Maggie doesn’t care if they bump uglies or not, but she puffs up at Brent’s words. “They’re dancing to Kaylee?”
Brent laughs. He pulls a box out from under the table, along with a collapsed handcart that he pops out into its upright and locked position. He shoves the box onto the base of the cart.
Maggie loads a handful of CDs into it, then stops. “I’m getting another margarita. Want one?”
He shakes his head. “No offense, but haven’t you had enough?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wasted, and drooling every time you look at the cowboy you’ve been flirting with all night. Don’t think Davo hasn’t noticed, either.”
They both look toward the bar. Davo is glaring at Hank.
“I don’t belong to Davo. And I’m getting one more marg.”
“Suit yourself.”
At the bar, Maggie feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns eagerly, puppylike, but it’s Cristiano. She droops instantly.
“Let me get that drink for you.”
“No is still no in Spanish, isn’t it?”
“I’m Brazilian. We speak Portuguese.” He signals to the bartender that he’s paying and orders a Michelob Ultra for himself.
“And no in Portuguese is . . . ?”
“Not in my vocabulary.”
The drinks arrive. Maggie decides no means maybe and takes one. Cristiano bumps his plastic cup against hers.
“Bottoms up.” She tips hers back, and the movement makes her stumble back a step.
Cristiano catches her by the elbow. “Can I give you a ride?”
“We’re back to no.”
“Really, it’s not a problem.”
Maybe not for him. Maggie looks over his shoulder, searching for Hank. He’s not where she last saw him. She whirls, panicked at the thought of never seeing him again.
Brent and Davo are suddenly there, separating her from Cristiano.
Davo gives Cristiano a nudge. “We’ve got this, bud.”
Cristiano nudges him back, harder. “You really don’t want to be pushing me.”
“Oh yeah?”
Even in her state of inebriation, Maggie can see the edge on Davo.
“I warn you. Mess with the bull, you get the horns, you know? Or in my case, mess with me, you get my family.”
“I’m so scared.”
Maggie turns disgusted eyes on Davo. It’s like he’s marking his territory, and she is far from it. “I’m not a fire hydrant, Davo. Stop.”
Brent puts an arm around her, but he speaks to Cristiano. “Sorry for my friend. Time to get these crazy kids to bed.” He clutches Maggie to him hard and grips Davo’s elbow, hustling them out. Davo rips his arm away. He surges ahead of them, pulling the merch cart.
When they clear the saloon, Maggie wrenches herself loose, too. “Worst night. Where’d he go? Damn Kaylee.”
The men ignore her until they get to their big passenger van. Brent opens the driver’s door and surprises Celinda and Chris, who jerk apart and straighten clothes. Davo stacks the merch in the back with the rest of the equipment the guys loaded earlier.
Maggie rants on under her breath. “People who prefer her soulless crap are welcome to her.” She climbs into the front passenger seat across from Brent.
Davo gets in last. “I don’t know what you have against Kaylee. She’s figured out what people like, and she’s giving it to them. That’s smart business.”
Maggie growls.
Brent eases out of the parking lot. “Please don’t go there, Davo.”
“What? You don’t think we’d all give our left arms to play with Kaylee, get some exposure, make some money, over languishing in obscurity?”
“Shit,” Brent says on an exhale.
Maggie turns to Davo, and her voice is a needle screeching across a vinyl record. “Being a musician is my life. It’s my whole fucking life. It’s about artistry, not commercialism. And I’m not holding you hostage. You want to play with Kaylee, you just go beg her for a shot. Even you could play the three chords that are the basis of all her songs.”
Davo holds his hands up. “All I’m saying is she has her thing, you have yours.”
“You don’t even. My thing? It’s not my own thing anymore. It’s drunk cowboys asking for cover songs. I’m sick of this shit. So sick of it.” She faces forward again, and her voice drops to a whisper. “I’m a real musician. I want to play where people appreciate my music.”
