Maggie wins a difficult battle not to recoil from his cold hand. “That’s great.” She knows the record from her conversation with Hank the night before. Lynn Uptmor, a 94 in 1994. Maggie also knows no rider has scored over 89 through the prelims.
Cristiano’s bull, Screamin’ Demon, bursts from the gate. Senor Valdez leaps to his feet and screams expletives at the bull. Maggie whoops and hollers, feeling cornered into an exhibition of support. The eight-second buzzer sounds with Cristiano still aboard. Maggie’s no expert, but she doesn’t think the bull gave Cristiano much of a ride.
Senior Valdez raises a fist. “Cristiano! Meu filho!”
The bullfighters help Cristiano off the bull, and the clown distracts the animal. Cristiano searches the VIP box for his father. He sees Maggie. He doffs his hat and holds it over his heart, half-bowing to her. He walks straight over to them, speeding up and over the rails at the last second when the bull breaks loose from the attention of the bullfighters and clown.
Senor Valdez snaps, and his men move down to make space for Cristiano.
Cristiano takes the seat between his father and Maggie. “You’ve come to give me my kiss.”
She gives him a wan smile.
“And more, I hope.”
The announcer reads the judge’s score for Cristiano: an 85.
“O juiz errou!” Senor Valdez curses again, the announcer, the judges, their families, and their ancestors. “The judges have robbed you.”
Cristiano pats the man’s arm. “Relax, Papa. I’m in first place.”
Senor Valdez lowers his voice so that Maggie almost doesn’t hear him. “Yes, but that loathsome Hank Sibley still has to ride.”
The crowd is noisy and saves Maggie from further conversation until Hank is up. He’s riding last, and Cristiano remains in first place. She hears Cristiano whispering in Portuguese. It sounds like a prayer, and his eyes are closed and head bowed. He ends by crossing himself.
The announcer introduces Hank. “Folks, your home-state boy’s no stranger to the finals at the top events in the world. But if Hank wants to take home the buckle tonight, he has to get past Big Sky, and, let me tell you, that’s a tall order. Here’s a Montana bull that hates cowboys more than any I’ve ever seen.” The chute near them clangs like a thunderclap as Big Sky tries to tear it—and anyone near it—apart. “No one has ridden him to the buzzer, and most have left the arena on a stretcher. He’s as mean as they come, two tons of solid, twisting, rocket-propelled fury. So give a hand to Hank and wish him luck. I’ll bet he’s wishing Laser Beam, his original ride, hadn’t taken sick about now.”
The crowd goes wild. Maggie clutches her throat. Hank is on the bull that no one can ride? He’s taking longer than any of the other riders to get ready. She sees horns, ears, and then a raised nose over the top of the chute as the bull shoots skyward. The announcer explains that the judges are letting Hank readjust his grip.
Suddenly, the gate to the chute swings open, and the enormous blue-black bull explodes up and out to the left, with a twist so violent Maggie thinks she feels the centrifugal force in her seat. She gasps, and her hands ball up, nails scratching at her jeans. She forgets about Cristiano and his father and the stone men down the row. A cry rips from her throat. She’s on her feet before the bull’s hindquarters hit the ground. Hank’s grip on the rigging is firm, and his free arm is up. Big Sky wrenches his massive body through time and space, sending it in a skyward arc in the opposite direction. Hank’s shoulders stay square over the bull’s.
Big Sky spins as he bucks, and it’s clear where he got his name. Not from the color of his hide. Not from Montana. No, he got it from the height his hooves reach with each buck. They punch big holes in the blue July afternoon sky, and send billowing dust clouds to the heavens when they crash back into the earth. As he fights to eject Hank, Big Sky makes a noise deep in his chest, like a growl. It’s almost as if Hank is riding an enormous grizzly bear. Maggie can see the snot and spit slinging through the air.
In a move that seems impossible for an animal of his size, Big Sky enters a buck while spinning and snaps his bulk in the opposite direction in midair. Maggie screams. The crowd gasps, and there’s a moment of near silence as Hank’s taller-than-optimal body tilts sideways. The bull, sensing the momentum shift, bucks with increased vigor to take advantage of it.
