Her Rodeo Man

by Cathy McDavid

  Ryder sent her an approving look. Tatum warmed. She wanted to help the Becketts for all the favors they’d done her. More than that, she wanted to please Ryder and not give him cause to regret his decision to bring her along.

  “Do you mind if I take notes?” she asked and withdrew her ever-present spiral notebook from her purse. It was filled with grocery lists, appointment reminders and Gretchen’s doodles. But Ryder and Marshall didn’t need to know that.

  “Good idea.” Marshall beamed. “These days I can’t trust this old memory of mine.”

  Ryder motioned for her to slide into the booth. She scooted all the way to the wall to make room for him. Still, it was cramped. Bumping body parts was inevitable—and distracting.

  They didn’t talk business until their lunch orders were placed. Ryder, Tatum noticed, waited, taking his lead from Marshall. Once the subject was broached, he pitched the Easy Money’s bucking stock with the confidence of someone who’d been a member of the family business his entire life.

  “You know the quality of our horses, Marshall. There are none better in Arizona.”

  “Absolutely. Wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t.”

  “Every one of our head has been vet-checked this past week. No signs of distemper. We’ll continue our diligence up until the rodeo and provide health certificates upon delivery of the stock, dated no later than one day before the rodeo. That’s a guarantee.”

  Marshall nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds fair.”

  Negotiations ceased when the food arrived. Evidently, Marshall didn’t conduct business while eating. The men started on their burgers. Tatum resisted devouring her salad. Eating out was a real treat for her. It beat her brown bag lunch any day of the week.

  “I know a Mayweather,” Marshall said to Tatum. “Monty Mayweather. Former bull rider. Any relation to you?”

  “My ex-husband.”

  “Apologies if I brought up a sore subject.”

  “None needed. Monty and I are on good terms.” Interesting how the slight fib slipped easily off her tongue. This wasn’t the place or time to admit her lousy ex-husband cared more about his freedom than his three children.

  “His loss.” Marshall sent Ryder a look that, if Tatum interpreted it correctly, meant Ryder’s gain.

  “Tatum’s also an art instructor. She has a studio in town.”

  She wanted to kick Ryder under the table. Why had he brought that up?

  “Do tell.” Marshall studied her with interest. “I dabble a bit with oils myself.”

  “Really?” Now it was her turn to show interest.

  “A hobby. Mostly.”

  “Some of Marshall’s paintings are hanging in the lobby at the Scottsdale Civic Center.” Ryder angled his head away from the rodeo promoter and winked at Tatum.

  She felt foolish. There had been a reason for him to mention her studio. She and Marshall shared a love of art.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said with heartfelt enthusiasm. “You must be very talented.”

  He shrugged off the compliment. “I wouldn’t say that. My wife, being a member of the chamber of commerce for twenty-plus years, might have more to do with it.”

  Talk turned to the upcoming Wild West Days. The waitress had hardly removed their empty plates when Ryder said, “We’d love to have you and your family as our guests at the rodeo finals on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Why, thank you. It’s much appreciated.”

  Tatum picked up her pad and pen. “I’ll have passes delivered to your office tomorrow. VIP section.” She didn’t ask Ryder’s permission before making the offer, confident he wouldn’t object. “Is four enough? Or six?”

  “Four’s plenty. Leena and I will bring the grandkids.”

  “Looking forward to meeting them.” Ryder confidently eased into the rest of his pitch. “That’ll give you a chance to observe our bucking stock up close.”

  “The Lost Dutchman has also approached me.”

  Ryder nodded. “Donnie’s stock is top-notch.”

  “It must be, or you wouldn’t use him yourself.”

  “For bulls,” Ryder was quick to clarify. “For now.”

  “You buying more?”

  “My father’s in the process.”

  The waitress returned and refilled their iced tea glasses. Talk continued, eventually getting down to the nitty-gritty. Tatum’s pen made scratching noises as she jotted down numbers and dates and dollar amounts. Working for the Becketts, she’d typed, revised and filed enough contracts to know these terms were good, each party giving up something but getting something better in return.

  Ryder demonstrated a real knack for negotiating, impressing Tatum. If he stayed in Reckless, he could do a lot to take the Easy Money to the next level. Like his father had back in the days before he started drinking. Then again, Ryder’s talents were perhaps wasted in a small town. He was used to greater challenges and a faster-paced environment.

  “As much as I enjoyed this, I have to get back to the office.” Marshall reached for the hat he’d set on the seat beside him. “Write up a letter of intent and email it to me. We’ll go from there.”

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow.” Ryder tossed several bills on to the table for a tip.

  He’d also picked up the lunch tab. It was Tatum’s guess Marshall was frequently treated to meals by bucking stock contractors vying for his business. Even so, he’d thanked Ryder graciously.

  “I’m looking forward to working with you,” Ryder said at the door. They’d stopped just outside the restaurant before parting ways.

  “Tell your parents hello for me.” Marshall adjusted his hat, pushing down on the crown. “Have to say, I was a little surprised to hear Mercer had returned to the Beckett fold. Your mama was dead set against him for years.”

