Chapter Eight #2
Although he refused to talk about it, Cheyenne knew that the pending murder charge weighed heavily on his mind. Maybe he viewed the competition as a final act of glory before the steel cuffs closed around his wrists and the fight to prove his innocence began.
She checked her phone, hoping for a text from him, but there was nothing. Nor was there any message from Hayden. Maybe he was busy with funeral arrangements and ranch business. Maybe he was consumed by grief. Or maybe he just didn’t care enough to keep in touch with her.
Never mind. She was determined to enjoy the evening. Tomorrow her mother would be arriving, and her days of freedom would come to an end.
Her lunch with Buck Tolson, at a tiny Mexican restaurant with delicious food, had been a gold strike of information.
Thanks to Buck, who’d done most of the talking, she knew the fine points of the sport, how a run was set up, the rider’s job, the horse’s job, and the reason there were four other cowboys in the arena.
She knew how judges scored a two-and-a-half-minute run, the points and penalties.
The more she heard, the more eager she was to get her own horse and start learning.
She’d cut cattle as a teen on her family’s Colorado ranch, but competitive cutting was a whole different world.
“In cutting, the show is all about the horse,” Buck had told her. “Once the rider picks a cow and cuts it out of the herd, he—”
“Or she,” Cheyenne had teased, drawing a smile from that serious mouth. “Girls can do it, too.”
“He or she,” he’d conceded. “After the rider lowers his—or her—rein hand to the horse’s neck, then it’s up to the horse to keep the cow under control. It’s quite a show. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“I don’t just want to enjoy it. I want to do it,” Cheyenne had said.
Buck had chuckled at her impatience. “Whoa, there. Something tells me you can do anything you put your mind to. But getting there is going to take more time and work than you can imagine—and the right horse.”
Almost forgetting to eat, Cheyenne had hung on his every word.
While he spoke, her eyes studied his face—not a handsome face, but strong, masculine, and trustworthy, with deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and a mouth that was firm but generous.
His dark hair was lightly flecked with gray.
She knew next to nothing about the man—not even his age, which she guessed to be a little short of thirty.
He wore no wedding ring, but that didn’t rule out a woman in his life, or even children.
His hands were callused and scarred—a workingman’s hands.
And he wore a workingman’s clothes, without even a fancy buckle to show that he was a champion, maybe the best in the country or even the best in the world.
Watching him across the table, Cheyenne had found herself wondering how it would feel to be kissed by such a man. But she’d forced the thought away. She was here to learn about cutting, and this was a man who could teach her.
Last night, the draw party had been held to determine the order in which riders and horses would compete.
Buck had drawn the second-to-last slot. Hayden would have been last if tragedy hadn’t called him away.
Now Cheyenne checked her phone again. There were no messages—not from Hayden and not from Roper. And the event was about to start.
She stood for the national anthem. Then the loudspeaker blared, and the four mounted helpers, there to contain the herd of cattle in the arena, took their places. When everything was in place, the first competing rider galloped his horse through the gate.
Cheyenne quickly lost herself in the beauty and intricacy of the sport. The cows—steers and heifers—were bunched in the center of the arena. The rider cut his chosen animal out of the herd. Once it was in the open, he lowered his hand to slacken the rein and let his horse take over.
Watching the beautiful bay horse work the cow, keeping it from running to the fence or back to the herd, was mesmerizing.
Agile as a dancer, the horse wove, shifted, and dodged, blocking the cow at every turn, controlling the animal physically and mentally.
The rider could give subtle cues with his knees but couldn’t use the rein or his hands to guide the horse.
Perched on the edge of her seat, Cheyenne watched in rapt attention as the whistle sent the cow back to the herd and the rider chose a second animal to work.
At the end of the run, the judges announced the score—76.
2 points out of a possible 80. It was good, but not good enough to win.
Other riders were bound to get higher scores as the competition continued.
The next rider was good but unlucky. The second cow he’d chosen broke away from the horse and made a beeline for the herd. The score, a disappointing 67.0.
More horses and riders exercised their skill as the leading score crept upward. At last, with the first place score at 78.2, it was Buck’s turn.