“Come on, come on, come on.” Unconsciously, Maggie tents her hands at her chest.
The two Valdez men let loose a string of Portuguese curse words, damning Hank and urging Big Sky on.
It feels to Maggie like an eternity has passed with no buzzer, and there’s no clock that she can see to count down the ride. Surely the clock is broken. Hank’s been on too long. He can’t keep this up. The bull is going to tear his body in half with his gyrations.
“Sibley’s known for his core and upper body strength,” she hears the announcer say.
Almost like his words summoned it, Hank fights his body back to center. Big Sky continues his attack on the world, the ground beneath him, and the cowboy on his back, but the buzzer sounds. The crowd surges to their feet as one, and the cheers rise to the heavens.
The big blue bull has lost, for the first time.
Maggie is jumping up and down and yelling her throat hoarse. She knocks her beer over and splashes in it, uncaring. She wants to hug someone, but it’s definitely not going to be one of the men next to her.
Big Sky finally manages to throw Hank into the dirt, and he is on him before Hank can get to safety. The bull horns Hank in the back and then tosses him ten feet above his head.
“No. No. Hank!” Maggie screams.
The crowd gasps as Hank lands facedown and limp. Still bucking, Big Sky’s back legs crash down on Hank’s torso. The safety rider and bullfighters finally lure the bull away. Maggie bites her knuckles, terrified Hank is dead. Two men rush over to help him to his feet, but Hank is up before they reach him. They try to drag him to safety, but Hanks shakes them off and runs drunkenly for the fence.
Big Sky eludes his pursuers and is going straight for him again.
“Watch out!” Maggie can’t hold the words in, even if Hank can’t hear her.
He hoists himself to the top rail as Big Sky rakes the metal with his horns.
“Wow, folks, I don’t know if I believe it, even though I’ve just seen it with my own eyes. Sheridan’s Hank Sibley just rode the unrideable bull all the way to the buzzer. We had stretchers at the ready, but it doesn’t look like we’ll be needing them for Hank today— although I imagine he’ll be feeling that stomp for a few days.”
Cristiano and Senor Valdez stomp off, their entourage ahead of them. She hears Valdez muttering, “Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.”
“Goodbye to you, too,” she says, too softly for them to hear her.
From the other side of the chutes, Hank makes eye contact with her. His grin is loopy and big, and she can see his irresistible dimples from fifteen yards away. She blows him three big kisses. He slaps one to his lips, and she laughs.
The announcer comes back on. “Well, the judges like this bull, and they like this ride. They’ve scored it a ninety-three, and that’s enough for Sibley to win it all at Cheyenne Frontier Days, missing the arena record by only one point. Congratulations, Hank. And we wish you well here in a few months at the National Finals Rodeo, too.”
Hank raises a hand, waving to the crowd, then points at her, then back at himself. Maggie puts her hands on her burning cheeks. It’s only then that she feels the tears streaming to pool on her fingers.
Hank
* * *
If Hank has ever felt better, he doesn’t remember when. He accepts the winner’s check and the belt buckle, then holds the buckle over his head. He’d tried to convince himself that winning in Cheyenne didn’t matter to him, but it did. This is the Daddy of ’Em All, and as much as he’d love to win at the NFR, Cheyenne is sweetest. For him, his family, and for the chance it would give him with Maggie. As the crowd cheers, he thin
ks of the Sibley name in the Frontier Days record books. That’s forever. He waves, rotating to take it all in. Best of all, because he lost every night leading up until Saturday, he’s banking enough money to make that payment on Sassafrass. Literally, just enough. If he’d collected the paydays for losing, he would have had a lot more breathing room, but a lot less to be proud of.
That’s when his eyes meet the intense gaze of Senor Valdez. For a moment, Hank thinks the elder Valdez is watching Cristiano, who is beside Hank, holding a runner-up check. Hank shivers involuntarily. Nope. Daddy V is eye-stabbing him.
Well, it’s nothing he didn’t expect. And he’s ready to make his getaway with Maggie. It’s not like the Brazilians will try anything on him here in the middle of the crowd. At least that’s what he’s counting on.
