by Linda Berry
Sully didn’t want to know her name. He didn’t want to humanize the woman who was the wedge that pushed his parents apart. “Where did Mom think you were when you were cheating?”
“On the road.”
“What ended it?”
“She died.”
Sully thought about that for a moment. “What would’ve happened if she lived? Would you have kept seeing her?”
“That’s what your mother asked.”
“Would you have left us for her?”
Joe looked away, said nothing. He inhaled sharply as though from a sudden pain, then he dropped his head in his hands and covered his face.
Sully turned away, picked up a stone, threw it across the surface of the water, watched it skip to the other side. He stood there for a long time, trying to stifle his anger. Didn’t work. He turned and walked back to Joe. “You son of a bitch. I’d beat the holy crap out of you if you weren’t in that wheelchair.”
Joe’s face went limp and he slouched in his chair. For a moment, Sully thought he was having another stroke. He slowly recovered his composure, squared his shoulders, looked at Sully with sharp eyes and a clenched jaw. Butch watched Sully too, ears twitching.
Sully released the brake, spun the chair around and began pushing it home. Too fast, too furious. Mud and ice flying. He took pleasure in watching Joe’s body bounce around like a jack-in-the-box. Butch emitted long, low growls.
“Stop it. Stop pushing me.”
Sully ignored him, anger boiling in his chest.
“Let me go. I’m not done telling you yet.”
“I’m done listening.”
Joe’s arms flailed above him, fists trying to land a good one. Sully thought it pitiful how easily he could dodge them. It wasn’t that easy when he was a boy. When Joe got ticked, he beat Sully with whatever he could get his hands on—a horse whip, leather belt, electrical cord. Sully nursed welts for days. Miraculously, at fourteen, he came to match Joe’s height and strength. He fought back in a storm of unleashed fury. Broke Joe’s nose, blackened his eye. It was the last time his father ever laid a hand on him. Instead of whining about it, Joe treated Sully with new respect. In Joe’s world, a man didn’t waste words, but fought with his fists to prove his manhood.
When they reached the house, Sully left him sitting in the chair at the bottom of the ramp. “Gunner was stolen,” he said sharply. “And Monty Blanchert was murdered.” He stormed into the kitchen past Travis who stood over the stove stirring a pot of chili.
“Where’re ya going? You gonna let Joe get himself up that ramp?”
Sully shut himself in the bathroom and turned on the shower full blast. He stripped off his clothes and stepped under the steaming water trying to still the thoughts ricocheting in his head. He had spent his whole life trying to please his father, copying his cowboy tactics, becoming an ace rider, tackling rodeo and excelling at it, all the while trying to squeeze a little affection out of the man. Now he discovered that all along Joe had lied, cheated, and led a double life, and found plenty of affection to give to some stranger, some loose woman, while meagerly rationing it out to Ronnie and him. He fixated on the notion of packing Joe up and dropping him off at the nursing home in the morning and letting him rot there, eating their pig slop food and getting sponge baths from the ex-gang member Frank.
Sully waited until Travis and Joe finished dinner before he left his room. He could hear canned laughter coming from Joe’s TV. He went into the kitchen and warmed up a can of mushroom soup and was dishing it into a bowl when Travis walked in.
“What the hell were you thinking?” The old Paiute’s air of self-possession had vanished, and the tone of his voice was a shade below furious. “Telling Joe about Gunner and Monty like that? You trying to give him another stroke?”
Sully sat down to eat, felt the heat of anger rise up the back of his neck.
“We agreed to let me tell him,” Travis said.
“How’d he take it?” Sully knew anger showed raw on his face.
“Bad.”
“Good.”
Travis stood silently watching him. He opened the fridge, twisted off the cap of a Miller and leaned against the counter drinking it. When he finally spoke his voice was tight but Sully was no longer the target of his wrath. “Judging from your face right now, I don’t think I wanna know what’s going on between you two.”
It was an indirect invitation from Travis to confide in him. Sully simmered, chewed.
Travis waited.
