Jason’s gate swung open, and the bull went to spinning. The little Mexican fighting bull was just a class three, and the cowboy rode like a pro, free arm steady as could be, easy as you please. There was no question, not at all, that Jason Scott was the best inthe business, blind or not. The man rode with pure balance, that right foot spurring halfway through the ride.
The buzzer went off, Jason landed on his feet, and Adam heard Coke Pharris shouting directions to him.
Jason managed, running hard and climbing the fence, right in front of Dillon Walsh, damn near smacking heads with the clown. Dillon grabbed Jason’s vest to hold him upright, and Adam saw Dillon talking hard for a moment before Jason took his hat off and waved it at the crowd.
Christ. They might just pull this off. At least today.
Jason headed back, Dillon at his side, the clown jabbering while Chrissy roped the bull. Damn.
Damn. That meant Jason had won the fucking event and had to do the victory lap thing. Shit, did the kid even know how to ride?
Adam set his mouth and reined Shylock in when the gelding wanted to go after Sugarland. Jealous thing. He could do this. Damn Brian and his broken foot anyway.
Jason was talking hard to the event organizer, hat brim down, Dillon and Andy Baxter right there. Finally Jason held up his hat as the announcer gave his name.
Half the audience was leaving anyway, and the other half was waiting for fireworks.
There was a hoot and holler from the crowd and a couple of laps from the flag girls and boom. Time for cool down. Good deal. Time to check his brother over for actual injuries.
Little Landon came over to Chrissy, Sam and Beau with him. “You want a hand walking them out? J’pense that head’s cocain big.”
Was that English?
Beau chuckled, winking at Adam. “Yeah, Chris. I reckon your head has to be killing you. Let the kid earn his beer.”
“Damned Cajuns.”
Sammy hooted like a frickin’ monkey, and Landon started walking the mare out, muttering under his breath. Chrissy stood there, teeth in his mouth, just watching.
“He’s walking my horse. That bitch hates everyone.”
“Well, he must have the touch,” Adam said, pulling at Shylock’s girth strap.
“He and horses walk and make doctors.” Sam drawled the words out, dragging them like they were stuck.
Adam stared. Okay, first the Cajun, and now the tortuous mixed-up Sam-isms. He hoped to God Beau could translate that, too. It was Dillon who did it, popping up next to him like a Jack-in-the-Box. “He’s a horse whisperer, huh?”
“A horse whisperer. Huh.” Adam needed some alone time in the fucking trailer so that Chrissy’s headache could wear off. Hell, when Brian had broken his foot, Adam and Chris both had limped for two days.
Beau gave him a knowing smile. “I’ll rub Shy down, man. Sam can feed and water, too. Go sit. You promised Coke a beer later, and he’ll collect.”
He nodded, regretting once again that him and his stupid pride had let the man go. “Thanks, Bo-Bo. I appreciate it.”
“Go on, now.”
Adam nodded, grabbing Chris by the arm. Jason was past the point of no return, and their friends were willing to help them out.
It was time for a fucking nap.
Landon saton a lawn chair outside Mr. Beau and Mr. Sam’s trailer, drinking a beer. He had a pallet in his truck, so it didn’t mean nothing to have a few. Beau was fiddling, and the sound was like home, warm and happy, the zing of the strings enough to make him smile. Sam was laughing, singing along, the words right as rain.
“Hey, Nutbutter.” Gramps Pharris wandered over and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Gramps.” He grinned over. “How goes it with you?”
“Good. Good. You did good today.”
“Merci b’coo.” He’d made himself some money, which was always good. Laurel would be proud.
