The summer rodeo run is grueling, to say the least. It’s nonstop rodeo from June to October. I typically get on five or six bulls a week and that might not sound like a lot, but trust me, it takes a toll on your body after a few weeks. Not to mention the hours spent driving and the lack of sleep and good food. We rarely get to ride in the same place two nights in a row—we’re always loading the truck and heading to the next town. That town might be two hours down the road or twelve. That’s why we travel with partners. You have to split the driving, or you’d never sleep.
We pack our gear after the rodeo, and by then, all the restaurants are closed. Our campers aren’t set up for cooking; they’re meant to drive fifty thousand miles in a few short months, which is what we do. Truck stop food or whatever snacks we’ve stocked up on at the grocery store is what we survive on.
While technically the rodeo season is October 1st to September 30th, most of the big money is earned from June through September each year. I had a good winter at the stock show rodeos and currently sit sixth in the world, with Trey not far behind in ninth. But we have a lot of season left, we’ll both need to ride at our best to make the finals in December. It’s always been my goal to win the World, and this year is my year. It has to be. I’m not getting any younger and bull riding is a young man’s sport.
By the time I’m done with another horse, I see a white truck and trailer pull in—someone running late. Then, I see the Diamond Hart brand on the side. Through the windshield, I see long blonde hair and know instantly who it is.
I wonder who her partner is . . .
I can’t help but smile and shake my head. Of course she’s here. I get started on the next horse as I contemplate pushing my workout back an hour and sticking around a little longer.
Chapter 6
Kacey
Chet is an idiot. He took off this morning inmytruck to get horse feed and we need to leave in fifteen minutes. The flatbed had a flat tire, and he’s too lazy to change it. Dad’s off somewhere working, and I could have Carson change it before we leave, but I don’t trust the spare to make it ten miles down the road, let alone an hour to the jackpot.
I’m going to kill Chet.
Thirty minutes later, Chet shows back up. After unloading all the feed and a good ass chewing from me, he heads out to doctor some calves. Carson gets the trailer hooked up while I grab the horses and we leave, running forty-five minutes behind schedule.
I hate being late. It stresses me out.
“We’ll still have plenty of time. We aren’t one of the first teams. Just take a deep breath,” Carson says, knowing I’m highly irritated right now. I don’t reply and after a minute he asks, “Soyou got that shoe back on Hooch this week, right? Who came out for Jack?”
“Yep, some bull rider buddy of his from Oklahoma came out. I guess he’s here for a few weeks covering for him.”
“Oh, he’s got a Sooner kid doing his bidding? Good for Jack.” He smiles. Carson normally doesn’t talk much unless he’s around Dad and me. Most people think he’s grumpy, but he’s not, at least not with me. He’s just quiet; always has been.
After my mom passed, my dad tried his best to balance taking care of me and the ranch, but it was hard. When Carson showed up a year later asking for a ranch hand job, my dad hired him, but unbeknownst to him—and Carson—he’d just hired a babysitter. I followed Carsoneverywhere. I was a sad kid, and he seemed a little sad, too. I didn’t want to talk about my mom, and he didn’t make me.
Carson also never mentioned anything about his life before he came to the ranch, and I never asked. We all have things that haunt us; it should be our choice when and if we share those nightmares with others. I have a feeling Carson has more than one nightmare from his past.
When I was sixteen, I wanted to start roping. Carson taught me to throw a rope, and Dad got me an old grade bay gelding that was already trained. Carson would drag the roping dummy for me every night. I’d get home from school, and he’d have my horse saddled and the dummy hooked up.
The next summer I started roping live cattle, and we quickly discovered I was a much better heeler than I was a header. Carson has been heading steers for me ever since. He’s never once complained or left me hanging. I’m ten years younger than him, but that’s never mattered to us. Even though I don’t have any siblings, I have Carson and know I can count on him.
I realize Carson said something, but I was too in my head to listen. “What?”
“So, is that bull rider any good?” he asks again. “Or is he a bull get’er on’er, not an actual bull rider?”
I laugh because it’s true, there are a lot of guys who get on bulls, but very few who can actually ride them. “Well, he’s shoeing horses instead of riding at a rodeo, so I can’t imagine he’s very good.”
He huffs in amusement. “Fair point. I wouldn’t think a top bull rider would want to shoe horses all day.”
Being a farrier is hard work. Horses don’t stand; they try to kick, bite, or strike you. They’ll lay most of their weight on the one leg you’re trying to work on. Not to mention there’s always flies biting them, making them waller around on top of you. Most of the blame is on the owners not working with them—they think it’s the farrier’s job to train them. It’s not. You don’t hire a mechanic and then expect them to teach you how to drive.
“Does anyone really want to shoe horses all day?” I ask, turning on the radio.
We rolled into the rodeo grounds twenty-five minutes later.
We showed up just in time to warm up our horses and rope our first steer. Thankfully, we were further down the draw list. Our time was 5.3 with no penalties. Not bad. We have two steers left to run; we’ll be here all afternoon.
There are several different formats for team roping jackpots. Some of them you can rope as many times as you want to pay the entry fee for. But this format only allows you to enter once as a header and/or once as a heeler. Then, it’s the fastest time off your aggregate. Entry fees are $100 per man.
Team roping is pretty simple; one person ropes the head—preferably just the horns of the steer—then one person ropes the two hind legs. If you miss a hind leg, you get five seconds added to your time. Another penalty is breaking the barrier. The barrier is a rope at the front of the roping box that is tied to the steer through a pulley system. When the steer reaches a certaindistance known as the score—a head start, if you will—the rope will come off and the barrier will break free. If you break the barrier before the steer has reached its score, you will have ten seconds added to your time.
Carson and I sit on our horses, watching the preceding teams make their runs while waiting for our next steer, but we have a while yet. Carson looks around, then picks up his reins to ride over by the end of the small set of bleachers. I see crutches leaning on the end. Jack sits above them, leg propped up next to him. I smooch at Hooch, and we follow him over.
