“I can’t go back tonight.” For a hot second, Maggie thinks of Hank, and a bolt of longing shoots through her. But then she remembers Fawn, and Kaylee’s interest in him. She’s not a harem kind of girl.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the money to pay me back?”
“Didn’t I give it to you last night?”
“No.”
“I’d swear I did.”
“I’d swear you drank your tip money.”
She pats her pockets, coming up empty. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, so am I. Because you owe me money, and there’s no way I’ll back you on dropping out of this gig. None.” He leaps to his feet, stopping only long enough to stuff his trash in a can on his way to the elevator, without looking back.
Hank
* * *
The R&B Breakfast Club is packed to the gills when Hank and Gene arrive to meet Hank’s parents and little sister, Laura, who lives in Laramie and is going to be a junior at the University of Wyoming. They lean against the exterior wall in the shade and listen to Laura chatter about classes, friends, and fast horses. She’s a dead ringer for his mother, the two of them petite, muscular, and dark-haired with flintlike brown eyes. Laura is barrel racing at UW, but she dreams of quarter horse racing. Their parents smile indulgently and assure her that as soon as she graduates, she can race all she wants.
Once inside the small, Elvis-packed interior, it’s all about the serious business of eating. Hank orders the huevos rancheros smothered in green chiles with corn tortillas. His mother whispers something to the waitress as she leaves. Hank assumes it is about his father’s cholesterol, an obsession of hers. The noise from their fellow diners makes it hard to hear each other, but the people-watching is great. He hears accents from all over the country and sees patrons ranging from the young man with the oversized ear discs and his older companion whose whole body, including his face, is covered in tattoos, to a woman in pearls and a sweater set, and everything in between.
“I wish we could stay,” his mother shouts. “We couldn’t get a hotel. And we really need to get back to church.”
“I probably won’t ride tomorrow, anyway.”
Gene clears his throat, and Hank glares at him.
His father frowns and readjusts his Stetson. The tall, thin man normally has a weathered dark cast to his skin, but today he looks pale. “Don’t talk like that, son. Our thoughts control our destiny.”
“Our dad the philosopher.” Laura rolls her eyes. “He says the same thing to me before every rodeo.”
He taps the side of his forehead with two fingers. “Your brain is your most powerful tool for success or failure.”
A waitress sets the huevos rancheros in front of him. There’s a single birthday candle flickering. He looks up, questioning, and everyone breaks into song.
“Happy birthday to you,” they sing.
When they’re done, he blows out the candle. He wishes for a mouthy brunette with endless legs and flying fingers. “But my birthday was last week.”
His parents and Laura laugh. Laura hands him a package, and his mother passes him an envelope.
“Open it.” Laura’s voice is imperious. The spoiled-only-daughter syndrome, but she grew up tagging along with a big brother, adventurous and tough. It saved her from being a princess.
Hank sets his mouth in a prim lip and opens the package without ripping the paper, then folds it neatly. His mother knows he is imitating her. She gives him a playful slap as the others hoot. He removes Laura’s gift from the last scrap of paper. It’s a black bolo tie with a bull rider oval in silver and bronze.
“Do you like it?” She leans over his shoulder, admiring her taste.
“It’s great, sis. Thank you.” He pecks her cheek.
“Put it on.”
He slides one end through his collar then inserts it in the clasp and pulls up the oval.
“You’re so handsome, son. I can’t wait to see you in a suit on your wedding day.”
“Is there something I should know? Have you betrothed me to the daughter of some oil baron?”
“We just want to see you happy.” His mother pushes the envelope at him. “Open ours.”
He tears into the envelope like a kid at Christmas. Referring to his unwrapping style, he asks, “Who was I then?”
“Me!” Laura sticks her tongue out at him.
Hank empties the envelope onto the table. Twenty-five twenty-dollar bills spill out. “No, guys, that’s too much.”