“And where’s that?” Celinda asks.
Brent sucks in a breath.
Maggie whirls and her eyes flare at Celinda, but then she sighs. “Fuck if I know.”
She stares into the dark night through the window the rest of the way back to the hotel.
Hank
* * *
Hank sees Gene’s big Ram 2500 truck pulling to a stop outside Frontier Park in a long line of vehicles. He turns back to where he’d last glimpsed Maggie, but he can’t see the Buckin’ A, just the midway. It’s still lit up, and people are streaming in and out of the gate. He looks down at Fawn. He has to deal with her, but the woman is like a remora. “I’ve got to go.”
Fawn whines. “Can’t I come?”
Hank sighs. “I’ve tried to make this as clear as I can. You’re a sweet girl, but I’m not interested in taking things any further.”
“But we can be friends?” She pouts, maybe thinking it’s sexy.
Hank thinks she looks like a petulant child. “Sure.”
She shimmies her shoulders, leaning forward. “With benefits?”
“No.”
She winks. “You’ll change your mind.”
Hanks knows better. “Have you got a ride?”
Her eyes light up.
He shakes his head before she can answer. “I can’t be friends with you if you lie to manipulate me.”
“Fine. Yes, my friends are back at the Buckin’ A.”
“Thank you.”
He walks toward the truck.
“Good night, Hank,” she calls.
He glances back. She’s still standing where he left her. She blows a kiss. The girl isn’t going to be easy to shake. He waves once.
“I see you’re making a big mistake with Fawn again,” Gene says.
“No way. Never again.”
“Doesn’t look like Fawn got the memo.”
His words make Hank think of the conversation with Maggie earlier. Maggie. Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
Gene eases out into stop-and-go traffic. “You could have called me in time to miss the post–Frontier Nights concert traffic.”
Hank rolls his window down. “Sorry, Granny.”
A truck honks. Gene stomps on the brakes as another cuts across two lanes passing in front of them. “So what does it say when your best friend doesn’t invite you out, but he calls from a pay phone when he’s had too much?”
“That you’re a helluva guy,” Hank says, but thinks, That your best friend has business meetings you aren’t invited to.
“It’s time you joined the twentieth century and got yourself a mobile phone, by the way. Then you won’t have to reverse the charges just to get your call covered.”
“I owe you a quarter.”
Gene holds out his hand, and Hank slaps him five. “How was the Buckin’ A?”
“Tough night.” Hank rubs his face, scrubs it, really, like he’s washing off everything to do with the night.
“Something you want to tell me?” Gene accelerates to exactly the speed limit, onto the interstate heading north out of Cheyenne. He sets the cruise control. Traffic thins.
“I met a woman.”
“So where is she?”
“She shut me down. Big time.”
“That’s nothing new.”
Hank snorts. “Yeah, but she’s different.”
“What’s Fawn think about this?”
“I’m not with Fawn. Really.”
“Who is this woman with exceptionally good judgment?”
“She’s a singer. Named Maggie.”<
br />
“A singer at Frontier Days? Forget her. She’ll be gone tomorrow. She may already be gone now.” Gene turns on the right turn signal and eases off the accelerator.
“There was something about her, something between us. Really.”
“You mean she was hot.”
“Yeah, that. And meaner than a snake.”
Gene shoots him a look. “That sounds like your perfect match. A mean, hot woman.”
“I like to keep it interesting.”
“You must.” Gene swerves to avoid a white-tailed deer leaping across the off-ramp.
“This may sound crazy, but I think she could be the one.”
“It does sound crazy. What’s her last name?”
“Killian.” Hank turns to his friend. “You didn’t think I knew, did you?”
Gene raises his brows. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Her band is staying in town through Sunday. Tomorrow I’m going big or going home.”
“Well, I wish you luck. Speaking of which”—Gene turns into the pasture where the trailer is parked—“do we need to talk about the money thing, with you not winning tonight? Our down payment is due Monday on Sassafrass.”