  “You aren’t the only one surprised.”

  “Then again, you’ve returned, too.”

  Ryder grinned pleasantly. “Things change.”

  “That, they do.” Marshall gave a small wave as he strolled away. “Including the outfits that supply bucking stock for the Parada del Sol.”

  Excitement coursed through Tatum. The signatures had yet to be signed on the dotted line, but it appeared the Becketts had just landed a lucrative new client. She was thrilled to have contributed in her small way.

  “Nicely done,” she said to Ryder when they were alone.

  “I like Marshall. He made it easy.”

  “There’s nothing easy about negotiating a contract.”

  “Beats pleading with store owners to put our posters in their windows.” He showered her with a breathtaking smile. “You were good. I think you should attend every meeting.”

  She laughed as they crossed the parking lot to his truck. The sun beat down on them, unusually warm for late September. In the distance, the mountains shimmered, their foliage more brown than green this time of year.

  “Sure,” she said. “But only when the client also happens to be an artist.”

  “First rule of any sales meeting. Find common ground and make a connection.”

  “I think the free passes were more of an inducement than the fact Marshall and I both like to paint.”

  Ryder shook his head. “Free passes were just added insurance.”

  The truck was hot when they climbed in, and the leather seat burned the backs of Tatum’s legs even through the fabric of her slacks. “Why are you doing this, Ryder?” She fastened her seat belt. “And don’t tell me it’s because you could be leaving.”

  He inserted his key and started the engine. The truck, a one-ton diesel, roared to life. “You’re smart and talented and capable of doing more than managing an office.”

  “Right. And you don’t feel the least bit guilty about my former mother-in-law giving me grief because Ada
m called you Daddy.”

  “I’m not that noble, Tatum. Though, I’d like you to think that if it raises your opinion of me.”

  “Quit joking.”

  He drove for several more minutes before answering. “When I picked up Benjie the other day at the studio, Lenny Faust mentioned being on the school board with my mother.”

  “Yes.” She let the single syllable word trail.

  “He didn’t sound optimistic about the board voting in the new budget.”

  “Ryder, I—”

  He cut her off. “It’s like the passes we’re giving Marshall. You learning to negotiate contracts is added insurance. Make yourself indispensable to my parents, Tatum.”

  She chewed on that for a moment. With more to contribute, she’d feel less like a charity case. And if she had any chance of affording a larger place to rent, one that met with her mother-in-law’s approval, she’d need to boost her income. If she didn’t get her old teaching job back, elevating her earning potential at the arena might be her only solution.

  To accomplish that, Ryder would have to leave town and vacate his job. That would devastate his family.

  It would also, she realized, devastate her.

  Chapter Nine

  Only one night remained before the start of the Wild West Days Rodeo. Fridays were traditionally the first round of competition and always important. Points earned went a long way toward participants qualifying for the final round on Sunday.

  Which meant Thursday evening was the last chance for riders to practice. The Easy Money parking area was packed with vehicles and trailers. The stands held family and friends, there to support and encourage. Every available pen was teeming with activity. Every available hand toiled laboriously. Ryder’s family scurried around like the proverbial chickens with their heads cut off. Ryder included.

  The livestock, however, rested. They had a lot of work ahead of them and needed to be in tip-top shape. The Lost Dutchman bulls had arrived that morning, fit and full of themselves. Mercer had spent the day inspecting each one from horns to tail, pronouncing them raring to go.

  In lieu of calves, ropers were using a Heel-O-Matic to hone their skills. The mechanical device consisted of a heavy-duty fake calf mounted on to a three-wheeled dolly. Tonight, the dolly was pulled by one of the wranglers driving an ATV. Cowboys exploded from behind the barrier and, if their aim was true, roped the head of the fake calf. It didn’t exactly mimic the real thing, but it came close enough.

  The barrel racers had finished thirty minutes ago, after an intense two-hour practice session, and turned the arena over to the ropers. Bull and bronc riders, if they weren’t competing in other events, took the night off and, like the bulls and horses, rested up for tomorrow.

  “On deck, Ryder,” Cassidy called. She stood near the box, calling off the names of cowboys in the order they’d signed up.

  What in the world had possessed Ryder to think he could rope after all these years? Even a fake calf attached to a three-wheeled dolly exceeded his abilities.

  The idea had come to him an hour ago. When Tatum and her family arrived, to be specific. She’d taken the kids to the pizza parlor in town for dinner, then returned to the arena to assist if needed. Mostly, they were watching the ropers practice.

  Drew, so Ryder had been told, was going a little stir-crazy at the day care, what with not being able to play outside because of his cast. Tatum had thought spending an evening with Ryder’s nephew, Benjie, would take some of the edge off. Benjie was doing his best to corrupt Drew and entice him into playing when he should be sitting quietly.

  Ryder sympathized. He felt a little stir-crazy himself, which could explain his present circumstances.

  He and his mother were talking, but only when they couldn’t avoid it. Cassidy blamed him for upsetting their mother and had let him know in no uncertain terms. Mercer had gotten wind of his job interview—Ryder’s fault for leaving his contract with Myra on his dresser. As a result, his father and Liberty were constantly needling Ryder to stay. Then, there was Tatum. To protect them both, he was maintaining a strictly professional relationship with her.