“Just let your parents do something nice for you,” his dad says, his voice as warm as his eyes. “We only live once, and what good is it if we can’t do for our kids?”
“Thank you all, then. For everything but the singing.”
Presents over, Hank’s afraid his huevos rancheros are getting cold, so he digs in. The crispy hash-brown layer is what sets them apart from everywhere else. His stomach rumbles as the food hits. He looks up to see that the others don’t have their food yet. He covers his mouth with his hand and sets his fork down. “Sorry.” He mumbles it through his mouthful of food.
His mom gives a little fist pump. “We’ll be cheering for you for all we’re worth. Your last shot at the finals. Are you nervous?”
Hank feels a squirm start inside him. “No more than usual.”
“But this is Cheyenne. The largest outdoor rodeo in the world. The Daddy of ’Em All.”
The rest of the food arrives and conversation freezes. Hank sighs with relief that everyone is served.
Before he takes a bite, he responds to his mother’s earlier comment. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s bigger than NFR for most of us, and it’s very competitive.”
“You’ll kill it, Hank. I just know it. I’ll get lots of good pictures. Coach wants to see them. You’re still a legend at U-Dub.” Laura slurps Coca-Cola from a straw and nods.
“We’ll see.”
“He’s a legend everywhere he goes, Laura.” Gene’s eyes twinkle. “Especially with the ladies. And he met one last night.”
Hank has been trying to keep his thoughts about Maggie in a box with a tightly closed lid. In the light of day, he knows it’s hopeless. He just can’t help his reaction to her. She’s making him feel—big feelings.
“Really?” Laura asks. She elbows her mother. “There may be hope.”
“Nah. Gene’s just giving me shit.” Hank shakes his head at his mother. “Sorry, Mom.”
“You’re not getting any younger, son. And you don’t want to know about the sperm count of retired bull riders.”
“Mom!” Laura claps her hands to her cheeks.
“Fine. I’ll change the subject.” His mother sniffs. “We’re so sorry about your injury, Gene.”
Gene waits until he swallows to respond. “It happens, ma’am. Thank you.”
“How are plans coming for the rough stock business, you two?”
Hank and Gene share a long look. Gene nods for Hank to take the answer.
“Good. We’ve identified a mare in foal to start our herd.” He tells them about her rodeo and broodmare history, as well as her lineage.
“Sounds good. I’m proud of you boys. Hank, you’re a good man.” Hank’s father claps his son on the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, everyone.” He gets up to go to the bathroom.
Hanks mother pushes out from her seat. “I might as well go, too.”
As they leave, Hank tells Gene, “They always do that. Always together. Since they were kids, we hear. Lockstep.” He turns to watch them and sees his dad lurch and his mother take his arm. When his eyes meet Laura’s, he sees something that makes his heart sink. “What is it? Is something the matter with Dad?”
“I, uh, I, uh . . .” She trails off, looking stricken.
Gene stands. “I’m going to step outside for some fresh air.” He squeezes Hank’s shoulder as he leaves.
“Tell me, Laura.”
“He doesn’t want you to worry. He’s afraid you’ll
come home, and that’s not what he wants. He wants you living your dream, like he never did. He wants you to take another shot at NFR.”
“Tell me. Before they come back, tell me.”
Tears well in her eyes. “Dad has ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
The air whooshes out of Hank’s chest. “What? How long has he known?”
“I’m not sure. A few months, maybe.”
“How long does he have?”
“Six months. But you have to keep it together. Let him tell you after NFR. It’s what he wants, Hank. Please.”
The room spins and the center isn’t holding. Hank wants to clutch his hair and scream. But his parents are making their way back to the table. He stands and pulls out the chair for his mother.
“Where’s Gene?”
Hank sits. “Back in a flash.”
“So, who wants dessert?” his father asks.
Pretending everything didn’t just change takes everything Hank has. “Let’s get one of everything, five forks. You only live once. My treat.”
