To All the Cowboys I've Loved Before

by D. R. Graham

  “Yeah. This one is new.” I place the hat on her head and hand the rigging to her, so she can see what it feels like.

  She tips the brim of the hat. “Thank you.” Then she lifts the rigging to test how heavy it is. “Eight seconds doesn’t seem very long. Is it really that hard to hold on?”

  “Only when the horse is moving, darlin’,” BJ says.

  All of us laugh.

  Della hands the rigging back to me and runs her fingers over the tassels of our chaps, which are laid out in the back of the truck. Chuck’s are purple with yellow flames. BJ’s are two-tone blue. Mine are red, black, and gold. “These are pretty.”

  “Which ones do you like the best?” Chuck asks.

  She looks at him and notices the lightning bolts he got shaved onto the side of his head. They accentuate the ridiculousness of his mullet even more. “The red, black, and gold ones are my favorites,” she says. “But they’re all nice.”

  “Do you like my new haircut?”

  “Uh.” She studies it and her forehead creases. “It’s different.”

  BJ smacks him in the back of the head. “See. Even the sweetest girl on the planet can’t find nothing nice to say about that redneck mop.”

  “You don’t like my chaps. You don’t like my do. That hurts my feelings, Della,” Chuck shouts as he gets into the driver’s seat.

  She blinks as if she’s about to get teary eyed and then glances at me.

  “He’s kidding. It’s not possible to hurt Chuck’s feelings. And if people actually liked his business in the front, party in the back look, he wouldn’t wear it that way.” I open the back door of the cab for her and she climbs into the back-row seating behind Chuck. Then I walk around to get into the back on the other side. BJ takes the front passenger seat and we head out.

  “Your truck is really nice,” Della says to Chuck to smooth things over.

  “It’s too late for flattery, sweetheart. You already insulted my hillbilly hair.”

  “The truck really is nice,” she says to me as she runs her hand over the leather seats. “I had no idea trucks could be this luxurious.”

  I feign a sad look. “So, you weren’t impressed by my two thousand and five Silverado?”

  “Yes. Or, I mean no, I was. Impressed.” A scarlet hue rises up her neck onto her cheeks and the terror of offending me makes her eyes widen. “Your truck is nice, too.”

  “I’m just messing with you. Chuck’s truck is a sweet ride. It’s nicer than the rest of ours.”

  “Thanks, buddy,” Chuck says and reaches back to fist bump me.

  Pretending to be offended, BJ gasps and turns to glare at me. “You like Chuck’s truck better than mine?”

  “Chuckie needs to be the best at something. Can’t you let him have the best truck?”

  “No.” BJ crosses his arms to sell the sulk.

  Chuck holds his hand up to make us all be quiet as he sings the chorus of an old George Strait song, then he says, “Although I appreciate the compliment, Della. You can’t compare a man’s truck or cock to another man’s truck or cock unless you’re hoping for a fight.”

  “Watch your language, man,” I say.

  Chuck shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “Sorry for cursing. I should have said trucks and penises. Or is it peni? That sounds worse than swearing, if you ask me.”

  BJ takes a sip from his thermos, which is likely filled with vodka and orange juice. “You could use rig for both penis and truck.”

  Chuck points at him to agree. “Rig works. I like it.”

  Della’s eyes dart cautiously between each of us. “I can’t tell if you guys are joking or being serious.”

  BJ rolls his head to look at her over his shoulder. “We don’t ever joke about trucks. Or penises.”

  I wink at her and whisper, “They’re joking.”

  She nods, but her eyebrows are still cinched together from the worry that she’s done something wrong. After letting her sweat it out for a while, BJ reaches into the back seat and offers her a piece of licorice to show her there are no hard feelings. She smiles and takes one for herself and one for me. “So, which one of you is the best at bucking?”

  I chuckle at how her word choice sounds. I can’t help it. BJ turns in his seat to face her. “What did you call it?”

  “Bucking. Isn’t that what you call it?”

