“To the ride of your life tomorrow, cowboy.”
He wonders if she’s talking about the bull or her, and he hopes with all he has that it’s the latter. He ducks his head to claim her lips, but she whisks them away, smiling.
He can’t help smiling back. “Good night, Maggie.”
Walking away is a hard, hard thing to do.
In the truck five minutes later, Hank is quiet. He hates leaving Maggie back at the Buckin’ A with the vultures. He hates leaving her at all. It takes all his strength not to jump from the truck, tear ass back to the saloon, throw her over his shoulder, and haul her away. He’s thinking to the family’s mountain cabin in the Bighorn Mountains. Hole up there naked for a week. Or a year.
Gene’s voice pulls him back to reality. “Need food?”
Hank closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the last of the image he’d conjured of Maggie in the cabin, before it vanishes. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
Gene pulls into the unfortunately named convenience store, the Kum and Go—aka the Ejaculate and Evacuate to all kids growing up in Wyoming—and the two saunter inside. Hank heats a burrito in the microwave. When he gets it out, it’s hard on the edges, burns the roof of his mouth, and still manages to give him an ice cream headache in the center. Still, it’s fuel. They take a seat in a laminated red booth, each munching.
“I saw her,” Gene says. “The brunette singer. Just as I was leaving. I’ll admit, she looks like she’s into you, God help her.”
Hank’s mountain Maggie image threatens to take over his brain again. “She’s a goddess.”
“More like Hell on Wheels. Maybe you should call her Cheyenne.”
Hank knows what Gene means. “Hell on Wheels” is an old nickname for the town, dating back to the days the railroads were being built. He finishes chewing a handful of spicy Doritos. “She is all of that. I tell you, she sets my blood on fire.”
“You’ve got it bad.” Gene licks powdered cheese from his fingers. He likes his Cheetos. It’s a miracle his hands aren’t permanently orange.
“You don’t know the half of it.” Hank rips open his burrito wrapper and licks the inside. “She said she’ll go out with me if I win tomorrow.”
“Ah. But I thought you agreed not to, in exchange for your ridiculous payment.”
“I did.”
“And the money?”
“If I win, it will be enough, added to what I’ve made already so far.”
“If you don’t?”
“Then I’m no worse off than I would have been anyway. But I’m canceling the contract.” Hank tilts his head back and empties the last of the crumbs in his chip bag into his mouth.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to cancel contracts with the mafia.”
Hank clears the spicy flavor from his mouth with Sprite. “They’re not mafia.”
“Sure they are. I looked them up today on a computer at the library.”
Hank unwraps a chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich. He talks through his first bite. “What in hell’s hot half acre were you doing at the library?”
“Researching partnership agreements and business formation.” Gene continues munching Cheetos—he’d bought the family-size bag.
“Oh, well, carry on with that.” The ice cream is starting to melt. Hank takes an enormous bite. It drips down his hand.
“They’re a Brazilian crime family.”
“Assuming it’s them. I don’t know for sure.” He shoves the last of the ice cream and cookie into his mouth, then mops his hands and the table with napkins while he struggles to chew the oversized bite.
“Of course you do. And they’re ruthless people. Cristiano is the only son of the capo. Whatever Cristiano wants, Daddy gets him. And Cristiano wants to be a champion bull rider.”
Hank swallows. “Well, he can be. Just not here, not this time. Because I’ve got a date with the woman of my dreams riding on it.” He squeezes the dirty napkin, foil burrito and plastic ice cream wrappers, and Doritos bag into a ball. “Seriously, Gene, I think she’s the one. I want to take her to meet my parents.” A pang of sadness washes over him as he thinks about his dad. Gene had asked, without pressing, what Laura and he had talked about after breakfast. But if Hank’s dad hadn’t told even him, he sure wouldn’t want him blabbing it to anyone else, so he hadn’t. Plus, Hank doesn’t want to speak it aloud, just in case that makes it true. He yearns to believe it’s not. But he also thinks he’d better get Maggie up to Sheridan fast.
