bull’s back.
Hank turned to him, read his expression, and flashed a toothy grin. Justin knew the two were sharing a unique experience—an adrenaline rush only those who’d ridden a champion bull to the sound of the buzzer could possibly understand.
“You ever lose the urge to ride again?” Justin asked.
“Never.” Hank tapped his hip. “Artificial hip. Haven’t ridden a bull in twenty years.” He tipped his hat back from his forehead. Sunlight caught and brightened his gray eyes. “So, you game to stay on board?”
“Hell yeah, I’m game.”
“Then let’s get something straight right up front.” Hank’s tone turned serious. “You’re gonna put in long hours. You’ll get tossed in the dirt more times than you stay on board. We’re gonna toughen you up where it counts.” Hank tapped his temple. “Up here. The guys at the top got there by being smart. You get lazy on me, Justin, you’re outta here in a heartbeat. I won’t deal with anything less than you at one hundred percent. Do we have an understanding?”
Justin met Hank’s stern expression, grinned. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow,” Hank grinned back. “You start earning your keep today. Cleaning stalls.”
Justin didn’t blink. Cleaning stalls was menial labor, but it was honest work, critical to the health of the animals. In fairness to the other hands who were putting in long days of labor, he wanted to do his part. He recognized the potential here, but he also saw a heap of trouble waiting in the shadows. Best take it one day at a time. Focus on the bull riding.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sully spent the next few days doing what he did best, what he had doggedly dreamt of doing every day while he was lugging combat gear around the dust bins of Afghanistan—training horses—all day, one after the other, including two colts, who were so full of combustible energy all they wanted to do was kick and buck and use the corral as a playpen. Training inexperienced horses took time and patience, but Joe had taught him well. In his earliest memories, Sully remembered himself sitting in a saddle, his little western hat strapped under his chin, his cowboy boots barely skimming the length of the saddle-skirt, listening to his father giving instructions. Sully’s determination to become a good cowboy, just like Joe, had been fierce. His father’s instructions were deeply implanted and still sprouted in Sully’s head like green shoots in fertile earth. Teach a horse to operate on feel, son, not force. Invite the horse to work with you. Don’t threaten it. And when Sully lost patience and mistreated an animal there was always a sharp reprimand and a whack to the back of his head. There’s a difference between firm and force, dammit! Don’t bully a horse to save yourself some time. Give the animal all the time it needs. Now get back in there and do it right.
Joe’s training methods, though stern and demanding, instilled in Sully an intuitive, gentle way of working with animals. At the risk of a horse suddenly spooking and running him over, he learned to focus his attention moment to moment on what the horse was doing, and anticipate his every move. He developed the sensitivity to feel that sudden change when a horse got what he was trying to say, and then a little magic happened. It’s a dance, son. Listen to the music. Tune in to the rhythm of the horse. Let him become your dance partner. Don’t step on his toes.
After grooming his last horse and cleaning his tack, Sully strolled out of the barn hungry and exhausted. It felt good to be making progress. In a few weeks, he’d put one of the geldings up for sale and pay off some more bills. He spotted Joe cautiously wheeling himself down the ramp off the porch wearing work clothes and his old high-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson. Good. Maybe getting out of his dark bedroom would improve his disposition.
Joe stopped wheeling and let gravity pull his chair to the bottom of the ramp. He raised his head as Sully approached. A bath towel was folded across his lap. “Good job on the ramp.”
“Thanks,” Sully said, wary. He hadn’t spoken more than ten words to Joe since his angry explosion three days ago.
“Where’s my dog?”
“Sleeping on a pile of hay.” Sully whistled, and Butch came tearing out of the barn with bits of hay flying behind him. He braked to a stop at their feet, tail wagging, head cranked back, waiting to see which one would give him a treat. Sully picked him up and plopped him on Joe’s lap. Butch balanced himself on his hind legs and licked the old man’s stubbly chin. Joe grinned, eyes sparkling. The dog had magical powers. Sully noticed Joe’s face looked fuller. Shoveling hefty meals down his throat all day was getting good returns.
“Mind pushing me down to the creek?” Joe asked. “I’d appreciate it.”
Sully wanted to eat and relax, but Joe’s unusual politeness stoked his curiosity. “Sure, Dad. I’m up for a walk.”
