Chapter Eleven
Raul bounced from foot to foot, rolling his head around, his neck popping. He jerked his shoulders back and forth, trying to find some ease there. He needed this ride. Needed the money. Oh, he would stay on tour for another two weeks even if he didn’t ride a single bull, but his confidence was waning.
It was time for a ride. Time for a victory dance.
His bull was about to be loaded, so Raul grabbed his chaps and started strapping them on, trying to block out the noise as Packer rode, trying to ignore the screaming crowd and the sound of clanking cowbells.
The crowds in Sao Paulo could number in the hundreds of thousands, not just the tens, so this was nothing,sim? So what if he could not understand anything except how a few of the cowboys were making bad noises about Brazilians. Fucking Brazilians.
That, he understood.
Blowing out a breath, Raul grabbed his vest, settling it on his shoulders and chest. He strapped it on, then tested it, pounding on his chest a couple of times. Solid.
Matt Bacon came up, a slow grin making his bright eyes twinkle. “Want me to pull your rope,Araripe?”
That much Raul got, and he grinned back, nodding. Bacon was as new as he was, always seemed to be there when someone started to get nasty about American riders versus Brazilian. Always. It was like the man had some sort of radar for trouble brewing, and an automatic damper for it, too.
“Sim. Thank you.”
“Hey, your accent is getting’ way better.” Matt clapped him on the back. “This one spins hard, to the right.” Matt made a motion with his hand that helped Raul translate, and he nodded, going back to jumping up and down, just for a moment.
Then his bull was ready, and Raul climbed up to straddle the chute, Matt climbing over to stand on the gate. Eduardo and Hank came to hold Raul in place, be his safety men. The bull wanted to crouch, but Nate poked it through the gate.
They were all helping him, and suddenly Raul thought he might just be able to ride this beast. Bless Matt Bacon. He was just the boost Raul needed. He lowered himself down on the bull’s back, his knees pushing into place, and Raul wrapped the rope around his hand, letting Matt pull it tight-tight.
If he had learned anything in the last few months, it was that the league here allowed far less time in the chute. One foul was all it had taken for Raul to know that as soon as he felt solid, he had to nod his head. So as soon as his rope was firm under his glove, the bull stood up straight, and Matt Bacon moved to safety, he nodded.
The world exploded into motion, the bull doing exactly what Matt had said, whirling to the right. The big head went down, the bull trying to jerk him forward, so Raul muscled back to the end of his arm, hanging on. By the third rotation he was spurring, the rhythm of the big Brahma mix a good one for him, far better than the tiny bull he’d had last round.
Six, seven, eight… The buzzer sounded, but it took him nearly three seconds to find a safe place to jump off. When he did, the crowd roared, and he forgot all about not speaking the same language. That screaming he understood.
Raul ran, making sure the bull was out of the arena before doing a cha-cha with Dillon.
Perfeito. That was perfect. Just what he’d needed. He was a cowboy, after all. He could ride.