He wades through the arena dirt, then into the cowboy-only area, where everyone is drinking beer despite the conspicuous NO ALCOHOL signs. He reaches the exit, where Maggie is waiting for him. She has one long leg bent and her delicious hip cocked. The wide smile on her lips reminds him of someone famous, but he’s bad with names. He only knows it looks better on Maggie.
Just as he reaches her, Cristiano steps between them. “Prostituta.”
“Excuse me?” Maggie straightens and her shoulders come up. She looks ready to rumble.
“You go with whoever wins? Whoever has the most money in his pocket? What does that make you?”
Hank doesn’t need to know Portuguese to know the son of a bitch has just called her a whore. Maggie has it in hand, and he waits for his turn.
“I go with Hank because I want to. I didn’t go with you, because I didn’t want to.”
Cristiano spits.
Hank leans in, his voice boiling with rage he knows Cristiano can hear even though he keeps his voice down and his face neutral for the crowd. “Move along, partner. Lotta eyes to see it when I kick your ass if you disrespect her even one more word.”
A flash bulb goes off. The photographer shouts. “A photo of the winners.”
Cristiano chews down his ire and swallows hard. “You deserve each other.” He leaves them, heading for his father and their group.
“What the hell is his problem?” Hank shakes his head. He’s almost certain Cristiano doesn’t know that his father paid Hank to lose. Of course, that’s assuming Senor Valdez is behind his payments at all, but that’s a damn good guess.
“Small penis. Definitely.”
He laughs. Then he takes her arm. “Listen. I need us to get out of here fast and without attracting attention.” Which, with her ass in a crowd of cowboys, will be a trick.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when we get to the truck.”
He covers her with his arm and pulls her along. Maybe it’s his imagination or maybe it’s not, but he feels eyes in his back. Brazilian eyes. Still, he’s not so distracted that he doesn’t notice the curves bumping against him, or her scent—gingerbread cookies, he’s decided—or her hair tickling his cheek. People recognize him as he passes, or it could be the buckle in his hand. They call out their congratulations. “Hank!” “Way to go, Hank!” “Congratulations, Hank!” He cringes every time he hears his name. Not exactly incognito.
He stops Maggie. “Here.” He takes her belt off.
“Hey, I’m not that kind of girl.”
He grins at her.
“Well, I might be.” She smiles. “If you play your cards right, and take me somewhere nicer than a parking lot.”
Blood rushes to his face and south of his beltline. He fastens the shiny buckle onto his own belt and pushes hers into her bag. “Wear this for me?” He slips it around her hips, and the urge to crush her against him with it is strong. He takes his time fastening the buckle and straightening it, letting his hand linger on her waist.
“Does this mean we’re going steady?”
She has eyes like a minx, he decides, and she acts like one, too. He’s suddenly very fond of minxes, and he grunts. “Since I left my varsity letter jacket at home, it will have to do.”
She hefts the buckle. “Dang, what’s this thing weigh, ten pounds?”
“Thereabouts.”
They start walking again. She matches him stride for long stride—he senses her hips level with his. He takes her left hand. He’s surprised at the texture of her palm and fingers. They’re callused rather than silky, a lot like the hands of the ranching women he’s known all his life. You can’t hide work, but he realizes hers is made with the strings of instruments instead of baling wire and rope. He rubs her palm with a thumb, liking what he feels.
When they reach the parking lot, he scans for goons in their wake. Nothing. But they meet up with another rude surprise. The guitarist from her band jumps from a large white passenger van and beelines to them. In seconds, he’s in their faces.
His words are angry, his lips spray spittle. “What are you doing, Maggie? We were supposed to be on the road hours ago.”
She tosses her hair and holds her chin high. “I left a note, Davo.”
Davo. So that’s the dickhead’s name.
“That’s bullshit. You’re not quitting on us.”
“Oh, but I am. You did a good set last night. You guys go play the rest of the gigs if you want, but I’m done.”
“Why? Is it this guy? You’re sleeping with a cowboy?”
Hank hears a note in his voice that says he’s the guy Maggie used to be sleeping with, and he doesn’t like it.
“Give me a break. I’ve been telling you why. You’re just not listening.”
