CAL
Acouple days later, I was feeling fit again. The bruises on my face and torso were fading, and I was itching to be busy. I got my ass out to Denver, disappointed that Amy wasn’t with me even though we’d decided that doing this separately would be best.
My interview with Denver AM seemed to go well, judging from the number of folks calling into the show with questions for me. I spent part of the time telling stories about my life on the circuit. As I spoke, it all felt so hollow. I needed to do more than talk about it. I did manage to steer the conversation around to the charity rodeo and I even squeezed in some comments about the town itself. I felt myself warming as I talked about all the good things I’d experienced in Poplar Springs but I pushed those feelings down. It wouldn’t do me any good to linger on something I wouldn’t be able to keep.
I stayed overnight in Denver and then headed to the rodeo in Anders City, a fifty-mile drive away.
I was sure that getting back on the circuit would cure the restlessness and angst in me. It always had in the past. When I reached Anders City, I went straight to the arena to look over the horses and competitors.It was good to be back among people I knew and a place I loved. I shook hands with other riders and talked until I was darn near hoarse, giving interviews to promote Poplar Springs’s charity rodeo and talking about the coming changes in my career.
It all seemed to go smoothly but it felt and sounded like someone else’s life. Someone who actually wanted those things.
The next day I was pumped when the competition began. While I was a damned good roper, I’d earned my scars and bruises as a bronc rider and that’s what I was doing today. Roping required a much stronger connection between horse and rider and I didn’t think I had the emotional wherewithal for that just now.
Besides, I figured getting thrown around on horseback might just help me snap out of this damn funk. So, I watched the other riders rack up some pretty good scores while I waited for my turn. I’d drawn the final slot, a position I liked, so I knew what I had to beat. John Sloane, one of the fiercest competitors on the circuit, was in first place with a score of eighty-six. John loved the excitement of competition among the riders almost as much as he loved winning. And today, both horse and rider had an excellent ride.
“Nice one,” I said and shook John’s hand when his score went up.
“Bet you can’t beat it since you pulled Louie.” John shot me a grin.
Louie was a chestnut gelding that I had ridden before. The last time I’d been tossed after six seconds and considered myself lucky that I hadn’t been injured. The horse was onery on a good day, which could mean spectacularly high scores or dismal ones. Tanner Greene—another bronco rider and a class-A asshole—managed to get thrown hard enough from this horse that his docs were still questioning whether he’d ever be able to return to the circuit.
In the mood I was in, I wasn’t worried. I’d ridden onerier horses. The little voice of reason that I’d been stomping down since my arrestwarned me to be careful and not be too brash. It wouldn’t do to get injured today. Not with the charity rodeo coming up. But I was in no frame of mind to listen.
“I whispered in his ear earlier,” I said to John, hearing the usual rush when my name was announced as the next rider. “He’s going to help me out today.”
John laughed. “Sure he is.”
I waited while Louie was brought into the chute. The horse’s eyes were wild and his ears were laid flat, signs that he was ready to cause trouble. I climbed into the chute and got in position, trying to stay limber and mentally preparing myself to react to Louie’s movements. I needed eight seconds in the saddle.
I raised my arm. “Go,” I called to the official who released the gate on the chute and sent me and Louie into the arena. Instantly, Louie began bucking wildly. In my head, I was measuring off the seconds. Three. Four. Louie spun to the side, kicking his rear legs high into the air. Six. Seven. Louie landed hard, his head down, but I didn’t budge. Two more seconds passed before I sprang free from the stirrups, tucking and rolling away from the horse onto the soft surface of the arena floor.
I leaped to my feet as the rodeo handlers snagged Louie and brought him under control. The horse continued to fight, pulling a handler practically off his feet. I hopped up on the fence encircling the arena and waved to the roaring crowd. It had been a spectacular ride, one of the best of my career, and I wasn’t surprised to see a score of ninety-four go up on the overhead scoreboard. The cheers increased in volume, and I spent the next several minutes shaking hands and getting slapped on the back.
I should have been ecstatic, but I felt as though someone had put the brakes on my joy. My friends were with me, guys I’d known foryears, but it suddenly felt like it was not enough. I had pleasant, superficial relationships with them, but nothing deeper. I wanted the people I really loved with me to share the moment—Amy and Henry, hell, even my brothers. But that wasn’t happening, so I kept smiling and accepting congratulations, with a hollow sensation in my gut.
This used to be my entire world, but it now seemed…small somehow.
“I’ll be damned,” John said, making his way through the crowd. “That was one hell of a ride. Congratulations. Gotta admit, I liked it better when you were roping. Made it a lot easier to maintain my first place status. You sure you want to retire? With a ride like that?—”
“I’m sure,” I said, my certainty unwavering. A few months earlier, a score like that would have had me pumped for another year on the circuit, but I knew my body couldn’t take it anymore. Even that tuck and roll would have me reaching for Advil as soon as I can get to my bag.
Years ago, I’d read some article about how much force a body was under when thrown from a horse. I don’t recall the exact numbers but for a horse the size of Louis, I was looking at somewhere around two hundred pounds per square inch. That same article went on to point out that it only took sixteen pounds of force to fracture the human skull.
For some reason those numbers were swirling around in my head. No, I hadn’t been injured, but I was counting myself lucky, not skilled. Eventually, my luck would run out and I didn’t want to end up stuck in a hospital bed because I’d foolishly pushed myself to keep grinding away.
It didn’t help that my heart wasn’t in it. Not the thrill of the ride and not the rodeo. It had me wondering… did I really want to be a commentator for the sport? I’d tried to convince myself that it was the perfect fit for me, but as I was interviewed by the Rodeo Sports Network, I imagined myself in that role and it didn’t play out right in my head.
I tried to shake it off by going for a walk to check out the different events. I found myself at a kids’ barrel racing competition. I watched two youngsters make their way a little cautiously around the barrels. They turned in respectable times, but I could see where they’d benefit from some training, knew just what I’d say if I was coaching them.
I leaned on the fence and waited for the next kid. A girl maybe a year or two older than Henry climbed on a dappled mare. I evaluated her seat. She was comfortable in the saddle. As she leaned forward to talk to her horse, I knew I was watching a true horsewoman in the making. She had a connection with the mare. When the signal came, she spurred her horse toward the first barrel, rounding it efficiently and easily. She cut in close on the second barrel and charged for the third with each movement damn near perfect. Once around the final barrel, she bent over the horse and raced to the line to finish her run.
My eyes went to the clock. The girl had bested the other riders I’d seen and put up a time that would have been respectable for someone twice her age. When she brought the horse to a stop, a large man ran out from the sideline and swung her off the horse.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” he said.
“Thanks, daddy.” She kissed her father’s cheek, and the smile on her face was huge.
The girl’s mom joined them, and they all hugged each other in celebration. As I watched, a sharp pang of envy cut through me. I wanted what they had for myself. Not the congratulations from her parents. I’d had enough of that when I first started out—and my sister and parents still made a point of attending Rodeo Austin when I was competing there. No, I wanted to bethatdad. The one training mychild to compete, then biting my nails and cheering them on when they did just that.