  That didn’t stop him from wanting to pull her in his arms every time he got within ten feet of her. And those wounded expressions she continually wore made it all the harder.

  Tightening his grip on the lariat hanging by his side, he forced himself to relax. He’d wanted Tatum to see he could still compete with the best of them despite years of working in an office. Instead, he was about to humiliate himself.

  “Let’s go, Ryder,” Cassidy called, then spoke into a handheld radio. She’d been giving instructions to the young man driving the ATV since practice started. He reversed direction and lined up the Heel-O-Matic, backing the fake calf into place.

  Ryder jogged his horse to the box and got in position. This wasn’t his first outing on the young gelding. Twice he’d gone for a short ride, the last time with Liberty. He’d also found a spare hour to throw a few tosses with a lariat. The hay bale he’d used for a target didn’t lope across the arena like a live calf or bump along like the Heel-O-Matic.

  Something told him he’d need a lot more practice riding and roping if he expected to impress Tatum.

  When he was ready, one hand gripping the reins, the other on his lariat, he nodded to his sister and said, “Go.”

  She signaled the young man driving the ATV. At once, Ryder and the fake calf were off and running.

  The gelding responded immediately and perfectly to Ryder’s cues, going from a standstill to a full gallop in the blink of an eye. Ryder’s hat flew off, but he didn’t pay attention.

  Instincts he’d been certain were gone for good suddenly kicked in, and he let them guide him. Arm in the air, high over his head, he twirled the rope. As the gelding thundered across the arena floor in pursuit of the fake calf, Ryder took aim and let the rope fly.

  He watched it stretch out in front him, steady and true. Elation filled him. God, he’d missed this. The thrill. The rush. The excitement. He may not have made rodeoing his career, but there was no reason he couldn’t make a hobby of it. Especially if he stayed in Reckless.

  And, just like that, the noose missed the fake calf’s head by a good foot. The rope fell to the ground, limp and lifeless as a cut clothesline. The gelding, sensing there would be no battle with the calf, slowed to a trot before coming to an abrupt halt and snorting—in disgust, Ryder thought.

  “That makes two of us, boy.” He patted the gelding’s neck.

  One of the wranglers ran over and returned Ryder’s hat. “Good try, partner.”

  Ryder thanked him and reeled in his rope, his gaze searching the stands. Great. There was Tatum and the kids. All of them watching. She waved. He raised his hat in response before plunking it down on his head.

  He should have known better than to try and show off. What was he? Fifteen again?

  Behind the bucking chutes, he dismounted. His ploy to be alone with his shame didn’t work.

  “Tough luck, son.”

  At least his father didn’t patronize him. “I’m a little rusty.”

  “The good news is you can always improve.”

  “Need help with anything?”

  His father chuckled. “Looking for an excuse not to embarrass yourself again?”

  “Guess those practice sessions behind the barn didn’t pay off.”

  “You picked the right horse, anyway.”

  “Good thing. He alone saved me from complete humiliation.”

  Most competitors brought their own riding stock to a rodeo. The Becketts maintained a few head in reserve for cowboys whose horses sustained an injury or suffered an illness that knocked them from the competition. This gelding was one of the reserve stock.

  “If you have a minute,” his father said, “I want to run an idea
by you.”

  “I’m all ears.” Ryder continued walking the horse, letting him cool down. His father fell into step beside him.

  “I got a call earlier today. Do you remember Harlo Billings?”

  “The stock contractor from Waco?”

  “One and the same. He’s retiring a month from now and looking to sell his bucking stock.”

  Ryder didn’t need a map to see where this conversation was going. “How many bulls?”

  “More than we need or can afford. I have my eye on ten bulls and three championship producing heifers. Two of the bulls are high-dollar earners.”

  “Impressive. But that’s a lot of stock for a single purchase.”

  “He’s willing to let them go for a good price.”

  When his father named the amount, Ryder released a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “He’s more interested in the bulls finding the right home where they can reach their full potential than making a killer profit.”

  Ryder debated stating the obvious. The partnership agreement between his parents, written when they’d divorced—and kept secret from their children until recently—didn’t allow one of the partners to contribute assets or make purchases without the consent of the other. That clause had caused a heated disagreement when Ryder’s father bought the first six bulls.

  “What does Mom think of the idea?” he asked.

  “I haven’t told her yet.”

  Figured. “Do you even have the money?”

  “Enough for a down payment. Harlo’s agreed to carry the remaining balance over the next five years at an interest rate better than the banks are offering.”

  “Very generous of him.”

  “He knows what these bulls are capable of and their earning potential. It’s a safe investment for him.”

  “You planning a trip to Waco to inspect the bulls?”

  “I’ve seen them. Just this past summer at the Crosby Fair and Rodeo.”

  “You’ll have to convince Mom. Any financial note needs to be signed by the two of you.

  “I am. I will.” His father sent him a sly grin. “I was hoping you’d be there when I raise the subject.”