The Bull Rider. Helen DePrima
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He grinned in anticipation. Auntie Rose, a distant cousin, made the best fry bread in La Plata County.
The sun was already sliding toward the western horizon—no sense for him to saddle up now to help the fence crew. He worked his way through the barn, mucking out Ghost’s stall and freshening his water bucket, finishing the repair on a partially mended cinch strap in the tack room and forking down fresh hay for the half dozen horses in the corral next to Ghost’s. A tall chestnut mare ambled over for special attention. Sadie had some age on her, but she was still everyone’s first choice for hunting; he’d shot over her head ever since he was old enough to handle a long gun.
He leaned on the gate, gazing out along tracks left in the snow by his dad’s and sister’s horses, followed by the hoofprints of Luke’s mount. A narrow path branched off to the knoll where the Camerons had laid their dead for more than a hundred years. He and Luke and Lucy had learned to read from the grave markers while their mom tended the flowers planted there, tracing the letters and numbers on the stones: Husband and Father, Beloved Wife, Infant Son; 1888, 1914, 1985... Memorials to Cameron men buried in France in 1918 and lost at Guadalcanal. His mother’s grave was the most recent one.
Ghost let out a brassy neigh; Lucy’s mare Goosie answered. Three horses emerged from the willows along the creek and crunched through the snow toward the barn. Tom swung the corral gate wide for them and took the horses’ reins as the riders dismounted.
“Nice to see you’re done goofing off,” Luke said. “Now that we’ve done all the work.”
“Timing is everything,” Tom said. “I plan to check the south fence line tomorrow.”
Lucy Cameron pulled off her knit cap, allowing red-gold curls to frame her face. “I really thought you were going to make the eight on Gunslinger this time.”
Tom pulled on one curl. “Next time, Red—I promise.”
“Don’t call me Red.” She slapped his hand away. “I’ll be so glad to get back to my dorm.”
“Heads up, Boulder,” Luke said. “Hurricane Lucy on the horizon!”
Jake Cameron pulled the saddle off Butch, his dun gelding. “Good event, son. I see you’re still leading in the national standings.”
Tom shrugged and tapped on the corral rail for luck. “Doesn’t mean much this early in the season.”
They finished unsaddling and turned the horses loose for their hay as the sun dipped below the horizon to the southwest. The aroma of Cajun spices greeted them from the kitchen when they entered the back door and kicked off their boots in the mudroom.
Shelby turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Supper in ten minutes,” she said.
“Yes, boss.” Jake swept her hair aside and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck; her hand curved around his cheek.
Lucy put together a salad while Tom set out plates and Luke carried roast chicken and a bowl with the dirty rice to the table. They ate mostly in silence until Shelby served bowls of bread pudding with bourbon sauce for dessert.
Tom handed around Joanna Dace’s features. “I’d like you guys to read these.”
Jake looked up after he’d finished both articles. “What’s this about, Tom?”
“She wants to write about a bull rider next.”
“Our Tom, to be exact,” Luke said.
Lucy clapped her hands like a five-year-old. “You’ll be famous!”
“Your brother’s already pretty well-known where he needs to be, Luce,” Jake said, “although I expect his sponsors would be pleased.” He turned to Tom. “Could you stay focused on your riding with this lady practically living in your back pocket?”
Tom spooned the last drops of sauce out of his dish before answering. “I don’t know. She’s a helluva writer—I’d kind of like to see how she puts her work together.” Plus he still felt bad for his dumb comment about her father’s death. He wondered if she’d seen the crash. “But like you say, Dad...”
“Never back away from an opportunity out of fear,” Shelby said. She laid her hand on her husband’s arm.
Jake covered her hand with his. “Shelby’s right, Tom. Find out what she has in mind and then decide.”
JO’S PHONE RANG as she unlocked her apartment door while juggling two bags of groceries. She shoved her way inside and checked the caller ID: area code 970, wherever that might be.
“Miss Dace? You said to call after I read your articles.”
The connection was poor, probably a weak cell phone signal, but she recognized Tom Cameron’s voice. She’d only half expected to hear from him.
“I’ve thought about what you asked,” he said. “If you want to show up Friday night in Oklahoma City, we’ll give it a try. Come a couple hours early.” He gave her a cell number. “Call Paula when you get to the arena. I won’t be able to meet you before the event, but she’ll take care of you.”
They chatted a few minutes longer about the weather in New York and Colorado and then he rang off.
Jo stood holding her phone, amazed he might agree to her proposal. Angus, her Maine Coon cat, leaped to her shoulder, waving his plumy tail. She smoothed his fur. “Looks like you’ll be spending the weekend with your grandma, pal,” she said. More than one weekend if things worked out.
* * *
“A BULL RIDER? Who’s crazy enough to ride a bull?” Anna Dace stirred honey, a shade lighter than her short curls, into her tea and pushed up the sleeves of her NYC sweatshirt. “How useless.”
“So true,” Jo said, “and the cowboys take terrible risks every ride, but there’s a crazy magnificence about it.”
“Please don’t try to ride a bull, like you did that race horse.”
“A retired Thoroughbred, Mom, and we weren’t racing. Chris Baker just wanted to give me the feeling of hitting the head of the stretch with that much horse under me.”
“I blame your grandfather for turning you and your cousins loose with his horses.” Her mother sighed. “At least you won’t be hundreds of miles out on the ocean in a tiny boat.”
Jo grimaced. “You wouldn’t believe how seasick I was the first few days.” But she hadn’t backed out, not even when Kevin McCloud had offered to set her back ashore.
“So how will you tackle bull riding?”
“Same as always—soak it all up until a pattern starts to form.” She gave Angus a goodbye smooch. “Behave yourself—no eating plants. And don’t let him talk you into too many treats,” she told her mother.
* * *
JO STOOD OUTSIDE the arena entrance in Oklahoma City and punched the number Tom Cameron had provided into her cell phone. A tall black woman in fancy stitched boots and a red pearl-snap shirt waved to her from inside and motioned for her to enter through a side door.
“Jo Dace? I’m Paula,” she said. “Tom asked me to show you around.” She handed Jo a badge to hang around her neck. “We’re starting a VIP tour in a few minutes. You’ll get a good idea of the backstage operation, and Tom reserved a seat for you above the chutes to watch the event.”
No more than the tourist package, but if Tom had read her articles, he knew she’d need more depth. She wouldn’t rush him—let him set the pace. She followed Paula to join a group of a dozen or so fans: a couple with two preteen sons, several wannabe cowgirls in tight jeans and fancy shirts and two gray-haired couples who spoke with familiarity about past events and retired riders.
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