Sassafrass. Hank wants the bucking mare like he wants Maggie. The thirteen-year-old horse is out of the Custer lineage, a proven bucker and broodmare with one rising three-year-old who looks to be as talented as his mother. And she’s in foal again. She’s the start of his and Gene’s herd—Double S Bucking Stock, their future. He feels it in his bones. Just like he feels that his days as a pro-rodeo cowboy are numbered. He’s ready to pitch a lease arrangement for land on his parents’ ranch, too, as soon as they have Sassafrass.
Gene prods him. “You know, our partnership?”
“I’m broke, man. It’s never going to happen if I can’t scrape together my half of the money.”
“Well, when are you going to do something about it?”
The truck is a bronco on wheels as Gene steers toward their parked trailer.
“Hey, I tried. You didn’t win, either. I’ll keep trying.”
“Words are cheap. If you can’t win, get a second job this winter.”
“Sassafrass will be gone by then.”
“Yeah, she will. But we’ll find another anchor mare.”
“Not like her.”
Gene throws the truck in park and turns off the ignition. “We’re just talking in circles. You’ve either got the money or you don’t. Or you could borrow from—”
Hank’s voice is a bullwhip. “I’m not borrowing from my parents.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off. I’m just trying to solve the problem.” Gene opens his door.
Hank closes his eyes. When he opens them, he spits out his confession, apology implied. “I’ve got a solution.”
Gene pauses with one foot out the door, waiting five long seconds for Hank to continue. “Don’t play hard to get.”
“A guy came to me with an offer.”
“And?”
“If I’d stay off the winner’s stand each night—”
“No.”
“And keep my points down so I wouldn’t final—”
“Seriously, Hank, don’t tell me this.” Gene hops out and grabs his crutches.
“Someone would pay me good money.”
“No amount is worth that.” Gene slams the door.
Hank scrambles out the passenger side into the dark pasture lit only by low-voltage lights on the trailers lined up in rows. “I’ll make nearly as much as I could by winning outright on Sunday. And it’s a guaranteed payday.”
“So you’re a fixer.”
“Nah, I don’t determine who wins. Just that I won’t.”
“And how do you not see that’s cheating?” Gene uses his crutches to propel himself to their trailer, a white six-horse fifth wheel.
“I’m not messing with the animals.”
“If I thought you would, you and me’d be through. But you’re risking getting kicked out of the PRCA. And who wants to hire a stock contractor who fixed events as a cowboy?”
“I won’t get caught. Besides, I’m not hurting anybody.”
Gene jerks the door open. It hits the side of the trailer. The scent of stale sweat, animal and human, wafts out. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“How? When I’m getting enough money for Sassafrass and our partnership? Or I will if I just finish the deal tomorrow.”
“Your legacy. You’re a damn good bull rider.” Gene positions the tips of his crutches on the running board, then jumps off his good foot and lands on the running board with it, his casted foot dangling uselessly.
“Every rider has a bad rodeo. I’ll go all out at the National Finals in December, then hang up my spurs.”
Gene shakes his head and spits. “It’s just not right.”
Hank thinks about Maggie, who doesn’t date loser cowboys who can’t afford her. “Gene, it’s bigger than that. I need this horse.” Like I need that woman. “And I needed to tell you the truth. Please understand.”
“I do understand. More than you know. I just don’t like it.” Gene kicks off his boots, frowning. “Dibs on top bunk.” The two bed down in the gooseneck compartment, taking turns on who sleeps on the small bench and who gets the queen mattress up top.
“You had it last night.” Hank climbs in the cramped space behind him, nothing more than a triangular minefield of floor covered with gear and bags. He eyes the short, narrow ledge that is to be his bed again tonight.
“Tough shit, fixer. You don’t deserve it.”
Hank sinks to the bench with his head in his hands. Gene will get over this. He has to.