They took the path that ran above the hay fields, now thawing under the warming sun. Rivulets of water cut through the ice and an endless crop of puddles reflected the turquoise sky like pieces of a mirror. Buds were unfurling on the apple trees, and islands of brown earth were emerging as the snow retreated. Sully’s thoughts turned to the planting of hay. The irrigation would soon be turned on, and Shankle would be laying down spring seed. The trail followed the contours of the creek, meandering through stands of junipers and aspens and cutting across pathways of running water.
“I should get snow tires for this thing,” Sully said, panting as he maneuvered the wheelchair through mud and slush. He brought the wheelchair to a stop at a large clearing that sloped gently down to the water’s edge, his favorite spot on the ranch. During the summer, the water was calm and the animals would wade up to their shoulders to cool off. Sully remembered swinging out over the creek on a rope with his friends, seeing who could make the biggest splash. Tracks of mule deer and jackrabbits crisscrossed the muddy shore and the piercing chirp of red-winged blackbirds mingled with the gurgle of water. Afternoon sun filtered through the branches, turning the creek into liquid gold. Joe wore the expression of a thirsty man taking in a long, cool drink. Nature and sunlight were acting as an elixir.
“Hand me that stick over there, son,” Joe said, pointing a gnarly finger.
Sully picked it up, wiped off the mud, and handed it over.
Joe threw it a short distance. “Get it!”
Butch flew out of his lap, pounced on it, and trotted back dragging the stick from his mouth. This ritual continued for several minutes with the stick going further out until it was splashing in the creek. Sully seated himself on a damp stump and watched the entertainment, impressed by Butch’s tenacity. The dog paddled dutifully in and out of the water, oblivious of the cold.
“That right there, that’s loyalty,” Joe said.
When Butch ran out of steam and was panting on Joe’s lap, the old man rubbed him down with the towel and wrapped him up like a burrito, with only his eyes and nose poking out. Joe turned his attention to Sully. “I need to tell you what’s going on with me and your mom.”
Sully met his father’s piercing blue eyes. He sat forward, his attention rapt.
His father looked away.
Sully listened to snowmelt drip from tree branches.
Joe’s gaze seemed to withdraw as though he was visiting distant memories. His blue-veined hands absentmindedly stroked Butch’s head.
“Dad?”
Joe’s eyes returned to him. “Twenty years ago, your mom and I were going through a rough spell. Money was tight. My rodeo days were coming to an end. You were just a boy.” Joe suddenly coughed. Looked away. Coughed again.
Sully could hardly contain his impatience. “Yeah. So?”
Joe looked at him, f
ace reddening. “I met another woman.”
The bluntness of the words caught Sully like a sharp rap to the head. “You cheated on Mom?”
Joe leaned forward in his seat as though not wanting to say the words too loud. “It was more than an affair. It lasted five years.”
Sully sat motionless, his body tense, waiting to feel something.
Joe watched him intently, as though trying to place his words in some secret, safe place. He was hoping, Sully knew, for some sign of acceptance.
“You cheated on Mom for five years?”
Joe nodded, his face haggard. “Your mom never should’ve found out. What was she cleaning the attic for? No one had been up there in fifteen years. She found some old letters I’d hidden. Threw them in my face when I walked in the door.”
“You kept letters?” Sully sat quietly, absorbing the impact of Joe’s confession. Finally, a spark of anger ignited. “Maybe you shoulda just hit Mom on the head with a shovel.”
“I should’ve burnt those dang letters.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Sully walked to the edge of the water, thinking of the pain and shock those letters must have caused his mother, and it dawned on him why she left the ranch. She didn’t have a choice. He faced his father. “I can’t believe Mom took you in last week.”
Joe looked away from Sully’s accusing stare. “That’s your mom. She’s a good woman. Better than I deserve. I thought she forgave me, but as you can see, I ain’t at her place no more.”
“No wonder she’s all messed up.”
Joe gave him a sharp look. “Look Sully, this happened a long time ago. I stayed faithful the last fifteen years. Don’t that count for something?”
“Sure, Dad. You deserve a fucking medal.”
“The way you feel about a woman ain’t something you can control. I loved your mom. But I loved another woman too. I took care of them both, and you.” Joe’s voice choked. “Her name was Hannah.”