“I think you’re going to get your kneecaps broken. And those are the guys that are going to do it.” Gene points at two men speaking Portuguese near the ice cream freezer, watching them.
Hank’s seen them with Cristiano and his father at the Buckin’ A. One has a scar outlining his jaw, and the other has a noticeable gap in his front teeth. With their size, they’re not easy to miss.
Hank glowers at them. “Goons. They’ll have to catch me to do it.”
“Shit, do what you want, but they’ve seen me and my rig out there now. If you win, I’m heading out of town. You can catch a ride back to your truck.” While the two had been carpooling to Frontier Park in Gene’s truck, Hank’s was stashed by the trailer. “If you’re smart, you’ll get out of here fast, too.”
“I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it. I probably won’t win anyway.” Hank grins. “But I’m going to have fun trying.”
And even more fun if he scores the buckle, and the girl.
Maggie
* * *
With Hank gone, the sparkle and rebellious triumph of the night fades for Maggie. Even making fun of Kaylee has lost its luster. Plus, Celinda is on the warpath. Apparently Chris isn’t that into what she has to offer, because he’s taken up with Fawn, right in front of her, not twenty-four hours after their hookup.
“Are you coming?” It’s Brent. He doesn’t seem angry.
“I didn’t think I’d be welcome.”
“The Maggie Killian I know wouldn’t let that stop her. Besides, it’s your tour, your van.”
Maggie takes a sip of her Jack and Coke. “Thank you for noticing.”
“And thank you for helping us pack up tonight.”
Which she hadn’t done. She rolls her eyes at him.
A shrill voice interrupts them. Celinda is five feet away, giving it to Chris with both barrels. She looks devastated. He looks relaxed, disengaged, and eager to shed her. During the entire exchange, Fawn doesn’t remove her fingers from the belt loop closest to the head Chris is thinking with. When Celinda is finished with her diatribe, Chris shrugs and turns away from her. Celinda stomps off in tears toward the parking lot. Davo—who has given Maggie a wide berth since their own altercation—runs after Celinda.
“That’s a shit show.” Maggie lifts her cup.
“The title of tonight’s reality TV episode is ‘Breaking Up the Band,’” Brent says.
Maggie slurps the last of her drink.
“Can we go now?”
“You’ve always been free to leave.”
Brent stares at his beer bottle for a second before shaking his head. “It must get lonely, never thinking about anyone but yourself.” He turns to go, but then doubles back. He has bright red splotches high on both cheeks. “I have to send money home to my wife and daughter. You need to pay me back. Now.”
A strange, prickly sensation floods Maggie’s face, then she realizes what it is. She’s about to cry. She grinds her teeth together to hold it in. Reaching in her purse, she finds Cristiano’s hundred-dollar bill, which she’d snatched from the tip jar earlier. She thrusts it at Brent. “With interest.”
The money and the man disappear without another word.
The Rodeway is close by, and Maggie decides to hoof it. She slips out of the bar and uses the walk to process Brent’s accusations. She’s not selfish, is she? A musician has to be singularly focused to succeed. She has that drive, that focus. It’s one of her best attributes. Brent just doesn’t get it. Which is why he’s backing her, and n
ot the other way around. Or was backing her, anyway. Not anymore.
By the time she’s back at the hotel, she’s right in her head, with only a little tinge of guilt and doubt tugging at her heart.
Hank
* * *
Midday Sunday, Hank arrives at the arena. Today is the day. The day he’s being paid to lose but is in it to win it. He’s nervous and excited, much more than usual after ten years of competing in this sport. He knows it’s because of her, and he likes it.
It’s hours before he rides, but he wants the whole experience today. He wants the buckle and his family’s pride, he wants the girl, and he wants the broodmare, too. Why can’t he have it all on a day like today? A beautiful day of limitless possibilities, with the sun high in the sky, a light north wind, and a temperature hovering around eighty. It’s perfect, and he loves it. The buzzing crowd, the smell of nervous fear, hot dogs, beer, big animals, and sweat. The sounds of milling competitors, bawling cattle, and pawing horses.
Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. Her name reverberates rhythmically in his head. It’s his mantra as he prepares his mind to battle a bull. Today he’s drawn Laser Beam. It’s a good draw, a good bull. Rideable, but with enough fire to score points on. In the waiting area under the stands, he slips into his protective vest to make sure it fits and isn’t messed up from its last use. He wears this one only when he finals. It’s made of cowhide that matches his chaps. His mom begs him to wear a helmet, but he just can’t bring himself to do it, because he thinks it puts him more at risk by limiting his visibility. He’s in the minority on the viewpoint, but he’s not changing his mind today. He sits on a wooden bench with a row of brass nameplates signed by cowboys. He takes the vest off and pulls out a Sharpie pen. He has a new pair of yellow leather gloves. He writes Let ’er buck, the same message he’s written on every pair since he was fourteen. When he’s done, he paces around behind the chutes, mentally reviewing what he knows about the bull from other competitors and past events as he plans his ride strategy.
A familiar voice pulls him from his reverie. “Sibley.”
He turns to Patrick, and his face sours. “Patrick.”
“Good luck today.”
Hank frowns, not expecting that from the man who represents the faction paying him to lose. “Thanks.”
Patrick leans against a section of metal-railed panel. “You pulled a fast one last night.”
“It was an accident. I hated to miss out on the cash from your employer.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.” It’s not. But it’s also not provable.
“Just make sure there are no accidents today. The boss is already pissed. And he’s not a forgiving person.”
Hank plasters a big smile on his face. “Got it.” It’s that lack of forgiveness that has him worried. But there’s no guarantee he’ll win, no matter how hard he tries or how bad he wants it. Planning for the consequences of winning will only jinx him. He’ll deal with it if he’s lucky enough that it happens.
“But I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about. I saw your assignment.”
Hank glances in the direction of the bulls, on the other side of the pens. Why would Patrick say that? Laser Beam is exactly the kind of ride they should worry about. “Laser Beam?”
“No. Big Sky.”
“I drew Laser Beam.”
“Yes, but now you’re on Big Sky.”
“What happened to Laser Beam?”
“I hear the vet pulled him. He’s sick.” Patrick’s eyes twinkle.
Hank suspects what happened to the bull isn’t illness, and he feels sick himself. Not just over worrying what might have been done to the animal, which is bad enough, but over what might happen to him. Big Sky is not the kind of bull a cowboy wants to ride. Big Sky is the kind of bull that could get him hurt or killed.
Patrick sounds gleeful. “He’s never been ridden to eight seconds before. Don’t be the first.”
Hank storms off to find an official to help him straighten things out.
“Bye, Sibley,” Patrick calls.
Hank raises a middle finger, but doesn’t look back.
Maggie
* * *
Thanks to her performer badge and a winning smile for the bedazzled guy manning the gate, Maggie scores a spot in the VIP area by the chutes. So far, that privilege has earned her a splatter of cow shit on her jeans and dust so thick she can write her name on her arm. But she can hear the grunts of the horses and the creak of leather, the curse words of choice from the cowboys and cowgirls. She’s never been that into rodeo before, but today her tie to Hank has vested her in the drama, and she’s reveling in it.
Part of her mind lingers in her own drama, though. The van should be pulling away from the hotel any time now without her on it. She’d slipped a note under Brent’s door before she left for Frontier Park.
I’m leaving the tour. I’m sorry, but I have to do this.
Celinda will be fine on lead.
Best,
Maggie
She’s been ignoring a barrage of calls ever since. She knows who’s on the other end. Larry. Davo. Brent. Maybe even Celinda or Chris. Definitely someone from the label. She doesn’t need to hear anything more from them. Her mind is made up. She’s staying here today, and after that, who knows? She left her guitar in storage at the hotel along with her satchel, and the road is no stranger to her. Playing for tips. Bumming rides from town to town. She’ll be a student of the experience and write it all into song.
