9. Indie
Chapter 9
Indie
I t’s another absolutely terrible night at the motel. The bed doesn’t get any softer, and I wake up with aches and pains that could have been avoided with a comfortable bed. I fucking hate that I even have to worry about it, that my hip is screaming at me in pain, but there’s nothing to be done for it right now. I pop a few pain pills, do a few stretches that ease the tension a little, and call the rideshare.
By the time I arrive at the fairgrounds, it’s already bustling. People meander around, shopping at the tradeshow booths selling everything from clothing to food. I’m almost tempted to buy a hat or something to blend in better, but I decide against it. I shouldn’t have to do that to fit in. Then again, if I continue looking like an outsider, the Crimson Three may never give me the time of day. Ram seems the easiest to crack. Beau legit feels as if he’d like to split himself completely open. But Tripp? Tripp is somehow the mystery despite having the most information about him out there. I have yet to figure out how I’m going to get the story. They’re not exactly receptive to doing an interview.
I trail through the arena area, looking for the men I somehow have to get a story on and trying my best not to run into Kim and Zander. I don’t have the patience for it this morning, not when I’m starting to limp. The longer I stay in one position, the worse it gets, so I try to move around as much as I’m able, changing positions, not sitting for long. By the time the rodeo events start, I’ve had to take another pain pill to ease the inflammation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to welcome you to another day of the Dixie National Rodeo where cowboys and cowgirls ride hard and take home great big prize pots of money if you agree they deserve it. Remember, the louder you cheer for someone, the more likely they are to take home the Crowd Favorite Pot.” The arena erupts with cheering, as if they need to practice. “Just like that,” the announcer praises. “Now, get ready for the best of the best! It’s time to rodeo!”
This event starts with roping, and I find my mind drifting off instead of watching. I don’t need any extra stories, not when I’ve already sent one to Frank about the last rodeo as well as the fashion column he wanted. I’d died inside a little while writing about the trend in larger belt buckles, but a job is a job.
I’ve come a long way from the war zones I’d made my home for the past five years. Being a war correspondent had its ups and downs. I’d enjoyed it during the ups, but the downs were really down. I met a lot of people. I lost a lot of them. I travelled with different squadrons, changing out depending on where the higher ups didn’t mind sticking me. Sometimes, I’d get word about one of my other squadrons. Usually, it was a notification that they’d lost someone. Someone I almost always knew. It was like that for years. Sitting around under the stars with the men and women I travelled with, exchanging crazy stories, battle scars, and MREs was the life for a while. Until it wasn’t. Until I lost one too many. I’ve been shot. I’ve had shrapnel in my leg. I’ve been held hostage. I’ve been nearly blown to bits.
But it was the loss of Staff Sargeant O’Connell that did me in. He’d just found out he was gonna be a dad. He was so fucking excited to be a dad.
I shake away the thoughts and focus on the events in front of me, trying my best to stay focused. Beau doesn’t come out for barrel racing. I don’t see him at all, so I wonder if he’s coming out at all today. The women with blue handprints on their asses will be disappointed if he doesn’t put on a show.
The bareback bronc riding is announced, and I shake off my funk so I can pay attention. Unlike the saddle bronc riding, the rider must start with both of his spurs touching the horse’s shoulders until the horse’s hooves hit the ground after the initial move from the chute. Which means if they’re not in the correct starting position, they’re already disqualified. Bareback riding tends to be the most jarring sport, and the riders endure more abuse than most other sports. From my understanding, it can be even more dangerous than bull riding. The money pot can be very rewarding, but it may come at a cost. They’re judged by their spurring techniques, the degree which the cowboy’s toes remain turned out while spurring, and his willingness to take whatever happens during the ride. It’s a vast difference from the judgement of technique that comes with saddle riding.
Like many cowboys, Ramiro Mondragon goes back and forth between saddle and bareback. At this stop, he seems to be focusing on bareback, and at his age, the risks go up significantly. Thirty-nine isn’t old by normal standards, but it is for a bronc rider. The fact he’s still going strong is a testament to his skill.
When it’s Ramiro’s turn, the announcer comes back on, and there’s something different. When he’d announced the other riders, he’d done it with the gusto most announcers have. But with Ramiro, it’s almost. . . muted.
“Ramiro Mondragon hails from Wyoming. You may know him as part of the Crimson Three. Here in Jackson, Mississippi though, that hardly matters. We judge a man by his skill, not by where he comes from.”
No mention of his accomplishments or that he’s a multi-million dollar cowboy. Hell, that announcement almost seemed. . . bitter. I frown over at the announcer box, wondering what the hell is up with that.
The chute opens and Ramiro’s Mustang immediately leaps into the year. Ramiro’s spurs are perfectly aligned in the “marking out” position, and he doesn’t move until the horse’s hooves touch the ground. It’s fucking perfect form, even to my untrained eyes. I take a few great photos of him, and when the timer alarm goes off signaling the end of his ride, he springs off with the same expert movements. I haven’t seen a more perfect ride yet, not compared to the six other cowboys before him. He should easily claim first place.
I look toward the scoreboard with the rest of the crowd. Ramiro is still on the dirt, looking up at the scoreboard, too, panting hard. The numbers flicker and then it flashes with the numbers seventy-three. The arena collectively boos.
“What the fuck?” I say under my breath. That was easily a near perfect ride, but that score put him in third place instead of first where he belongs.
I flip through the pictures in my phone, notating just how perfect his form was again. There’s no way he deserved that low of a score. Not with form like that.
When the event completes, I follow the rest of the press down to the contestant area and make my way over to where Ramiro, Beau, and Tripp hover near the prize tables. In the end, Ramiro had claimed third like they’d placed him, which means he’s leaving with far less than he should have taken.
“Hey,” I say as I walk up. “You guys did good.”
Tripp scowls and turns away despite him having scored first place and the largest prize pot.
Ramiro in contrast smiles at me despite the circumstances. “Thank you, Indie. Always nice to hear you enjoyed the show,” he says.
“I’ve got a show you would enjoy,” Beau teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “It’s written on my knuckles.”
Somehow, I don’t think he means the ones that say, “luck,” on them. Cheeky bastard. I swear he never stops flirting. Part of me likes that about him. He’s always having fun. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not smiling.
I level my eyes on Ramiro instead of responding to the clown, taking in the small envelope in his hands with only a few hundred dollars.
“So, how does it feel knowing you got a low score you didn’t deserve?” I ask. I don’t bother dancing around the subject. That would be disrespectful.
“The judges decided I placed third,” he shrugs.
“And yet, even to my untrained eyes, I could tell you did the best job out there,” I argue. “You should have gotten first.”
He tilts his head, his eyes trailing over my face. Of all the contestants, Ramiro is the only Hispanic one. It’s not uncommon to find Hispanic cowboys, but in some of these larger events, it’s more uncommon than I’d have thought. Here, he’s as rare as a Chinese American reporter is. Which. . . it shouldn’t be like that. There should be more. In my limited research, I’d found a good handful of prolific Latin cowboys. So why aren’t they being represented properly?
“Should have is a very different thing than did,” he replies.
I pull out my pen, prepared to write down his answer. “How do you feel about the prejudice apparent in your sport?” I ask. “About being given a score you clearly didn’t deserve?”
His expression tightens. The topic annoys him so much, he forgets that he’s not supposed to do interviews, that he shouldn’t talk to me. Instead, he looks me in the eyes, and says words that I know I’ll be writing in an article after this.
“It’s just a part of the game for someone like me, Indie. I just ride.”