Hank talks slow and dangerous. “Watch it. You don’t know me, but you don’t want to disrespect Maggie, I promise you.”
Davo grabs her arm. “Enough. Come on.”
Quick as a big cat, Hank shoves him up against a pickup, and Maggie’s arm falls from Davo’s grasp. “Back the fuck off. She’s coming with me. You’re leaving.”
Over Davo’s shoulder, Hank sees the Brazilian muscle men scanning the crowd.
Behind him, Maggie says, “Oh, great. There’s Fawn. Is she following us, too?”
Too? Does Maggie know about the Brazilians? He decides the “too” refers to Davo following them, not Valdez’s henchmen.
He shakes Davo. “We good?”
Davo lifts his hands.
Hank releases him.
Davo slinks back to the van. A door on the side slides open. To Hank’s surprise, Fawn bypasses him and goes to the van. The drummer gets out. They talk for a moment, then Fawn pulls her patented mouth-rape maneuver, ending with one booted foot wrapped through his knee and around his ankle, which presses her pelvis into the helpless guy’s crotch. Been there, brother, don’t wish it on my worst enemy.
Maggie tsks. “Poor Celinda.”
“Huh?”
“Chris has been hooking up with Celinda, the other woman in my band, and he’s dumped her for Fawn. See her in there?” Maggie points.
Hank recognizes the sullen woman staring straight ahead. “Ballsy.”
“Mean.”
Fawn whispers something in Chris’s ear, and then he laughs and yanks her into the van.
“Enough of them. Come on.” Hank reclaims Maggie’s hand, conscious of Valdez’s men closing in on them.
This is where his brilliant plan comes into play. He just wishes the men were farther behind them. He scrambles down row after row of trucks with Maggie until he finds the one he wants, a pockmarked white Chevy with a This Ain’t My First Rodeo bumper sticker. The new-to-Joe truck he’d been offered use of just the night before. He finds the hidden keys in a box under the frame. He opens the driver’s door. Maggie gets in and scooches across the bench seat. The truck isn’t too horrible inside. There’s a fast food receipt in the coin tray, and a pencil. A naked woman air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror, but it isn’t doing much to mask the odor of Marlboro.
Hank scribbles on the back of the receipt with the pencil. “I’m taking it for a spin. No new dents. Hank.” He
takes a saddle out of the back seat and punches a hole in the note and ties it to the saddle with latigo strings.
“Why are you leaving your saddle?”
“It’s not mine.”
Maggie’s face wrinkles in concern. “Aren’t you afraid it will get stolen?”
“Nah, code of the rodeo.”
She hadn’t asked the more essential question: Is this his truck? And he’s glad she hasn’t. No time for that yet.
He gives her his best grin as he checks in all directions for a tail. Seeing none, he feels a knot he hadn’t known was in his stomach ease up. Maybe this will be easier than he thought. He pulls out and heads to the alternate exit to the parking lot, just to be safe, with no one following in the rearview mirror.
Maggie
* * *
Driving out of Cheyenne, Hank’s neck is on a swivel. Maggie doesn’t know what to make of it. She thought she had his complete attention, up until the moment she said yes to the date. Since then, his eyes have been everywhere but on her. She’s trying not to let it rattle her.
For now, she’s leaning into the door with her legs stretched out and dangling from the seat, one eye on Hank, the other on the road behind them, trying to see whatever it is he’s looking for. There’s a steady line of traffic heading north with them. The sun is sinking, but it’s still light enough to see that they aren’t the only ones getting a head start out of town with the rodeo wrapping up, not by a long shot.
“So where is this mysterious restaurant you’re taking me to?” She nudges his thigh with the toe of her boot. He’d told her there was a super restaurant north of town, one of his favorites, that she just had to try.
He glances at her and grins—the dimples give her stomach a flip. “It’s a surprise.”
“Am I being kidnapped?”
“Do you want to be?”
The truth is yes, she does, but she holds that thought in and straightens the belt buckle instead. “Give me a town, at least.”
Hank’s been cruising the truck at eighty miles per hour, but he presses harder, taking it up to eighty-five. “Wheatland.”
Buckle Bunny Page 7