Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
His crotch hurt like hell. Quinn sat atop a restless Hyper at the entrance to the small rodeo arena outside Ugly Bug and wished he’d used the jock itch excuse, after all.
But when Jo had automatically assumed he couldn’t even lead a sedate little parade, he’d taken offense.
He’d decided he had something to prove to her before he left on the red-eye tonight.
Besides, after watching people steer horses down Fifth Avenue during parades in New York City, he figured there was nothing to it. This would be even easier because it was contained inside a fence.
He hadn’t counted on the fact that the leader had to carry an American flag big enough to wrap a body in. And he hadn’t counted on wind.
Hyper jumped sideways with every snap and billow of the massive flag.
And with each jump, Quinn was painfully reminded of his manly attributes.
Jo was somewhere behind him in line, along with Benny, Dick and a bunch of other real cowboys and cowgirls.
Mostly they’d behaved themselves, and only a couple had asked for autographs, which he’d politely postponed until after the parade.
With luck he’d sprain his wrist in the next twenty minutes, because he’d never gotten around to practicing Hastings’ signature.
The other residents of Ugly Bug, however, weren’t behaving themselves.
Whistling, stomping and calling out his name, or rather Hastings’ name, they jammed the modest bleachers.
Camera flashes popped constantly, even though it was the middle of the day.
At least ten homemade signs waved in the crowd.
The more conservative ones said things like Brian Hastings for President, or We Love You, Brian, but one held by a rowdy band of high-school-age girls was covered in huge lipstick kisses with red, glittery letters that spelled out Take Me, Brian! Take Me Now!
A couple of Western lawmen types had positioned themselves at either end of the bleachers. Quinn appreciated having them there, but if the mob decided to rush him, even Marshal Matt Dillon wouldn’t be able to control this crowd.
Quinn swallowed. If he survived the parade, he was supposed to sit in a special section smack-dab in the center of those bleachers.
The roped-off area already held Doobie and his tush-fixated wife, along with several other middle-aged couples.
Jo had wrangled a place in that section for Fred and Emmy Lou, thank God. Maybe they’d help protect him.
As Quinn waited for the gate to open, sweat dampened the black Western shirt with pearl buttons that Benny had insisted he wear.
Benny had also donated his best black Stetson, and Fred had brought out silver spurs that winked in the sunlight.
Hyper’s coat shone like polished mahogany, and his mane and tail were braided with red ribbon.
The horse looked great, just as Quinn had imagined. All Quinn had to do was stay on him.
A wizened old cowboy swung open the arena gate, and members of the Ugly Bug High School Band swung into a fast-paced march.
Quinn mentally reviewed his instructions.
Once around the arena, then straight up the middle to face the grandstands.
The other riders would fan out on either side of him, forming a line facing the bleachers as the band played the national anthem.
Then he’d lead the riders around to the exit.
Taking a firm grip on the flag, he nudged Hyper in the ribs with Fred’s silver spurs, and the crowd surged to its feet, applauding loudly.
With a piercing whinny, Hyper reared.
Quinn grabbed at the saddle horn with his free hand and by some miracle hung on, but by the time Hyper’s front feet hit the ground, the horse had the bit in his teeth.
Quinn felt the gelding’s muscles bunch. “Whoa!” he yelled.
Hyper wasn’t listening. He shot through the gate and in three strides was in a dead run.
Quinn’s hat sailed off, and he lost his stirrups, but he kept his grip on the flag, which streamed dramatically over his shoulder.
The grandstands, filled with cheering people, passed in a blur, then passed in a blur again as Hyper turned the arena into his private racetrack.
As Quinn whizzed past the gate, the other riders waved their hats and whistled. Quinn would bet Jo wasn’t whistling. And if Hyper kept up this merry-go-round much longer, she might even ride out and pull him to a stop. God, how humiliating.
“Whoa, dammit!” he yelled. He was afraid to let go of the saddle horn to pull back on the reins, and if he dropped the flag so he could grab the reins, then everyone would know he was involved in a major screwup instead of the dramatic flourish they were giving him credit for.
Worse yet, they might begin to wonder if he was really Brian Hastings.
He tried to remember what Fred had taught him. Oh, yeah. Grip with your thighs. You could even steer with your thighs, assuming your thighs didn’t feel as if somebody had set fire to them, which Quinn’s pretty much did.
He gritted his teeth as he flashed by the stands again.
Hyper was young and strong. He could probably run for quite a long time, especially when he had the impression he was being chased by an American flag.
So Quinn couldn’t hope the horse would get tired.
And he definitely didn’t want Jo to ride out and save him.
The only solution was to get the horse through the gate somehow.
After that Hyper would probably continue to run, but maybe they’d get far enough away that Quinn could safely drop the flag and try to establish control.
Then again, maybe he and Hyper would see a great deal of the Montana countryside together.
Quinn figured that if he shifted his weight and used his tortured thigh muscles, he might be able to get Hyper to swerve through the gate instead of sailing past it.
Bracing himself against the pain, he started leaning and squeezing as Hyper went into the straightaway and headed in the direction of the gate.
Twice before the horse had veered left and continued around the arena. Quinn vowed he wouldn’t do it again.
Apparently Hyper didn’t care where he ran as long as he could keep doing it. He stampeded right through the gate as riders waiting beside it scattered in front of his pounding hoofs. Ahead was the parking lot, and beyond that, open country.
Quinn hung on as Hyper veered headlong between rows of pickup trucks.
Once out of the parking lot, Quinn figured he’d drop the flag and try to put an end to this wild ride.
Then he heard hoofbeats behind him and looked over his shoulder.
Sure enough, Jo was in hot pursuit, with Benny behind her.
Maybe it was just as well. He was nearly at the edge of the lot, and he really didn’t want to ride this nag all the way to Idaho.
As he faced forward again, a long white vehicle pulled across the empty space at the end of the lot. Quinn squinted, not quite believing what he saw. A limo? In Ugly Bug?
Hyper didn’t slow his pace as the limo stopped, blocking the horse’s path.
Quinn dropped the flag and seized the reins in both hands. “Whoa, you sorry nag! Whoa, goddammit! You’re gonna hit the car, you idiot horse!” When Hyper didn’t respond, Quinn braced himself for one hell of a collision.
Instead, Hyper gathered himself and sailed gracefully over the limo. Unfortunately Quinn didn’t make the trip with him. Falling sideways, he hit the roof of the limo and rolled down the windshield, coming to rest facedown on the hood.
In seconds, Jo was leaning over him. “Don’t move! Did you hit your head? Where are you hurt? Oh, Quinn, speak to me!”
He was having trouble drawing a breath, but he was at least able to register the concern in her voice. Well, good. She cared for him a little. “Don’t call me Quinn,” he muttered. “I’m Brian Hastings.”
“That’s funny,” said another voice. “So am I.”