Chapter 42 Bulldogging and Breakthroughs
bulldogging and breakthroughs
ROXANNE
I took Jameson for his usual walk, which is less than a quarter of a mile so he can sniff the same plant for five minutes, pee on it, then kick the ground with his back legs.
I return him to the house, give him a good scratch, and then wait for Topper to pick up Allie, Leo, and I for what he called “somethin’ special.
” Rusty and Georgia stay behind to continue to keep an eye on Garrett, who’s still waiting for his parents to come get him.
Allie instinctively hops in the cart and pulls Topper in for a good-morning kiss.
I almost blush watching them, it’s like they’re an old married couple already.
Leo loads his film equipment in the back, and Allie clutches her clipboard with the day’s production schedule attached.
While Topper and Allie fall into their familiar flirt-a-thon in the front of the golf cart, Leo puts his arm around me in the back.
“Do you think Duke would come with you as an ambassador?”
I shrug. “He might if I work up the courage to ask him.
We drive past the horse paddock on our way to the arena.
Beckett’s already out there with Goose, leading him in a slow, steady circle alongside one of the newer vets.
Goose’s ears are flicked forward, alert but not tense, and I can’t help but feel a pinch of envy at how easily Beckett gets Goose to follow him.
I watch for a second too long, chin resting on my hand.
“I’m not leaving here until you walk with me,” I murmur to myself.
Topper makes a sharp turn onto the dirt road that leads to the arena, and the chatter in the front quiets as the structure comes into view.
The round pen is bigger than I expected—wide and sunbaked with thick wooden fencing, some sections patched up with fresh boards that haven’t weathered to match yet.
A few folding chairs are arranged under a canvas shade tarp nearby where a small group of veterans is already gathered, sipping cold drinks and watching the activity inside the pen.
Inside the arena, Stedman stands at the ready in the outfit similar to what Duke paraded around in the first night at dinner.
He looks like he’s stepped right out of a historic rodeo poster.
Millie leans against the fence beside him, sunglasses on, her dark braided hair pulled back in a crisp bun.
She waves when she sees us, then turns back to Stedman like she’s giving him last-minute notes before a performance.
“Hello, hello!” Millie says, when we enter the arena.
“Hi, Millie!” Allie says as she steps out of the golf cart. “Thanks for putting on this demo for us today.”
“Absolutely,” Millie says. “Stedman needs to practice for the next show anyway.”
“Okay, Leo, I want a couple wide establishing shots first, then we’ll get some close-ups once Stedman starts moving,” Allie says, instantly stepping into producer mode.
Leo nods and begins unpacking his camera gear.
“I’m excited to learn more about bulldogging,” I say.
Topper smiles. “You’re in for a treat. Stedman’s the ropin’ and doggin’ champion.”
“I know I’m going to see it in action, but do you mind explaining what it is?” I ask, my pen at the ready hovering over the blank page of my notebook.
“I love how eager you are to learn about this,” Millie says with a smile. “To put a fine point on it … bulldogging is steer wrestling.”
“Steer …” I start to scratch out words. “… wrestling. Okay.”
When my face stays blank, she softens. “It’s when a rider jumps off a horse at full speed, grabs a steer by the horns, and wrestles it to the ground. It’s an act of power and precision. Not for the faint of heart.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Off … off the horse? Mid-run?”
Millie nods. “Oh, yes. You need timing like a Swiss watch and guts made of gravel. Most people see it and assume it’s about brute strength, but it’s more than that.
You’ve got to read the steer’s momentum, anticipate its movement, and match it with your own.
Think of it like dance. A violent, dirt-covered dance. ”
“Sounds like a good way to break your everything,” I say.
“He did break his collarbone on one of his early runs,” Millie says.
“Oh?”
“Only made him stronger,” Millie says with a wink. “Let’s get into the bleachers to watch. He’s almost ready.”
“How is this structure here?” I ask. “This doesn’t seem like something that a movie star would build on his estate.”
“The Faradays had it built later so those of us who wanted to rodeo could practice things like this,” Millie replies.
Leo stays behind in the arena to film while Allie, Topper, Millie, and I take our seats.
