It’sresearch, I justify mentally, as I load up a search and scroll through the images, a smile playing on my lips when I see him in various clips. Some are properly posed for sponsors, some are dragged off the ranch’s social media page and show him messing around in his natural state, on a big old property, surrounded by the familiar. Some are taken when he’s riding. And then there are the photos of him after the accident, his body crumpled, passed out, the blood and broken bones, a rampaging bull tearing at him.
I put down my phone quickly and hold my finger on the delete key of my laptop, then start over:
What makes a man get up on a bull again after suffering an almost life-ending accident? Madness, or passion? Or a little of both?
I stare at the question, frowning now, because while I understand passion, the madness of his commitment is something I find it harder to grapple with.
Most people seem to accept that bull riding comes with risks, even when the circuit goes above and beyond to protect their riders with mandated safety measures. But it’s still man against bull. Academically, it’s easy to understand the potential danger. But Beau himself has first-hand knowledge of that. He’s lived it. Or very nearly died for it. His injuries were way more extensive than his devil-may-care attitude would lead you to believe. He was damn near crushed by that bull, and he must know that. He must know that every step he takes is by God’s grace.
But still, he gets back up on the bull.
Like he’s got something to prove?
My fingers move back to the keyboard and hover there.
Or like he doesn’t care what happens to him?
I sit back in my chair, moving my gaze to the view from the window. Sitting down like this, I see only the tops of the gently swaying trees, their lush, green foliage inviting me to trace their outlines with my eyes.
Is that it? Does a part of him ride out there each week halfway daring the bull to be as bad as he can be?I don’t have a death wish.
I shake my head, trying to reconcile that with the way he is. Beau’s not stupid. And he’s not someone who seems like he wants to die. He’s just … obsessed, like I was with ballet.It’s who I am.
I close my eyes, remembering the months of rehab I pushed myself to do, determined that I could get through my injury. That I’d be one of the statistical few that somehow managed to beat the fracture and return to dancing properly. It was gruelling and beyond painful, but that didn’t matter. I was driven by dreams and determination: a more potent mix than anything I’ve known.
Is it the same for Beau?
Does he want to win that badly? So badly he’s willing to risk getting all crumpled up again?
I stand up, shaking my head, pacing from one side of the room to the other. Or is it arrogance? A belief that it can’t happen to him like that a second time.
All sports carry risk. Football, diving, lacrosse. Nothing is ‘safe’, even living. But surely his accident haunts him?
Every question I ask myself spawns another, and another. I feel frustrated at how little I actually know of this man, how much he remains an enigma. But enigmas are just riddles you haven’t yet solved, and I have weeks to solve Beau, before putting him in the rear-view mirror as, with any luck, I speed away to my new career in politics.
It’s definitely not the kind of place I would have thought Beau would bring me. For a start, I think the closest thing they have to a French fry here is some kind of fancy sous-vide. Thisrestaurant is all crisp white tablecloths, silver service, waitstaff in black with bright white aprons and elegant mood lighting to perfectly complement the classical music.
My ballet training means I recognise most of the songs as they’re played, and beneath the table my feet tap with a desperate, insatiable desire to dance. To stand and move, to feel the music in my pulse, like I always used to. I knot my fingers together and press them to my thighs.
‘I know, it’s a bit much, but my sister-in-law says it’stheplace to eat right now.’ He shrugs almost apologetically. ‘Besides,’ a grin lopes across his face, ‘I figure there’s pretty much no chance of us getting recognised by anyone on the tour in here.’
‘Because bull riders don’t like fancy food?’ I tease.
He shrugs. ‘That, and it’s on the other side of town.’
‘Your sister-in-law is Beth?’
Another nod. A waiter appears and tops up our water glasses, then brandishes two big folders that turn out to be menus. I stare at it, then up at Beau, amused to see his reaction. His hands are massive against the rich red covers of the folder, but he looks completely at home as he scans the options then places the folder down.
‘You already know what you’re having?’
‘Steak and potato.’
I scan the menu, see the meal he’s referencing and nod, placing the menu beside me. ‘Sounds good.’
The waiter writes our order on his pad, asks how we want it cooked, then walks slowly away.
‘Beth’s pregnant, you said?’