“All I’m gonna say on the subject is that you can stop blaming Mom for Dad’s stroke, and for the state of the ranch. I know you and Dad are tight, but he brought this whole mess on himself. He gave Mom no choice. She had to leave. If Dad wants to confess his sins to you, that’s up to him. You ain’t getting nothing from me.”
Travis turned the information over in his mind as Sully got up for a second bowl of soup and the rest of the cornbread. They both heard the sound of a truck crunching gravel outside.
“That’s the sheriff,” Travis said. “He called while you were in the shower.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Just did.”
Travis opened the door before Matterson knocked. The sheriff’s big frame was momentarily silhouetted against the sunset. He took his hat off and entered.
“You off work?” Travis asked.
“On my way home. That beer looks good, if you’re asking.”
“Already got it out.” Travis put a frosted bottle in his hand and the sheriff sat across from Sully, his leather holster squeaking. He chugged a quarter bottle. “Man that tastes good.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So Joe’s home. You must be relieved.”
Strained silence.
“He got Whistler out his first day back,” Travis said.
“I’ll be a son of a gun,” Matterson said. “Joe’s always been a force of nature. With that kind of determination, he’ll recover fast.”
Or kill himself trying, Sully thought.
“He around?” Matterson asked. “I’d like to say hello.”
“No,” Sully said.
Matterson’s eyes narrowed.
Ignoring Sully, Travis and Matterson made small talk. Sully ate his cornbread and soup, trying not to glare. Travis asked about Bella and Jasper. Matterson said his kids were riding the gentle mare, and the bull was eyeing the heifers in the adjoining field. Both men laughed. Matterson turned to Sully. “Got some news about Monty.”
Sully pushed his empty bowl away. “I’m listening.”
“With the snow melting, forensics went back out and scoured his property. Retrieved bullets. A .223-caliber rifle killed the dogs. Monty was shot with a .45 auto. Died instantly.”
“After being beaten,” Sully said.
The sheriff looked down at his beer, then back up. “The lab processed the bullets. They were a match to firearms reported stolen months ago. Breaking and entering. Unrelated to horse theft. These guys added Monty’s arsenal to what they already had.”
“Crime pays well,” Sully said.
“Not for long.” Matterson’s voice roughened. “We’ll get these guys. They’re gonna screw up. One of those firearms will show up in a pawnshop.”
“They find any prints?” Sully asked.
“They wore gloves.” He drained his bottle, then stood and adjusted his hat. “Thanks for the beer. Gotta run. Sue’s holding dinner.”
“Stop by any time you have more good news,” Sully said.
The sheriff’s jaw tightened for a second then he nodded to Travis and was out the door.
They listened to his truck pull away from the house.
“No need to give Carl a hard time,” Travis said.
“We’re at a dead-end,” Sully snapped.
“It’s only been a week and a half,” Travis said.
“Long enough to ship Gunner to the other end of the world.” Unable to sit still, Sully put his bowl in the dishwasher, said goodnight to Travis, and he
aded for the barn. He stood in Gunner’s empty stall, feeling helpless and sick.
Chico and Buck watched him from their neighboring stalls, dark eyes large and liquid, heads beautifully sculpted just like Gunner, their sire. They nickered to him. He gave them both a treat. Chico had been gelded. Buck was still a stallion and could carry on the champion bloodline but he needed a shitload of training.
Sully haltered Buck, took him out of his stall, and started vigorously brushing him down. He lost track of time, ranting to the stallion about the betrayal of his father and the injustice of horse theft and murder. Buck listened attentively, ears flicking back and forth to the tempo of Sully’s voice. He returned Buck to his stall, took out Chico, and brushed him down just as energetically, continuing his harangue. After wringing out the blackest strains of his anger, he shifted his thoughts to the other pressing business at hand—finances. Unless he won the lottery, he figured it would take a good eight months to dig his way out of debt, but if he stuck to his guns, worked hard, he could probably do it by Thanksgiving.
The chill wind scoured his face as he walked back to the house. Dead tired, he fell into bed, and looked at the photo of Eric and Maggie before turning out the light. He had promised Maggie the first night they met that he’d do something purposeful with his life. He owed that much to Eric, who would never have the chance. Touching the St. Christopher medal, he silently recited the Marine prayer that had given him courage every day in Afghanistan.