Stedman waits beside the chute, sitting tall on a stocky bay horse that looks built for power, every muscle ready to spring. His back is straight, one gloved hand resting loose on the horn of his saddle, the other coiled around the reins.
A ranch hand, maybe in his twenties, lean, with a dust-smudged ball cap and boots worn smooth at the heel, steps forward to check the gate latch on the steer chute. Another one rides up beside Stedman, ready to flank the steer for the run.
“That’s the hazer,” Topper says, pointing. “Their job is to keep the steer running straight so the bulldogger has a clean shot.”
Allie leans over to whisper, “Okay, so how does this start?”
“Watch the gate guy,” Topper mentions. “Stedman’ll nod when he’s ready and the chute will fly open.”
The arena hushes, Leo raises his camera, and I hold my breath. Stedman tips his chin once and the gate flies open.
The steer launches into the arena like it’s been fired from a cannon, hooves churning up dirt in a spray of dust. The hazer’s horse peels out to one side, keeping pace. Stedman is already moving, horse galloping low and tight along the fence line. The steer is fast, but Stedman’s gaining ground.
Then, in one impossible motion, he slides off the saddle, hits the dirt, clamps onto the steer’s horns, and uses the force of his entire body to twist and wrestle the animal down.
It seems like it takes all of five seconds.
The steer hits the ground with a thud, flailing for a second before settling, and Stedman hollers from the thrill of it all.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Holy shit.”
Allie’s jaw is slack. Leo turns to us and gives us a thumbs up, which lets us know he got a great shot. The other vets in the bleachers hoot excitedly. Even the steer doesn’t look too mad. I make notes, trying to string together words in a poetic way to capture what I just witnessed.
One moment, Stedman Jones was galloping across the arena, the next, he launched from his horse with effortless precision, landing beside a thousand-pound steer and bringing it to a halt in one fluid, practiced motion.
There was a kind of reverence in the way he moved, like he wasn’t just wrestling an animal, but honoring a legacy.
I glance up from my notes. Millie is down talking to Stedman over the arena fence.
Topper and Allie are lost in their own conversation.
My thoughts turn to Goose, the one being I still haven’t been able to win over.
If Stedman can wrestle a steer going full throttle, I know I can bond with that damn horse.
I slip down the bleachers and join Millie at the fence, hoping I can interview her and Stedman about their experience with Bill Pickett rodeo.
They agree, and Millie and I meet Stedman by some hay bales just outside the arena.
Leo, Allie, and Topper eventually make their way over as well.
Stedman pours us all hot coffee from a worn steel pot, and I shift in my seat so I can document the conversation.
“Okay,” I begin, my voice softer than usual. “Tell me about your rodeo—how it started, what it means to you both.”
Millie smiles, her fingers loosely laced in her lap. “Our rodeo’s been a long road. Started as a dream of Bill Pickett, but it turned into something that belongs to all of us.”
“I love that,” I say, grinning. “The Bill Pickett Invitational Rodeo has come up more than once while I’ve been here, and I’ll admit, before this assignment, I had never heard of it.
After watching that bulldogging demonstration, I know it’s going to be important for others to learn more about it as well. ”
“That’s partially why we do it. So folks do learn.
” Stedman leans forward slightly. “Pickett was a legend. Black cowboy out of Texas who made bulldogging what it is today. He had to perform on the outskirts for a long time. Back in the day, some rodeos wouldn’t even let him compete unless he claimed to be Native American.
He was known as ‘The Dusky Demon.’ He worked harder and had to be flashier than most to earn his seat at the table. ”
Millie nods, reaching out to squeeze her husband’s hand.
“We’ve been with the Invitational for years now.
It’s the only national Black rodeo circuit in the country.
It’s about riding and roping, but it’s also about preserving a legacy.
It reminds people that Black cowboys and cowgirls should always be part of the story. ”
I scribble down notes even though Leo’s camera is rolling. “You said something at one of the Nook dinners that stuck with me, Millie. ‘If you ask most people to picture a cowboy, they don’t see us.’”