  “I call it a lot of things, darlin’. What do you call it, Chuckie?”

  “Dirty rodeo, entering the chute, eight seconds of glory, backing the rig up, or bareback bucking works, too. No matter what you call it, I’m the best at it. I ride ‘em like a pro.”

  Idiots. I should have known better than to invite Della along with them. It’s going to be a long hour of juvenile jokes and sexual innuendos.

  “They’re talking about sex, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I say, “We call it bareback bronc riding.”

  Since I’m the only one giving her a straight answer she turns in her seat to face me. “Are the horses wild?”

  “Not in the true sense of the word, no. They’re bred for bucking and raised in a pasture, but they have to be gentled enough to be trailered and loaded into the chute. Usually they’re geldings or mares.”

  “What’s a gelding?”

  Chuck raises his hand to ask a question. “Is balls a swear word?”

  I shake my head to ignore him, then answer her, “A gelding is a castrated horse.”

  Her face winces as if she can feel the pain. “And what happens if you all hang on for eight seconds? How do you decide who gets to win?”

  “Judges score each ride. They look at your form and style—how well the horse bucks and how well you spur. If you don’t mark his shoulders out with your spurs before his front legs hit the ground, or if you touch the horse with your free hand, you get disqualified. If the horse stumbles they might give you a re-ride.”

  “So, if today is the final round, which one of you is in the lead after last night?”

  “BJ has the highest score right now. But we all have a chance to win it today.”

  “Good job, Bailey.” She leans forward to pat his shoulder. “What’s the best score you can get?”

  He turns, still smiling from the compliment. “It’s scored out of one hundred. Posting in the eighties is really good. If we post something in the nineties you should cheer your butt off.”

  “All right.” She sits back to relax and adjusts the hat. “I’ll do a back flip and land in the splits if any of you score in the nineties.”

  The boys go silent in the front seat, no doubt imagining her doing bareback bucking acrobatics in her summer dress.

  There is no way someone as uncoordinated as Della could do a back flip. She obviously said it to pull their chains, which makes me smile. “Just make sure you don’t really blow out your knee when you do cheer.”

  She laughs and shoves my shoulder playfully. “I wish you hadn’t noticed that.”

  Chuck’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror for a second, then he glances at BJ. They probably think it’s only a matter of time before I end up handing over my rodeo winnings to them. It would be worth it, but what they don’t realize is a girl like Della would never give it up that easy. I’d have to work damn hard to even have a shot with her.

  Chuck turns up the music and BJ is focused on his phone, probably sexting. So, after driving in silence for a while Della turns to me. “What do you plan to do with your MBA?”

  “Run the family cattle ranch. My thesis is on sustainable farming practices, so I’ll probably get involved with speculative investments in that industry. What do you want to do with your engineering degree?”

  “My main interest is water sustainability and regulation. I’d like to work on systems and infrastructure to make sure the world’s water supply is protected and accessible.”

  As she passionately describes why she chose her field of study and enthusiastically shares her future ideas about ground water and aquatic ecosystems, a bunch of childhoo
d memories that I haven’t thought about in a long time flood my mind. Specifically, things about my mom. And the reminder of her takes me off guard. When Della stops to check my reaction, I don’t know quite what to say.

  In response to my speechlessness Della shifts uncomfortably in her seat, then blurts out, “We would die without water.” As soon as the words leave her mouth she hits her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s not a competition. Farming is important, too. We would also die without food, obviously. I wasn’t trying to sound like my career with water will be more important than your career in sustainable farming. They are both cool, or important, or whatever.”

  She makes brief eye contact, probably completely confused by the fact that I’m borderline choked up about the unexpected reminder of my mom.

  “Sorry.” She fidgets with the strap of her purse and stares down at her hands. “I don’t know why I jumped to assume that you disapproved. And it really doesn’t matter if you do. You’re entitled to your own opinions.” She inhales sharply and then sighs as if she’s disappointed in herself for getting defensive. “I guess I’m used to justifying my reasons with my dad and it accidently spewed out. Just ignore me.”

