13. South Boundary
Chapter thirteen
South Boundary
Beckett
Silver Ridge takes its charity rodeo seriously.
I know this because Jolene mentioned it seventeen days ago at the diner with the almost reverent tone she reserves for things that matter. I know that because Harvey Miller at Copper Ridge Hardware has been selling rodeo-branded merchandise from a display by the front door for two weeks.
And because Earl Bishop told me last Tuesday, unprompted, that the Silver Ridge Charity Rodeo has raised more money for the county children's hospital than any other single event in the last fifteen years.
He said it like a challenge.
I took it like one.
The arena sits at the edge of town, Silver Ridge Arena, a proper facility with covered stands, a full rodeo setup, and concession areas.
A stage for the live music that apparently runs all day between events.
By Saturday morning it's already alive with the particular energy of a community that has been looking forward to something for weeks.
Trucks everywhere, families setting up in the stands, kids running under the bleachers and between legs.
The smell of something with brisket comes from a row of smokers along the east fence, strong enough that I can identify it from the parking lot.
Maisie vibrates beside me the entire walk from the truck.
She's wearing her turquoise boots, a new hat she talked me into at Harvey's store yesterday, a Silver Ridge Rodeo t-shirt she put on at six this morning before I was fully awake. She has been ready for this since approximately the moment she heard the word rodeo three weeks ago.
Since then she's been asking daily questions about the schedule, the events, the animals, the food, the music, the merchandise.
She is eight years old and she is more prepared for this rodeo than I am for most things.
Remy is already inside when we get there, which surprises nobody.
He has a concession cup in one hand, his hat at its characteristic angle, the expression of a man who arrived early, and has already conducted a full reconnaissance of the situation.
He falls into step beside us with the energy of someone who has been waiting to share information.
"They've got a mutton bustin' event for kids under sixty pounds," he tells Maisie immediately.
She stops walking. "What's mutton bustin'?"
"You ride a sheep."
Her eyes go to a size I didn't know eyes could achieve. She turns to me with an expression that closes the case before I've opened it.
"Absolutely not," I say.
"Dad."
"You're not riding a sheep."
"Remy says it's traditional."
"Remy says a lot of things."
Remy raises his concession cup in acknowledgment of this point.
We find Silas in the stands already, sitting with June Calloway, Pearl Bishop, Jolene, Wyatt Boone, Harvey Miller.
The whole Silver Ridge crew assembled in the morning sun like they've been saving spots.
Pearl looks at me when I sit down with the sharp assessing gaze she uses on things she's decided to adopt.
"Money Bags," she says. "You entering any events today?"
"I'm here to watch," I say.
Pearl looks at Laney, who has appeared from somewhere and is settling into the seat beside me.
She has her coffee, her hat, and the expression of a woman who knows something I don't.
"Mm," Pearl says.
I look at Laney.
Laney looks at the arena.
"You signed me up for something," I say.
She drinks her coffee.
"Laney?"
"The opening event starts in twenty minutes," she says pleasantly. "You should probably stretch."
The event is called Ranch Hand Relay.
Laney explains it to me with the calm, unhurried tone of someone who has had this explanation prepared for a while and is enjoying delivering it considerably more than is strictly necessary.
It works like this.
Four events.
Each one tests a basic ranch skill.
Competitors move through them in sequence against the clock. The events are fence post setting, feed bag stacking, horse grooming relay, cattle sorting. Individually I have done versions of all of these things at Silver Mesa over the past six weeks.
Never against a clock.
Never in front of the entire population of Silver Ridge.
"You signed me up for a timed ranch skills competition?" I ask.
"I did," Laney confirms.
"Without telling me?"
"Correct."
"Why?"
She considers this with the expression of someone choosing between several honest answers. "Because you would have said no."
"I would have absolutely said no."
"Which is exactly why I didn't ask." She finishes her coffee with the satisfaction of a woman whose plan is proceeding correctly. "You've done all four of these things at the ranch. You know how to do them."
"At my own pace. Without an audience."
"Think of it as a learning experience."
"I have a lot of learning experiences. I don't need them timed."
Remy leans across from the seat beside me.
"I put twenty dollars on you finishing," he says helpfully.
"Not winning. Just finishing. The bar is set at a reasonable height."