Millie doesn’t flinch. “When people think ‘cowboy,’ they picture John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. That’s fine, but it’s not the full truth. One in four cowboys in the Old West were Black, but our stories weren’t always told.”
Leo quietly adjusts the frame. Allie sits still, her usual sparkle replaced by a quiet focus as she listens.
“This is so important,” I say, glancing at Stedman.
“It is,” he says. “We ride so the next generation can see themselves in the saddle.”
As Leo wraps up the filming and Allie gives Millie a lingering hug, I glance back toward the arena where the dust has finally settled. The bleachers are empty now, but something still hums in the air, a kind of reverence. Stedman and Millie wave as we climb into the golf cart and rumble away.
Topper’s driving, one hand casually resting on the wheel while Allie scrolls through the footage on Leo’s camera. “Think we got some gold there,” she says.
“Think we got more than that,” I say, still half-lost in the image of Stedman flying off his horse and wrestling that steer like gravity had nothing on him.
We loop around the far pasture, passing the edge of the horse paddock. Beckett is still there leading Goose out of the ring and toward the barn.
“Can we stop?” I ask quickly, turning in my seat. “I want to try again.”
Topper glances at me in the rearview mirror. “With Goose?”
“Yes.” I adjust my hair in my ponytail, now more determined than ever.
“You sure?” he asks, already easing the cart to a halt.
I nod and hop out, brushing my palms on my jeans. “If Stedman can wrestle a thousand-pound steer into the dirt, the least I can do is earn a ten-minute walk with a horse.”
Allie beams. “There’s my girl.”
“You want backup?” Leo offers, camera in hand.
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll walk back to the lodge and meet you for a snack?”
“Sounds lovely,” Leo says. “Good luck, darling.”
Irene shakes hands with a vet who is making his exit, but waves at me as I jog over, notebook still clutched in my hand.
“Hey,” I call, a little breathless.
“Hello, Roxanne,” Irene says, eyes scanning me with quiet curiosity. “Would you like a turn with Goose?”
I nod, nerves buzzing low in my stomach. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course,” she motions for Beckett to come over.
He stops when he and Goose reach us and hands me the lead rope. “He’s had a good day, but let’s give him a second to switch gears.”
I swallow and reach out slowly, taking the rope like it might vanish in my hand. Goose flicks an ear toward me but doesn’t flinch.
“I don’t bite, I promise,” I say, stepping beside him. We start walking. I keep my steps even, my breath steady. At first, Goose moves with me, matching my rhythm and my heart lifts. “Okay, okay, see? We can be friends.”
With each step, I’m hopeful that we can make a full turn around the paddock.
But then I feel it. Goose slows half a beat, his steps no longer in sync with mine. He then tilts his head slightly, like he’s checking me over. Finally, he stops.
“Oh no, no, we were doing so well,” I say, coming to a full stop as well. “What’s wrong?” I try to stare into his eyes like this is a movie and I somehow can speak to him with my mind waves. Which is impossible because mind waves aren’t a thing.
I feel the horse’s eyes on me and it’s like he knows. Like he feels the hesitation I’ve been pretending isn’t there. I glance down at my feet, then up at the horse who’s managed to become my greatest emotional lie detector.
Goose bobs his head up and down, giving a whinny.
Beckett steps quietly to my side. “That’s as far as he’ll go today, but you got further than last time.”
“I guess that’s something.”
“What do you think Goose sensed during your walk?”
I shrug. “That I’m still holding back. When I first arrived at Firebird, I was skeptical that these types of activities could really help heal someone with PTSD. I’m starting to believe, but there’s still part of me … I guess … I … I don’t—”
Irene raises her hand to stop me. “It’s okay. Horses pick up what we don’t say. When your energy shifted, he stopped. He’s giving you feedback.”
“So what can I do?”
“Of course, the work starts with you,” Irene says. “Try to be more open when you step in the paddock. Don’t force the connection. Just invite it.”
“Keeping trying,” Beckett adds. “You’ll get there.”
I nod, gently stroking Goose’s neck before handing the rope back.
“Thank you,” I say before waving goodbye and heading back to the lodge.