The Bull Rider. Helen DePrima
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she heard, simply storing sensory impressions—the clatter of metal platforms underfoot, the smells of cattle and fresh sawdust bedding, the surprisingly silky skin of one bull that invited petting. The details would fall into place if Tom Cameron agreed to invite her into his world.
Paula took Jo aside when the tour ended. “You’ll be sitting right beside the TV broadcast booth,” she said. “We don’t usually put fans where they might interfere with the live feed, but Tom said you’d be okay there.” She led Jo to a high canvas director’s chair overlooking the bucking chutes. “Enjoy the show.”
The arena filled as Jo watched, a sold-out performance, as New York City had been. The spectators here were a different breed though, men who wore boots and wide-brimmed hats with a natural authority, women whose Western finery said this wasn’t their first rodeo and many more children, including babies in arms.
Twenty minutes until showtime. Jo started snapping ranging shots with her iPhone, gathering images to prompt her recollections when she started making notes after the event.
A voice broke her concentration. “Hey there, writer lady—glad you could make it.”
A man stood beside her seat. He had Tom Cameron’s same dark hair and brown eyes but no scar on his cheek.
“You must be Luke,” she said. “I saw you in New York.”
“Yes, ma’am, number-one son,” he said with a grin. “I had to meet the gal who could lure my brother into the spotlight. Shy as a deer, our Tom.” He looked over the railing. “You got the best seat in the house—any closer and you’d be straddling a bull.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for me to get suited up.” He threw his chest out. “Keep your eyes on me—bravest of the brave.”
The event opened with pyrotechnics as it had at Madison Square Garden; again Tom was introduced as the rider ranked first in points. A willowy blonde in a sparkly shirt sang the national anthem, drawing wild cheers when her voice soared a full octave above the high note.
Paula had given Jo a sheet listing the order in which the cowboys would ride, matched against bulls with names like Sidewinder and Top Gun. Tom had drawn Texas Twister tonight. Jo hoped the bull wouldn’t live up to his name, or rather that he would. She’d done her homework since last weekend. A rider wanted a bull that could almost but not quite buck him off; an easy ride wouldn’t yield a high score. Jo wasn’t planning to write a detailed treatise on bull riding, but she needed more than casual knowledge of the sport to do Tom Cameron’s career justice.
Her vantage point above the chutes gave her a bird’s-eye view of the action. Riders wearing colorful fringed chaps and heavy leather vests plastered with company logos clattered along the walkway below her and climbed down onto the bulls’ backs. She had only a limited understanding of their elaborate preride rituals and jotted questions in a pocket notebook. Why did some wear helmets while others wore cowboy hats? What was the purpose of the second rope around the bull’s belly? What was the man hunched above the chute watching for?
She also paid close attention to Luke and his fellow bullfighters as they darted between the bulls and the downed riders. The three men seemed indestructible, bouncing up like rubber balls after being butted, trampled underfoot and tossed into the air like toys, but a long scrape marked Luke’s cheek after a bull slammed him against the chute gate.
She recognized most of the cowboys’ names from New York City and the arena announcer supplied a few words of introduction for each one: Cody from Tennessee, Sean from Georgia, Harve and J.W. and Mike from Texas, Ben from Australia and Silvano from Brazil, thirty-five in all. According to the day sheet, Tom Cameron would be one of the last to ride.
Thankfully all the cowboys in this round were able to leave the arena on their own feet, although the Sports Medicine medics did have to help a few. Not many stayed on the full eight seconds. “We’ve got a great pen of young bulls tonight, folks,” the announcer said.
At last she saw Tom below her on the walkway. She leaned forward but didn’t call his name, recalling his expression of intense concentration before he rode in New York City. He climbed down into the chute, eased onto the back of a black-and-white bull with a wide spread of horns. He took a quick wrap around his hand with his rope and nodded. The gate swung open.
The bull exploded in a frenzy of bucking, swinging its head from side to side. One horn swept Tom’s hat off before a wild leap ended in a stumble that yanked him forward so that his face collided with the top of the bull’s head. He slumped sideways and landed flat on his back with an audible grunt. The bull regained his feet and capered out the gate.
The Sports Medicine team reached Tom as he climbed to his feet, gulping for breath; one pressed a gauze pad over his bleeding nose. Luke retrieved his hat and brushed the dirt off before setting it on his brother’s head.
Tom waved to the crowd and limped toward the chutes, holding the compress to his face. He paused to peer at a paper in an official’s hand and then nodded.
“Reride option,” the announcer said. “Looks like Tom Cameron will be getting on another bull.”
Jo started from her seat in protest. She’d sought an athlete in a high-risk sport, but this was insanity. She sat back, smoothing the day sheet she had crumpled in sweating hands, trying to recapture her objectivity.
Two more riders left the chutes but neither rode for the full eight seconds.
“One more to go,” the announcer said. “Tom Cameron’s reride on Widow-maker.”
TOM SHIFTED THE ice pack across his eyes and nose. “How much longer am I stuck here?”
“Till I’m satisfied the bleeding has stopped,” Dr. Barnett said, glancing at him over his half glasses. “Unless you don’t plan on riding tomorrow night, in which case you can leave anytime you want. Maybe I should have kept you off your reride bull, but you weren’t concussed, and it’s your nose.”
Tom leaned back and closed his eyes. Doc could be a pain in the butt, but every cowboy on the tour took his advice as gospel. If Doc Barnett said he should sit one out, he might complain but he’d obey; there was no appeal to a firm “No way.”
A whistled chorus of “Friends in Low Places” alerted him to his brother’s presence. “Hey, kid,” Luke said, “maybe you should stop beating up bulls with your face.” He lifted a corner of the compress and whistled. “Cute.”
Tom grunted. “Thanks. Listen, you gotta help me. I promised to meet Jo Dace—”
“All taken care of. I told her you’d be tied up for a while so I’d check on you and then walk her home.”
Tom struggled to a sitting position. “The hell you will.”
“Relax.” Luke pushed him down against the backrest. “I’ll treat her like an old-maid schoolmarm. Besides, she ain’t my type. Keep him here as long as you want, Doc—there’s nowhere he’s gotta be.”
* * *
A COUPLE HOURS LATER, Tom sat in his hotel room, listening to the Weather Channel report on the latest snowstorm barreling down out of the Southern Rockies. This one didn’t sound like it would be as dangerous as the one last spring, but he called home anyway.
“There’s only about six inches predicted for here,” his dad said. “We’ve got the heifers in the lower pasture and hay already out, so we’re all set. Stop worrying and ride your bulls.”
Shelby took the phone. “We’re fine here—everything’s under control, including your father.”
Reassured, Tom hung up and took another bite of the half-eaten ham sandwich from room service. A bottle of Coors gone flat sat on the bedside table.
He had grabbed a quick look into the hotel bar after Doc had finally let him leave Sports Medicine but had seen no sign of Luke or Jo Dace.