Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Aside from the cold air, which was cold no matter what the others said, the event could have been in Brazil.
Raul glanced at the arena, the sun shining down hard, the haze of dust the bulls kicked up so familiar. The only difference was in Brazil he’d be surrounded by friends and family. Here he felt very alone.
He wasn’t one to dwell on bad things, but he—well, he would like to talk and laugh like the Americans. In this place especially, where there were few other people like him—few people who didn’t assume he was illegal or from Mexico or simply a ‘bean’.
Rolling his head on his neck, he went through the motions of a ride, free arm up, hips rocking back and forth.
One of the Americans, a bright red one with a terrible black eye, came up to him, smiled. “Raul, right? I’m Cotton.”
“Bom dia. Yes. Raul.” He winced because he knew his English was challenging. Still, it was nice for Cotton to come say hello.
“Cool. This one spins to the left, but he’s not mean. You get me? Compreender?”
The accent was awful, but it was Portuguese, not Spanish.
Raul beamed at Cotton, who deserved it for trying this hard. “Sim. Sim, I understand.” He nodded happily. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I know it’s hard, being the new guy.”
“You speak Portuguese better than I speak English.” He hoped Cotton understood him. He mixed the two languages as much as he could, spoke slowly.
“Joa and Eduardo help me learn. I want to be chute boss, someday.”
“Ah. Good man.” He could see it. Cotton had a kind way, and he seemed to know the animals, but that black eye spoke of toughness.
Cotton gave him a quick flash of a grin, just bright and happy. “Yessir.”
“If you need someone to pull your rope…” Raul held out a hand to shake.
“Sure. Yeah. That would work for me. You’re riding real good. You should be tickled.”
“I am happy.” He was. His riding never worried him. The bulls here were less wild than back home. Well, everywhere but Texas. In Texas, they were looking to kill Brazilians, he thought.
“Good ride, cowboy,” Cotton said, then clapped him on the shoulder before walking away.
Yes. Yes, he thought that this little bull would be a very good ride.
Balta made sure he had plenty of room around him before beginning to swing his arms, warming them up. His shoulders creaked, but started to loosen up well enough. He wasn’t feeling one hundred percent, but he was all right.
The event was going well. There had been some good rides, and the bulls were on their game.
Sam Bell was laughing, chasing Beau with a water gun. The day had been hot, brutally so, and Beau and Sam were both sunburned red.
Coke and Nate warmed up in the arena, but Coke was moving slow, like he was even older than normal. Balta knew how that felt. He and Coke were of an age, really.
There was something…off about the man, something broken and gray.
It had to be Dillon, the way Nate and Coke had been acting the night before. Balta knew something was off there. He’d seen the way their clown watched Coke, had known it before Dillon had, really.
Balta probably looked at Joa that way.
It would be a shame, should they have to smother Dillon in his sleep for Coke. Doable, but still, a shame. The man was talented.
His hand knocked into someone, sending the man staggering, and Balta turned, grabbing an arm. “Sorry! Oh, Raul. Desculpa.”
That was the name he could not remember the other day. Raul.
“Nao tem problema.” He got a quick, relieved smile. “Que calor, nao?”
“Sim.” He clapped Raul on the back, liking the openness of that grin, the way Raul’s light-brown eyes sparkled with humor. “Could be worse. Could be Texas.”
He made a note to have Joa work with this one on his English. He had charisma.
“Sim, sim.” They talked for a while, about the heat, the stock, the other bull riders. Raul was staying with Eduardo. Poor man.
He grinned, shaking his head, finally. It was time to go pull Joa’s rope. “Well, if you need to get away for a bit, I have a good place, and I can always use some help cleaning it up on break, huh?”
“Sim. Obrigado.” Raul nodded, watched him. He remembered how different everything had seemed when he was first in the states.
Somehow, Raul had slipped under Balta’s radar, but he would make it a point to take an interest in the man from now on. Eduardo was not the best guide, with his weird shyness and his temper.
“You ready to ride, Joa?” Balta asked, pushing up next to the rail.
“Sim. Sim. I pulled a good one.” Joa was bouncing, rolling at the hip.
“Bom. You should work on Raul with his English, huh?” He got a look at Joa’s bull, who was ready to go, Balta could tell.
“Raul?” Joa got his rope set and climbed over, not really listening to him anymore. Joa rode with music in his head.
“Mm-hmm. He needs friends.” Balta kept up a slow, steady chatter, hoping the rhythm matched Joa’s music.
Joa set his hand, curled his fingers around, slapped his glove shut. Balta pulled. That was when the talking stopped and the concentrating began. He just pulled that rope.
It didn’t take long, Joa sitting forward, teeth bared as he nodded. The gate opened and the bull whirled out, finding a rhythm early, rolling from shoulder to hip.