Maggie
* * *
Green on tan and brown over green. The comforter, and the carpet. The curtains: more brown. Maggie surveys the hotel room with a critical eye. A microwave over a mini-fridge and a cluster of pine furniture with a television. She’s stayed in far uglier places. But somehow she finds this one more depressing than usual. Or maybe it’s just her hangover talking.
She returns to the tiny white on white on tan—yes, depressing—bathroom to finish her hair and makeup, sans Celinda. She’s sure Chris and Celinda have found a private spot to continue making like bunnies. After applying curl enhancer, she waves her blow-dryer and diffuser at her curls. At least she has the bathroom all to herself. Truth be told, she hasn’t bonded with Celinda. The girl is all looks and no talent, and worse, a gossip.
Done with her dryer, Maggie spritzes some spray-in to lock her curls in place, then adds another for shine. She leans in, nose distance from the mirror, and goes to work on her face. Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at her door. She zips her makeup bag and hikes her towel up. Celinda must have lost or demagnetized her key. She peers through the peephole. It’s Davo on the other side.
“What is it?” She clutches her towel closed like it’s a chastity belt.
“Is that any way to greet the bearer of good news?”
“I’m not dressed, Davo.”
“That’s better.”
She sighs. “Give me a minute.”
He whispers. “Come on, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. And I’d like to see it again.”
She leaves him there and takes her time getting dressed. She wiggles into a blue-jean miniskirt artfully ripped and frayed. Her outfit will carry her all the way through the day and evening, plus or minus vests, scarves, hats, and jackets she carries in a bag to change things up. When she finally opens the door, she half-expects him to have given up. Instead, he’s tapping his foot, leaning on his guitar case, trying to downplay the stupid grin on his face.
“You look beautiful. As usual.”
She doesn’t respond. He follows her in.
“Okay, what gives?”
His smile flickers for an instant. Maybe he’s getting the hint. But then it comes back, full wattage. “I’ve been working on a song. For you.”
Davo hasn’t written music for her before. Their summer has been too busy for much writing. Even their van rides between shows are mostly about recovering from exhaustion as they rotate driving duties. She knows he writes, but they play her music, and she feels a tiny frisson of guilt for never asking to hear his songs before. Still, his announcement has the effect of cornering her, and she doesn’t like that.
She treads cautiously. “Really? Thank you.”
“Can I play it for you?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Um, okay.”
He unpacks his guitar and tunes it. He clears his throat a few times. He has a serviceable voice. Not enough to carry a band, but he’s a good backing vocalist.
“Does it have a name?”
“I call it ‘Whiskey Sour.’” He strums the intro chords, then launches into his song.
Maggie keeps her face neutral. It’s a nice song. Catchy lyrics with a beat that makes you want to move your feet. But it’s straight-up country pop.
When he’s done, he puts the guitar on his lap. “What do you think?”
“It’s good.”
“Would you play it?”
“It’s not my vibe.”
“But did you listen to the words?”
“Whiskey sour, harsh and sweet?”
“Yes. You’re the Whiskey Sour in the song. It’s about a woman who’s been hurt, but she’s tough.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Davo puts the guitar on the bed and makes a move toward her.
She backs up a step, but the other bed stops her.
“Can’t you see, Maggie? I’m crazy about you.”
She places a palm on his chest, with the slightest backward pressure. He doesn’t budge. “Davo, stop. That’s not who we are.”
“I know, but it’s who I’d like us to be. We could be great together.”
“We are great together, just like this. Only a little less.”
He barks a laugh without mirth, and his eyes dim. “You’re breaking up with me? I just wrote you a song.”
Gentle is not Maggie’s specialty, but she really tries, for the sake of band harmony. “I’m only saying I need us to keep it casual. Why don’t we write songs together? But on this tour, can we write my kind of songs? Since that’s what you were brought on board to do—write and play my music.”
“I think this could be your kind of music. I practiced it with the crew, so we can play it tonight. I think it’s the least you can do, when you dump me after I write you a song.”