Or maybe she’ll tag along with the cowboy. Hank. Her cowboy? For as long as he strikes her fancy, anyway, which, if the past holds true, won’t be long, but will be fun while it lasts. She can find her music in a passionate affair, the joy, and the inevitable pain of life that makes for good songwriting.
Whatever she decides, she’s free. She doesn’t even have to go back to the label if she doesn’t want to. Contracts can’t bind her. Fame and money are meaningless. Music is her art, and that is what she seeks. After she seeks a piece of this cowboy. Damn, she’s hot for him. Crazy hot. Like a-cat-in-heat hot. Like she’s-never-been-before hot.
A man jostles into the row beside her, an entourage on his heels filling the rest of the seats. She doesn’t pay them any mind until he speaks.
“Ms. Killian, you have come to watch my son?”
His accent is unmistakable from their meeting two nights before. When she turns to Senor Valdez, he catches her hand and dips his head to kiss it, giving her a glimpse of the top of his white fedora.
She decides to keep her answer noncommittal. She dissed Cristiano—and good—last night. But it doesn’t appear he told Daddy. Maybe he didn’t want to admit his humiliation. “Good afternoon, Senor Valdez. It’s a great day for rodeo.” She’s tightly buttoned in a leather vest, which she gives a discreet tug upward. It and her white peasant blouse expose a lot of cleavage. “What a fine bull rider you have raised.”
“He takes after me. In my youth, I was a gaucho, you see, and I rode the bulls. Never so well as my Cristiano.”
“I’m sure.” She glances at his compadres. They’re like a row of stone carvings. They don’t speak, look at her, or even twitch. She pulls her eyes away quickly.
“It’s a dangerous sport, this bull riding. The most dangerous eight seconds in sports. Even here in Cheyenne, a world champion was killed in the arena.”
“How?”
“He was horned in the back.” Valdez smiles at her, an odd segue out of the disturbing topic. “May I offer you a refreshment, a cerveja or perhaps a snack?”
She assumes a cerveja is the same as a cerveza. A beer to English speakers. “Um . . .”
“I myself desire a cold drink.” He snaps his fingers. “Paco, dois cervejas, imediatamente.”
The Portuguese words sound similar to Spanish, yet just different enough to be exotic. A stone man peels off the line and moves smartly out of the box and toward concession, casting his eyes on Maggie for a split second. His are black and fl
at, above a large scar on his jaw. For fun, she smiles at him. He doesn’t react.
“Thank you. Um, gracias. Or however you say it in your language.”
“Obrigada.”
She rolls the unfamiliar word around on her tongue. “Obrigada.”
“It is nothing. You know, my son is quite taken with you. We both love your music.”
Does she ever know. Ugh. “Thank you.”
“After he wins, we should talk about financing your next album.”
“What?”
He nods, affirming his grand idea. “I am seeking to diversify my portfolio. Music might be just the thing.”
Maggie bites her tongue. The last thing she wants is further involvement with Cristiano. After she tempers her reaction, she can’t resist asking, “What if this local favorite, the Wyoming rider, wins? Hank Sibley?”
Senor Valdez crinkles his nose in distaste. “There is no chance of that.”
The announcer introduces the bull riding, and Maggie’s stomach flutters. Senor Valdez is just as consumed by the event as she is. As the kickoff rider prepares in the chute, the clown dances to Alabama’s “Mountain Music” with exaggerated knee-raises and heel-toe combinations. When he’s done, Maggie watches the first five riders in near silence. Three don’t make their eight seconds. The other two post lackluster scores in the seventies. Maggie knows this leaves ample room for Hank, and she clenches her hands together in her lap. She feels tethered to him, somehow, and she sends him all the positive energy she can muster for a safe, successful ride.
The scarred flunky returns with their beers. Senor Valdez doesn’t acknowledge him.
“Thanks,” Maggie says.
He doesn’t respond.
Senor Valdez leans in, making her jump. He talks into her ear from behind his hand, his fingertips touching her cheek. “My Cristiano is next. He’s drawn a very good bull. I think he has a shot at the arena record.”
Buckle Bunny Page 6