Now was the time for shouting. Balta leaned on the gate, out over the chute, hollering loud. “Sit up! Sit up, Joa!”
He watched as Joa’s abs tightened, those thousands and thousands of daily crunches drawing the man in tight, keeping in him the middle.
Six. Seven. The buzzer went off, Joa making a solid ride.
It wouldn’t be a round winner. Still, with Joa it was personal.
The score didn’t matter to him, only the ride.
He waited for Joa to bounce out of the arena before going to the edge of the metal platform to wave. “Way to go, huh?”
“Sim.” Joa nodded, pulled himself up and onto the stairs. “It was enough.”
“It will get you back for another ride.” He held let his hand rest on the small of Joa’s back, just under the vest.
“Sim. When do you ride?”
“Uh.” He checked the board. “Not for half hour.” He had at least two sets of riders to go.
“Bom.” Joa stripped out of his chaps and his vest.
Balta tried not to drool. He wasn’t the only one watching, so he had to be careful, for sure.
“Bonner is up, sim? We should watch.”
“Yeah. He’s a good kid, eh? Shy.” Joa hung his rope up.
“He’s gonna do good.” They leaned on the rail, bumping hips. Bonner had drawn a mean one.
“He’s gonna get creamed.” Joa was not hopeful, sometimes.
“You think so? Want to bet?” He had an extra five dollars.
“Sim. I seen this bull. What you want to bet?”
Balta opened his mouth to answer when the gate flew open and Bonner spun out. Mostly sideways.
He winced as the bull turned back into the chutes, the bull driving Bonner down. Nate was yelling, hollering out for the bull, but it was Coke—Fearless Pharris—who was right there, screaming loud as that broken hand grabbed Bonner, threw him before Coke and the bull slammed back into the chutes.
Shit. He heard it go, something in Coke’s body cracking. Balta knew that sound intimately. He was moving before he formed a thought, but Joa stopped him.
“Nao.” Joa jumped the gate, boots first, kicking at the bull’s head.
“Joa!” He watched Coke go down, the bull kicking out of the chute again. The ground crew slammed the gate closed, and all they had to do was wait for Doc. And pray.
He leaned down, saw Coke’s eyes wide, rolling. “Tell him. You tell him it’s okay.”
Joa groaned, blinked up. “Is he talking to me, Balta?”
“I think he means Bonner, doce.” Balta nodded, not sure Coke even knew who was there. “I will tell him, Coke. I will make sure.”
“Good man.” Those words were understandable, but that was all. Coke’s eyes rolled back in his head and the man started spasming wildly, foam spraying from his open mouth.
Joa scrambled up the side of the gate, Nate screaming for Doc, Doc hollering for a backboard.
Balta crossed himself and started praying.
He won the event, stood there with the check, smiled for the cameras, but it felt false.
Fake.
Nate had left before Chris Taggart had roped the last bull, and behind the chutes, no one was smiling.
Joa rolled his shoulders, shaking the sponsors’ hands and nodding.
“There you are, huh?” Balta found him when the sponsors let him go. “We should go to the hospital.”
“Yeah. Yeah, now. Has anyone heard anything?”
No one was talking.
No one.
“I don’t think so.” Balta seemed pale under his tan, his mouth tight. It had been bad. Very bad.
“Okay.” He grabbed his gear, nodding as Eduardo ran over, saying they were going to the hospital, going to pray.
Eduardo nodded solemnly. “I will stop by the church. I have my phone on.”
Everyone liked Coke. Everyone.
“I will call when we know.”
Beau and Sam had gone ahead, but Packer and Bonner were waiting with Balta, and all of them piled in the truck, no one thinking about Brazilians or Americans or Australians.
Coke was their own.
They rode silently, knowing just where to go at the hospital because of the cluster of trucks, then hats. Troy was there, and Nate.
Nate was pacing, phone to his ear. “Ace, you get the money thing dealt with. Now. You get on the horn with Sandy and call up here or I swear to God…” The man stopped, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I know. I’ll call as soon as I know. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“How is he?” Balta asked, stepping up to speak for all four of them.
“Neck’s broke, hand’s broke, collarbone’s broke. He ain’t conscious yet. They’re bringing a surgeon for it all.”
Balta crossed himself, and Packer cursed, the sound explosive and vicious.
“What can we do?” Joa couldn’t think of anything, but he had to ask.
Nate shrugged. “Ace is dealing with the money part. Just keep the fucking reporters away from things, I guess.”
“We will help as much as we can.”
Beau came out from around a corner. “Sure. Sure. Nate?” Beau jerked his head back from where he’d appeared.
Nate followed, Sam Bell right behind.