Almost forgetting to breathe, Cheyenne leaned forward to get a better look at him.
Dressed simply in a fresh denim shirt, jeans, well-worn leather chaps, and a battered Stetson, he sat his tall buckskin like a king.
The horse, Chief, had been brushed until his hide gleamed like liquid bronze.
His black mane and tail caught the air, flowing like silk as he loped into the herd, headed for the cow his master had chosen.
They made a splendid pair, the man and his mount—all the more because Buck was clearly out there to show off his horse, not himself.
The brindle steer was in the open now, expertly separated from the middle of the herd. Keeping it there would be up to Chief. With a grace that was almost dance-like, the big gelding blocked the steer’s every move. The subtle guidance of Buck’s knees was so slight it was almost invisible.
Cheyenne could sense the bond between the horse and the man—something so deep that it couldn’t be acquired through training. It was as if the two of them communicated not just by word and touch but by instinct.
Did she have it in her—the empathy and the patience—to form that kind of bond with a special animal? The thought of the challenge made her blood race. Buck had been right. This was going to take more time and work than she’d ever imagined.
Buck’s second choice, a feisty black heifer, was harder to control than the first one.
But Cheyenne knew that managing a difficult animal added more points.
When the heifer charged, Chief turned it deftly aside and kept it contained until the whistle.
As Buck rode out of the arena, the judges’ score was posted.
A near-perfect 79.3 points had put Buck in first place for the win.
At least, that was what Cheyenne thought. But she was wrong. The contest wasn’t over.
She was standing to cheer for the winner when a new announcement boomed from the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, our final contestant will be Hayden Barr, riding Steely Dan.”
For a moment, Cheyenne thought she might have misunderstood. This was a mistake. It had to be.
As the crowd stirred, Cheyenne sank back into her seat. It appeared that the announcer hadn’t gotten the word, that was all. Someone needed to tell him that Hayden had been called away and wouldn’t be competing.
She waited for the correction and the announcement that Buck had won the event. She was still waiting when a familiar-looking rider on a paint horse galloped into the arena.
Cheyenne stared, scarcely daring to believe her eyes. The rider was unmistakably Hayden.
She’d watched Hayden ride in the practice arena.
She knew he was good. But tonight, he was on fire.
Cheyenne knew that he was determined to beat Buck’s near-perfect score.
But where Buck had led with patience and precision, Hayden appeared to be almost angry, driving the horse with his voice and subtle jabs of his knees.
Steely Dan responded with bursts of amazing speed, pushing the cow into showy maneuvers meant to rack up points. Hayden was skating the edge of the rules, but the crowd was drawn in, even clapping at some of the flashier moves.
After the final whistle, a hush fell over the crowd as they waited for the score. Would Hayden be penalized for pushing the limits, or had his showmanship earned enough points to put him over the top?
At last, the score was posted and the winner announced. Hayden had earned a score of 79.5. He had beaten Buck Tolson, the national champion, by two tenths of a point.
The buckle and $250,000 prize money would be awarded later that night on the festival stage, to be followed by a party and concert.
For now, the show was over. As the crowd flowed out of the stands, Cheyenne paused to check her phone.
There was still no word from Roper. After sending him a short text, she headed for the area behind the arena.
Hayden would be there, receiving congratulations and giving interviews to the press.
He owed her an explanation. But right now, Hayden wasn’t the man she wanted to find.
Making her way through the solid mob of well-wishers took time. At last, in the open space behind the arena, she could see Hayden talking to a TV crew. One of the stable hands was leading Steely Dan away. But Buck was nowhere in sight.
Maybe he’d taken his horse back to the stall. Cheyenne was about to go looking for him when Hayden broke away from the TV crew and called to her.
“Cheyenne! Wait up!”
Cheyenne kept walking. But she had no right to be angry with him, she reminded herself. She was just confused and needed answers. Slowing her step, she allowed him to catch up.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know you must be upset with me.”
“I’m not upset. I was concerned, that’s all,” she said. “I’m sure you had your hands full, but I would have appreciated a text—even a word or two.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a hell of a day.”