* * *
Killy turned off the water to the sound of a house being torn apart. What the hell was the man doing out there? He pulled his clothes on and stepped into the hallway. Tex emerged from the bedroom, bearing two loaded pillowcases. Killy followed him into the living room.
The Stetson-crowned cowboy strode purposefully out to the Bronco, returning a second and third time, carrying out boxes and a stuffed duffle bag. He dragged a cooler from under the kitchen table and dumped the refrigerator’s contents inside—mostly beer.
“Twelve o’clock; we need to get moving.” Tex surveyed the room and picked a handful of change off the television. Looked like Killy wasn’t the only one moving on. Where was Tex headed? And why did Killy want to know?
They drove to The Stallion in silence. Several times he opened his mouth, but nothing came to mind to say. If he wanted to be back on the road so bad, why did his heart hurt?
This was it, the end of the line. Endless days of same ole, same ole beckoned. For a little while, for a moment in time, he’d gotten to pretend life could go on. He’d sung again. From the heart. And lightning hadn’t struck him for playing without his old band.
Tex parked out front of The Rarin’ Stallion. Not a reporter in sight—yet. They’d probably gather for the show tonight. “My vehicle’s bigger than yours, has four-wheel drive, and is roomy enough to sleep in. Get what you want out of your El Camino.” A few cars littered the parking lot. Probably, like Killy, the owners had found another ride the night before.
Wait. What? “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” Tex locked eyes with Killy. “Get your stuff and let’s go. I’m coming with you—if you’ll let me.” His gaze never wavered.
Killy’s heart slammed against his ribs. “You don’t want this.” He had to be the voice of reason, even though every fiber of his being was tired of traveling alone. “I never stay anywhere long. I’m always on the move.”
Tex reached into his pocket and extracted a crumpled pack of gum. He popped a strip into his mouth and gave a few good chews. “What does this taste like?”
Kill scratched his head. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Exactly.”
“Huh?”
“If you ain’t the one doing the chewing, how can you know what it tastes like?” Tex paused. “If you ain’t the one doing the living, how can you know what I want? Ain’t one damned thing keeping me here. I was passing through myself when the Bronco broke down. I stayed long enough to get it fixed, and planned to leave in a few days anyhow. I'd hoped in answering your ad I might find myself a passenger for the trip. Gets mighty lonely riding alone.” He grinned. “Besides, I like the way you fuck. I also think you could use some company, too.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why say you’ll come with me? You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“All the places I’ve been, I know what they’re like.” Texas shrugged, like he shouldn’t have to explain. “But anywhere I go with you will be new.”
Damn but Killian loved this man’s twisted logic.
Never questioning the newly voiced authority, Killy dug the few belongings he hadn’t already carted to the trailer out of the El Camino. As an afterthought, he returned to the El and ejected the Trickster CD he’d been listening to on the way down.
“Where are we going?” Tex asked as he slammed the Bronco’s rear door.
Killy only hesitated a minute before climbing behind the steering wheel. “Denver rodeo.”
“Why?”
“My father’s an old rodeo rider. Still hangs out on the circuit.”
“Really? Mine was too—before he died. But just amateur stuff.”
“I’m sorry. I think him and my old man woulda had a lot to talk about. Do you ride?”
“I was in junior rodeo, a long time ago.” A bittersweet smile passed over Mike’s face. “The only riding I’ve done lately is on ranches.”
“Dad made the pros, even won a couple shiny buckles in his day. We might even meet up with the old fart. But there’s other reasons to go there too.” Killy glanced at The Rarin’ Stallion. Tonight, folks would gather hoping to see him and Tex again. The Stallion might get quite the crowd.
He couldn’t run forever. Deep down he’d always known. Sooner or later, he’d be found out. At least he’d had a few years respite. But if he had to return from the dead, no reporter would force him back for the sake of selling articles. Already plans formed in his head.