Suddenly she wonders if it was always about this moment, never about her. If he’s a user like every other guy she’s known. Just when she thinks she’s on equal footing with a guy, for the first time, maybe even has the upper hand. She examines him. His hurt looks manufactured, and he went too quickly for the exchange.
She’s weakened by last night’s tequila. She doesn’t want awkwardness. If it means they can get through tonight, she can do his number once. “I’ll play it, if you promise we’ll write for me, starting on our drive tomorrow.”
He salutes. “I promise. And everyone is going to love you on this song. You won’t regret it.”
But she’s already sure she will.
Hank
* * *
That evening, Hank walks into Buckin’ A to cheers and congratulations. He’s won the Saturday round. When it came down to it that day, he couldn’t disappoint his family, especially with his dad sick. He’d drawn a good bull, so he’d let it ride, and came out on top. What’s more, his scores overall advanced him to the finals. His parents treated him to a steak dinner before driving back to Laramie to drop Laura, then on to Sheridan. The look in his father’s eyes was a memory Hank would take to his grave.
And he’ll still be able to lose at the finals and get the cash to buy Sassafrass.
Maggie and her band are setting up, and he hopes she hears what people are saying to him, although it’s doubtful she does over “The Thunder Rolls” on the jukebox. He wills her to look his way as he takes her in. She’s greased into a skirt with holes that almost show him what he wants to see. She’s got attitude to spare in fringed high-heeled ankle boots. He can’t take his eyes off her ass, even though he thinks her face is beautiful. Finally, he tears his eyes away to address the comments that keep coming.
“You look richer by a few thousand bucks” and “Way to go, cowboy.” People buy him one drink after another. He knows he shouldn’t be downing the alcohol, but each one lessens the pain of thinking about his father a little bit more. Gene is grinning and slaps him a high five. It all means more to him than he’d realized it would. Cheyenne is like that. Even a
win on a preliminary night. He’ll have this forever.
His Texan buddy Joe says, “I’d buy you a drink, but I’m busted.”
“I’ll take a rain check. Or a ride in your new truck.” Joe has recently purchased an ancient white Chevy.
Gene says, “It’s not really new, just new to Joe.”
The three men laugh.
Joe lifts his beer. “Shit, you know where the keys are. Just take it for a spin.”
“Let me guess. You put a ‘This Ain’t My First Rodeo’ bumper sticker on it.”
“How else would people know it’s me?” He lights up a Marlboro. “But no dents, Sibley.”
“No new dents.”
Patrick walks in. Hank’s pulse jackhammers. He’s not looking forward to this conversation. Patrick goes to the same table as the night before. Hank ignores him until he can’t pretend not to see him any longer.
“Excuse me, guys. I’m going to catch up with an old-timer.” Hank makes his way to Patrick and takes a seat.
“You’re making my boss nervous. You were supposed to lose tonight. You won. You’re in the finals.”
“In the lowest-scoring spot.”
“Yeah, but you’re in. Looking good cost you a lot of money tonight. He would have paid double your take to lose.”
Hank doesn’t answer.
“The deal’s still on for tomorrow, right? You’ll make sure you don’t win?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
Cristiano walks in. He puts a hundred-dollar bill in Maggie’s tip jar and sticks another hundred in her belt. Hank hears him say, “Dance with me on your break?”
Maggie shakes her head no and cues her band. The music starts. Cristiano backs up a few steps, causing a crash on the dance floor. A woman lands on her behind and slides. Her partner hoists her up by the hand and glares at Cristiano, who doesn’t even apologize.
Hank suddenly hates Cristiano, a whole, whole lot.
Maggie
* * *
Cristiano gives Maggie the creeps. The money he’s lavishing on her, the way he won’t take no for an answer, and how he doesn’t care what impact he has on other people. She doesn’t ever want her lips to have to touch his skin again.
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