"That is not as comforting as you think it is."
"Maisie put five dollars on you placing top three."
I look at my daughter. She gives me a thumbs up with the serene confidence of someone who has not thought through the implications of her bet.
Pearl Bishop reaches across from two seats over and pats my knee with a small, firm hand. "I've seen you work that ranch, son," she says. "You'll do fine." She pauses. "Probably."
I look at the arena where three other competitors are warming up with the easy practiced movements of men who have been doing ranch work their entire lives. One of them is doing something with a fence post that looks genuinely effortless.
Another is moving feed bags with a speed that suggests he considers this light exercise.
The third one is Weston Blackthorn.
Of course it is.
He spots me from across the arena and raises his hat with that easy smile and the particular confidence of a man who has never once doubted his own competence at anything.
I raise my hat back with the particular composure of a man who is absolutely not going to let Weston Blackthorn beat him in front of Laney Jenkins.
Or the entire town of Silver Ridge.
"I need to stretch," I say.
Laney stands. "I'll walk you down."
We make our way to the arena floor.
She falls into step beside me, her hat pulled down, her hands in her pockets. She waits until we're clear of the stands before she looks at me sideways.
"You're going to be fine," she says. Quieter now. The teasing pulled back slightly.
"You don't know that."
"I know you don't quit." She says it simply. "That counts for more than you think in a timed event."
I look at her.
She looks at the arena.
"Also," she says, the teasing returning at the edges, "Weston's been doing this for years so maybe don't measure yourself against him specifically."
"Too late," I say.
She almost smiles. "I figured."
The fence post event goes fine.
It goes just fine. Not fast, not elegant, not with the practiced efficiency of the man beside me who sets his post in approximately the time it takes me to position the driver correctly. But fine. Solid. The post goes in straight, the depth is right, the technique is correct.
The crowd is generous about it.
Weston finishes forty seconds ahead of me.
I note this and file it and move on because there are three more events and forty seconds is not insurmountable if everything else goes well.
Everything else does not all go well.
The feed bag stacking starts promisingly. I know this event. I've done this at the ranch in the rain, in the mud, in conditions considerably less forgiving than a sunny Saturday morning at a charity rodeo.
I move through the first four bags with the efficient rhythm Laney taught me, good form, correct stacking pattern, the crowd doing that thing where they get slightly more interested when someone is performing competently.
Then bag number five decides it has opinions.
The seam on the bottom left corner gives way at the exact moment I'm lifting it to the top of the stack. Feed goes in every direction with the enthusiastic completeness of something that has been waiting for this opportunity.
It covers my boots, my jeans, a significant portion of the arena floor, one very surprised arena volunteer who was standing too close.
The crowd reacts.
Loudly.
I stand in the middle of a feed explosion in front of the entire town of Silver Ridge.
I take one breath. Then another.
Then I look at the volunteer and say, "I'm sorry about that."
The volunteer, to his credit, says, "Happens more than you'd think,"
Which I'm fairly certain is not true, but I appreciate the kindness.
Remy is audible from the stands.
I can't make out the specific words but the tone communicates fully.
I restack what I can, move to the next bag, finish the event with feed in places I won't fully discover until laundry day. My time is not good. Weston's time was excellent. The gap between us has grown in a direction I don't love.
The horse grooming relay is better. Genuinely better. I know horses now in a way I didn't a few weeks ago, and it shows. My technique is clean, my hands are sure, the horse I'm working with responds well because I'm calm with him rather than tense.
Laney has told me approximately fourteen times that's the most important thing.
I come out of the grooming relay in second place overall.
This is received in the stands with a volume of enthusiasm that is slightly disproportionate to second place in a charity rodeo grooming event, but I accept it fully.
Maisie is on her feet.
Remy has acquired a foam finger from somewhere that definitely wasn't there before.
Silas nods once from his seat.
Pearl says something to Jolene that makes Jolene laugh and cover her mouth.
I look at Laney at the arena rail.
She's watching me with her arms crossed and her hat pulled down.
That expression she gets when something has exceeded her expectations and she's deciding how much to let on about it.
She gives me a single nod.
From Laney Jenkins at a charity rodeo in front of all of Silver Ridge, that single nod feels like a standing ovation.