  I study her expression as she turns her focus to the passing scenery out the window. It’s weird, right? What are the chances I’d meet someone who has the exact same passion as my mom? It could be a fluke. Or it might be significant. Why does it feel like a big deal? It’s not. It’s just a random coincidence.

  “Hey.” I reach across the cab and touch her elbow to get her attention. “The reason it took me a long time to react isn’t because I was judging your goals. The opposite in fact. I was thrown off for a minute because my mom was a water protector. It brought up some memories of her as you talked about it. It’s a good thing.”

  “Really?” Della smiles at the commonality. “That’s really cool. What type of water protection activities was she involved in?”

  “She was in charge of community education initiatives for water conservation in Three Rivers. She was also involved in a lot of national advocacy projects and even a few protests.”

  “So, I would have liked her?”

  “Absolutely.” I smile to myself as I check off all the qualities in Della that my mom would have liked. She would have loved her—actually—and not only because of the save-the-water ideals.

  She spins in her seat to face me. “Sorry I misread your silence and jumped into defense mode.”

  “I get it. I had to defend my choice to pursue an MBA with my dad.”

  “Really? Why didn’t he agree with it?”

  “He runs the ranch on a high school education. My grandfather before him ran it on a seventh-grade education. He would have preferred if I skipped the MBA and offered an extra set of hands on the ranch all these years instead.”

  Her eyes track over my face as she decodes my expression. “If you don’t need the degree, then why was it important to you to do it?”

  Got to hand it to her. She has a way of cutting to the core. My real reason for getting an MBA isn’t something I’ve ever talked about with anyone before. My dad likely knows on some level because he’s experienced discrimination and racism his whole life, too. But his understanding of my motivation to gain legitimacy is unspoken, as is most of our relationship. “Let’s just say you and I both have something to prove to people who don’t believe we can do whatever we set our minds to.”

  She smiles and lifts her hand to give me a high five. “Cheers to proving the doubters wrong.”

  “Cheers to that.”

  “Hell yeah,” Chuckie pipes in from the front. “Fuck the doubters.”

  “Language,” both BJ and I say at the same time.

  “Sorry. Screw the doubters. Poo on the doubters. Doubters are dumb.” He throws up his hand to give up. “It loses its impact without the curse word. Sorry, Della, sometimes the F word is the only word that can adequately express how I feel about something. It’s just a word. I personally find the word cellophane offensive, but I ain’t gonna ask people to stop using it.”

  “I didn’t ask you not to swear,” she says in her defense.

  “You wince every time someone does. And these two keep yelling at me for it.”

  “Sorry,” she says quietly.

  “Don’t apologize, Della.” BJ shoves Chuckie’s shoulder. “Grow up, man. She’s a lady. You should be the one apologizing.”

  Chuckie scoffs. “Sorry for being a country bumpkin who offends your sophisticated sensibilities, ma’am. But I am who I am. Get used to it. Or get out.”

  “That’s real nice,” BJ mutters.

  I make eye contact with Della. “Ignore him.”

  She nods as if she plans to try, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the idea of someone not liking her, even if it’s someone like Chuck.

  I lean over and gesture with my finger for her to move closer. “He’s just testing you to see where your breaking point is. Don’t let him get to you and you’ll earn his respect forever,” I whisper in her ear.

  She nods again with the inspiration to do just that.

  Della and I talk for the rest of the ride. Somehow, we move seamlessly from school to politics to travel. She’s smart, well-read, and she’s travelled to five continents. I’ve never been out of the US, so her stories about foreign countries are especially interesting.

  By the time we arrive at the fairgrounds Chuck and BJ aren’t even listening to us anymore—maybe because they really aren’t interested, but more likely because they have a vested interest in Della and me getting close. We drive through the contestants’ gate and park on the grass lot next to the outdoor arena. It’s early, so I give Della a tour through the vendor and concession area while Chuck and BJ go get hotdogs. It’s not quite lunchtime, but she and I also stop to buy pulled pork buns and ice teas, walking through the fairgrounds as we eat. Eventually we make our way over to the pens where the bucking horses are kept.

