When the hissing stops, I pour the last of my water on Betsy’s overheated parts. Poor old girl, she was trying to tell me. The distinct tang of oil had flooded the living compartment, wafting into the front cab at least twenty minutes before she spluttered out.
The hiss returns as the cool water bubbles, boils, and evaporates, ultimately helping to cool her down. She’ll take at least another half hour to be ready to go. So I go back to my perch on the side step. Grabbing my camera, I power it up and flick through the images I’ve taken over the last few weeks.
Some great shots. Some behind-the-chutes images. Some action shots.
I wonder if the riders would want copies of these?
I could use the extra income . . .
I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes, and between snacking and sorting through my photo gallery, the time vanishes quickly.
I pack up the camera and slide the side door shut before closing Betsy’s engine cover. It’s still pretty hot to the touch, and I beg her to behave and hold out so we can make Taber before nightfall.
The last thing I need is to break down again and be stuck on the side of the road overnight. With another silent plea to my old girl and traveling companion, I turn the key in the ignition.
She falters but starts, and I kiss the steering wheel.
“You can rest for two whole days when we get there, Bets, promise.”
Shifting her into gear, I indicate and turn onto the highway.
Taber rodeo, here we come.
The rodeo grounds are packed when Betsy and I finally make it. Taking it a little slower than usual, I send her across the grassy area by the back of the arena and find one of the last good spots under a weeping willow-type tree.
It’s only after I kill the engine and push from the van that I see the two-toned Chevy the next tree down. A little further away than last time, but still too close for my liking.
The rodeo has started, and . . . I’m late.
I grab up my camera bag and run for the small white building behind the arena which I assume is the office. I need to sign in and pick up my press pass. Safety is paramount at these events and that includes having everyone accounted for at all times.
I burst through the door to find a young girl and an older woman who are definitely mother and daughter sitting at a table covered in papers and such.
“Maggie Gallagher, photographer. So sorry I’m late!” I slide to a halt by their table.
The older woman slides her glasses down her nose. “Yes, you are. Another two minutes and Levi was sending someone back down the highway to go find you. Better run over there quick smart, young lady, so he knows you’re here.”
What? How would Levi know I was stran?—
She hands me the press pass, and I throw it around my neck, tugging it down. I’m already over the threshold as I yell over my shoulder, “Thank you!”
I leg it to the arena, weaving my way through cowboys, and slow when I get to a lineup of horses and their cowgirls waiting for their run at the barrels.
I should take that shot one day. From behind, rumps in line, waiting on their fastest time...
I can’t help the smile blooming over my face as I make it past the horses and rodeo folk milling about, getting things in order for each event, and I reach the chutes.
Levi stands in the center of a crowd of cowboys with their heads down.
It looks like they’re praying, but I can hear him preaching.
The pre-ride pep talk.
The teams have most likely already had one from their coaches. This is mostly for the guys who didn’t make the draft.
My gaze snags on a black hat still tilted down. His wide footed stance, hands clasped together in front of him. No sponsorship logos on his shirt like the majority of the other riders.
Jones.