If I am inclined to doubt, steady my faith; if I am tempted, make me strong to resist; if I should miss the mark, give me courage to try again. Guide me with the light of truth and grant me the wisdom by which I may understand the answer to my prayer.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The door to Justin’s bedroom burst open and Billy’s silhouette was captured inside the frame of light from the hallway. “Time to rise and shine.”
Justin groaned.
“Up and at ’em.”
Justin blinked when Billy turned on the overhead light.
“Outside. Five minutes.” Billy set a mug of coffee on the nightstand and left the room.
Justin reached for the java, drank half a cup, staggered to his feet and started yanking on his running clothes. This was the routine. His new life. Two weeks ago, he thought Hank would get him on a bull immediately, but the closest he’d come to a bovine was viewing one from the sideline as the ranch hands put it through its paces in the arena. Instead, Hank put Justin on a rigorous workout schedule. Hank must’ve read his mind because there was no way he was gonna get out of a warm bed voluntarily to freeze his ass off at the crack of dawn. Billy was assigned the duty of getting him going.
Outside in the brisk morning chill, Justin started off stiffly, settling into the lowland trail leading from the house. He pushed one heavy leg in front of the other until he broke out in a good sweat and his warmed muscles moved fluidly. He reached the first switchback climbing the hill up to the bluff. Long, easy strides. Good rhythm. Breathing well. Alert, energy-charged.
Astride his quarter horse, Billy took his job seriously, trotting behind, moving up ahead and circling back, herding him like a wayward calf. Justin dug in, relaxed but pushing himself, his jogging clothes damp, sweat dripping down his face. He gave it all he had, long strides, fast cadence, arms pumping, lungs burning until he reached the top. His muscles trembled with exhaustion. He bent down, hands on knees, gulping air. Then he started back down.
When he reached the house, he showered and gorged himself on breakfast, went out to muck stalls, and then met Hank in the well-equipped home gym for his daily workout. Thankfully, power lifting wasn’t the game plan. Hank isolated muscle groups and pushed Justin through multiple repetitions using lighter weights. “You’re building strength and flexibility,” Hank told him, working right alongside him. “When you’re on a bull, you’re holding every ounce of your weight, so you want as little body fat as possible.”
Hank set the bar high for stamina and endurance. Justin was impressed that a man in his fifties was in such prime condition—six-pack abs, sculpted legs, arms, and shoulders. No way was Justin going to be out-matched by a man more than twice his age. Justin’s brain was getting a workout, too. After weightlifting, he joined Hank in the state-of-the-art home theater to study rodeo footage. The room had reclining leather chairs, a full bar, shelves of rodeo paraphernalia, and hundreds of DVDs of top-ranking riders. Hank was teaching him how to size up the competition.
Frequently, Hank slowed down a video or froze a frame to point out characteristics of an individual bull or technique of a rider. Justin hung on every word.
“Watch this,” Hank said sitting forward in his chair, his remote aimed at the big screen.
Justin focused on the rider coming out of the chute in slow motion.
“Know who this is?” Hank asked.
“Derek Moser. Two time PBR World Champion. He rides the unrideable bulls.”
“He’s the first professional bull rider to earn six million in the course of his career,” Hank said.
Justin whistled.
“He’s number one in the world. He’s your competition.” He turned to Justin. “With your natural talent, you can beat Derek. You just need to get smart about it.”
Justin studied the screen with new intensity. His desire to beat Moser was so strong it felt like an ache.
“That’s Rock n’ Roll he’s riding,” Hank said. “This bull’s long and powerful, and wild as a lightning bolt. See how hard he kicks out his hind legs? Then he turns back underneath himself.” He reversed the footage and replayed it. “Watch Derek adjust. Not a single mistake. He’s thinking right along with the bull.”
The hair rose on Justin’s arms.
“He knows where his body weight is every second,” Hank continued. “Watch the bull spin to the right. Look at Derek’s adjustment. He’s settled in.”
Justin sat riveted. Derek’s instincts were flawless, the equal to any NFL quarterback.