  “Wow. They’re impressive animals,” she says as she leans her elbows on the fence. “Their muscles ripple like athletes.” She watches them for a while, then turns to me. “What made you decide to be a bronc rider?”

  I step in and lean on the fence next to her. “I didn’t really decide. It was more of a natural progression. Growing up on the ranch I watched my dad and all my uncles break horses. I saddle broke my first horse all by myself when I was eight years old. Since I was getting bucked around every day anyway, getting paid to stay on a bucking horse was a bonus. And it’s fun.”

  She sips her iced tea through a straw and the way her lips surround it makes my heart speed up. “What do love about it the most?”

  “Love about what?”

  She laughs as if she thinks it’s weird that I lost the thread of the conversation. “Bronc riding.”

  “Oh.” I’ve never directly been asked that question before. I push my hat back and watch the horses as I think about it. “Riding bareback on a wild horse is the purest form of horsemanship—it keeps me connected to my heritage.”

  She nods and smiles. “That is a beautiful way to describe it. Have you ever been seriously hurt?”

  I shake my head to downplay the injuries. “I’ve broken my wrist three times. My lung collapsed last season, which hurt. And I had a bad concussion in high school, which made me temporarily blind.”

  She gasps and frowns. “Oh my gosh. You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe.” I rest my hand on the small of her back to guide her to start walking again. I have to pull her elbow to sidetrack her past a manure pile. “Watch where you’re stepping.”

  “Oh. Ew.” She hops over closer to me and wrinkles her nose. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yeah. That’s why we all wear boots. We’ll have to get you some for next time.”

  Her cheeks light up like a pink sunset and the corners of her mouth turn up in the slightest smile as she keeps her eyes fixed on the grass. I’m not sure if she’s emb
arrassed because she almost stepped in manure, or if she’s happy about the inadvertent invitation to come along again next time. Maybe it wasn’t inadvertent.

  I stop in front of the back pen to show her the bulls.

  “Yikes. They have horns.” She stands five feet back from the fence. “Why in the world would someone try to ride a beast like that? Bull riders must have a death wish. Or they’re not right in the head.”

  I chuckle. “Everybody in rodeo is not right in the head. But once it’s in your blood you can’t help it.”

  “Was your dad in rodeo, too?”

  “Yeah. He was a bulldogger.”

  Her eyebrows angle dubiously. “What type of event do they do with dogs?”

  “It’s not with dogs. Bulldogging is what they call steer wrestling. The rider slides off a horse at full speed and wrestles the steer to the ground.”

  “Really? Is that a practical skill? Do you have to actually tackle cows on the ranch?”

  “No. Not exactly.” I chuckle. “Sometimes the ornery ones need to be wrestled with when we’re branding. I’m better at roping them, though. I used to compete in the roping event when I was younger.” I wink. “But the ladies like the bronc riders better.”

  The wink makes her bite her bottom lip. Damn, that’s a move that’s going to drive me crazy if she keeps doing it. I exhale and remove my hat to run my hand through my hair. She doesn’t even know how sexy she is. Unfortunately, my body definitely does.

  As we walk, she asks me more about rodeo and ranching. I’m not normally the chattiest guy in the world, but I like answering her questions because she’s genuinely interested in the answers. And since I’m also more than interested in getting to know her better, we talk the entire time as I show her the rest of the fairgrounds.

  When we return to the participants’ lot, Chuck and BJ are both sitting on the tailgate, wrapping their riding arms. They’re grinning at the way Della just looked up at me with her big doe eyes. Avoiding their eager-to-get-paid expressions, I turn to face Della. “I need to warm-up and get ready. Do you want to hang out here with us or head over to the grandstand to watch the barrel racing? It’s going to start soon.”