Part II
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Saturday morning
* * *
Maggie
* * *
The breakfast lounge in the Rodeway Inn motel is on par with its price, which Maggie has covered with the record company’s credit card. Low-rent all around. At least the breakfast is free. That’s the right price, because none of them can afford to pay for food and alcohol on the money they’re making in Cheyenne.
Maggie walks in alone, but the whole band is already there. Chris is playing footsy under a table for four with Celinda—who’d never shown up in their room last night, and, if her memory served, had dissed her music, too. Davo is standing five feet from them, looking like he can’t decide whether he can stomach eating at their table. Brent is in the buffet line, serving his Styrofoam plate.
She sidles up to Brent and whispers in his ear. “Eat with me, away from the rest of the group?”
He glances back at Davo, who has taken a chair by Chris and Celinda with his back to them. He scoots it a few inches away from the couple in heat. “What’s up?”
She squeezes her temples. “I just can’t this morning.”
“Diva.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Where do you want to go?”
Maggie scans for alternate seating space. She’ s feeling the tequila. She knows better. It makes her sad and desperate and hurts her head like she’s been stabbed clean through with the metal leg of her mic stand. She’s a whiskey girl, and what made her go south of the border this far north, she isn’t sure. Unless she just wanted to feel bad. It’s possible. But that would be crazy, and she’s only crazy on every second Tuesday. She shakes her head and regrets it. “Couch in reception.”
He nods and heads that way.
Maggie fills one cup with orange juice and another with a heavily sugared coffee, balances them on a plate, and adds a Danish. She hustles after him before the rest of the group takes notice of her. Not that they’d beg her to join them. They’d just wonder where Brent disappeared to.
She sinks into the brown leather couch beside Brent and puts her coffee on the table at her knees. She downs the orange juice and stacks the empty cup under the coffee.
“Okay, talk to me.” Brent has taken the time to make a waffle drowned in melted butter a
nd hot syrup. He’s also got a bowl of oatmeal with raisins and walnuts, with a tablespoon of brown sugar, and again with melted butter. He shovels in half his waffle in one bite and struggles to chew.
“Help me keep Davo away today.” She takes a bite of the Danish. Five days old, dry, and hard as a rock. She soaks it with a mouthful of coffee so she can chew it enough to swallow. She has a pang of food envy.
“Trouble in paradise, huh?”
“There is no paradise.”
“Uh-oh. You’re going to dump him?”
“Dump implies we have some kind of understanding, which we don’t. I’m hoping not to have to, um, cease things while we’re on the road, but no promises.”
He groans. “Oh, yippee.”
“I can’t go back tonight, Brent.” She dunks the Danish in the coffee before taking a bite, but it’s no better.
“Huh? Go back where?”
“Our gig.”
“You mean that place where they pay us and we make tip money and sell shit for cash?”
“Ugh. Yes.”
“Want to give me a little more than that to go on, other than you’re bat-shit crazy, which I already knew?”
Maggie studies the reception desk. Is it green? Is it blue? Is there a name for such an awful color of Formica? “I can’t open for Kaylee.”
He covers his mouth with one hand and talks as he chews. “Because why?”
“Because I’m serious about my music. This booking is wrong for me. It’s demeaning.”
“Opening for someone with a Top Forty hit is demeaning. Wow. Let’s circle back to what I said earlier. Diva with a capital D. Ain’t nobody in Nashville can hold a candle to Maggie.”
“Whatever.”
He pushes his oatmeal around in his bowl. “It’s not just you up there, you know.”
“Yeah.” She swallows, then purses her lips and lets out a sputtering breath. “But you guys were hired to back me, to back my music.”
“Technically true and incredibly insensitive.” He stares at her like her hair is on fire but he feels no need to douse the flames.
She plows on, ignoring his point. “I need you to back me now.”
“You make it so appealing. How could I say no?” His voice is acid.
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