“It’s all about basics,” Hank said. “That’s what keeps a rider consistent. Derek’s doing the same thing, over and over.”
They watched the same ride repeatedly. Justin noticed something different every time, in every shift in balance, leg and arm positioning, angle of his head. After twenty minutes he’d memorized even the flapping of the rope. Since his training began, bucking bulls had been charging through Justin’s brain every waking minute, dominating his dreams at night. “So when do I get on a bull, Hank?”
Hank walked to the bar, pulled a single malt scotch off the shelf, reached into the freezer and tossed some ice cubes into a tumbler. “When you have the right attitude.” Hank poured two fingers of whiskey and returned to his seat.
“What’s wrong with my attitude?”
Hank took a long sip, sat back relaxed. “What drives you, Justin?”
There was no hesitancy in his answer. “Adrenaline charge. Best high in the world.”
Hank’s expression sobered.
Justin knew he’d given the wrong answer.
Hank took another sip, ice cubes clinking. “There’s nothing more insane than hopping onto the back of a bull. In fact, most crazy people wouldn’t do it. You have to be alert and clear-headed to even consider it. It’s called the most dangerous eight seconds in sports for a reason. If the rush is all that drives you, you’re gonna get dead in a hurry.”
“I want to be the best in the world,” Justin added with passion.
“Do you?” Hank drained his glass, leveled his steely gaze at him. “I’m not convinced.”
Justin hated that piercing gaze, as though Hank were looking into his soul and coming up short. Some wild emotion shot up from his gut. He heard the frustration in his voice. “Damn it, Hank, put me on a freakin’ bull. I’ll show you how badly I want to win.”
Hank broke into a grin, laughed out loud.
Justin stared, incredulous. “You were playing me.”
“You’re too damn serious for a kid.” Hank reached o
ver and slapped Justin on his knee. “Lighten up. We’re starting in the arena tomorrow.” Hank nodded toward the bar. “Grab a beer.”
Justin got out a Growler, twisted off the cap and took a swig. He knew Hank was right. He was too damn serious. Having fun for fun’s sake was something he never learned how to do. Maybe Hank could teach him that, too.
Hank gestured toward the large screen with the remote. “Here’s the toughest bull in the business. You ever hear of Helter Skelter?”
“Who hasn’t? He’s the bovine version of Jaws.” Justin leaned forward in his chair.
Hank chuckled. “A holy terror under a cowboy.” He pressed a button on the remote. Heavily muscled in the loin and quarters, a cream-colored Charbray launched from the chute like a wayward missile, seemingly right into the room.
Justin’s gut tightened. This video clip was legendary. Every cowboy’s nightmare. He didn’t want to watch but Hank wanted him to see it. Initiating his signature move, Helter Skelter jerked his rump high off the ground, forcing the rider to shift his weight forward, his head and torso low. This signaled the bull to snap his head upwards, meeting the rider’s face in a violent collision. Knocked unconscious instantly, the cowboy’s body flopped like a rag doll and catapulted to the ground where it lay crumpled in a heap.
Sickened, Justin turned away.
“The bones in that cowboy’s face were shattered,” Hank said with gravity. “He underwent several reconstructive surgeries to implant titanium plates. I’ve met him several times. Nice kid, good cowboy. Continued riding with just one eye.”
“Yeah, I know.” Justin avoided watching bull wrecks on YouTube. What was the point?
“In a hundred and twenty rides, only eight cowboys stayed on Helter Skelter for eight seconds,” Hank said. “The last time was a year ago, by Derek. Since then, nobody’s heard that eight-second buzzer that wasn’t lying in the dirt, hurting bad. This bull gets smarter as he matures.” Hank froze the clip, looked at Justin. “Now, what would you do if you happened to draw Helter Skelter during a competition?”
Justin rubbed his hand over his jaw, thinking, wanting to come up with the right answer. He decided to speak frankly. “I’d tip my hat and say no thank you. I’d walk away from the prize.” He met Hank’s eyes. “Sorry. I’d rather live with my face intact. Bull riding isn’t the only game in town. I have a life coming later, I hope.”