But now I need the rest. The tough rides and laundry list of injuries are harder to recover from than they used to be when I was eighteen.
I close my eyes again and will myself to relax.
My body is in full agreement, but my mind refuses to cooperate. The events of the first day of school flash behind my eyelids like a movie, frame by frame.
It was a good day. The students were excited and eager to get started. There was a lot of natural talent on display, so I decided to let them loose to show me what they could do. I wanted to get a good gauge on who needed what from me. Some were eager to learn, and others were eager to show off, just like any cowboy worth his salt would. There were definitely a couple I want to focus on one-on-one. Not that every student won’t be getting their money’s worth, but it’s easy for a seasoned rider to seewhen another rider has what it takes. Those rare few with deep-seated hunger—the kind that won’t ever be satisfied by anything else—are the ones who need guidance the most because of the sacrifices they’ll have to make and the heartbreak they’ll face.
There’s a reason sad country songs are written about cowboys. And why mommas are warned not to let their sons grow up to be one.
Life on the road is a lonely one.
Night after night is a fight. A fight against the bull, the injuries, the losses, the liquor, the women, and the other riders.
Against death itself.
These kids have stars in their eyes. Dreaming of shiny buckles, big sponsorships, and magazine covers. They have no idea what it takes to get there. Not yet.
And that’s the real job. To teach them not only technique, but to prepare them for what’s to come without stamping out that fire.
My dad was damn good at that.
Boone Trust is the cowboy those songs were written about.
He was a rodeo cowboy who dropped out of high school to chase his dreams. And he tore the circuit up as a bronc rider until a broken neck took him out for good at just twenty-two years old. He moved back home with a bruised ego and busted spirit. And he went buck wild for a few years. Angry at the world, he drank and fought his way behind bars on many occasions.
It was one of those nights that he crossed paths with the sheriff’s beautiful, blue-eyed daughter. She was at the jailhouse, bringing her father supper, when he dragged my dad past her and threw him in the drunk tank.
Luckily for him—and for us boys too, I guess—she wasn’t a country music fan.
And an ornery cowboy was no match for her charm.
I glance at the clock again—2:30 a.m.
We were in the arena till damn near nine tonight. I missed dinner. You’d think I’d be exhausted.
Instead, my brain refuses to shut off.
With a groan, I throw back the covers.
“Fine.”
If sleep won’t come willingly, I’m done chasing it.
I pad barefoot across the cabin and open the refrigerator.
The cool air washes over me.
My eyes land on an amber bottle.
Perfect.
A moment later, I’m slipping out the back door and onto the deck.
The cool, crisp night air greets me instantly.
The summer days here can be brutally hot, but the nights are always cool. It’s one of the magical things about Wyoming. One of the reasons I’ve always loved it here.
I walk over to the railing.
