Chapter 34 Heston
HESTON
“Dr. Mike,” Granger says, smoothing a palm under her mane. She’s not a fan of affection, but she’s warmed up to him faster than I expected her to. “If you could slow down just a tiny bit, that’d be great, okay?”
I shake my head with a disbelieving smirk. Dr. Mike. Such a ridiculous name for a horse.
Even though I’d like to spend more time with Hattie today, I couldn’t bail on the kid’s practice session.
There’s an addictive quality to having any involvement with rodeo again.
I’ve been trying to write it off, but it’s not fucking easy to keep acting resistant when my instincts are begging me to go all in.
Just to the side of the outdoor arena, I sit straddling an old wooden bench while Granger runs a few drills.
He does better when I distract myself with things like oiling my saddle, re-shaping my hat, or even destroying a dry stick with my pocket knife, one thinly shaved-off piece at a time, while he works.
Otherwise, he tries too hard and ends up flopping rather than improving.
Dust flies in a cloud at my feet as Granger whizzes past me, just on the other side of the fence. That horse’s speed is downright artful. Even at a trot during warm-ups, the fabric of my shirt ruffles as she blows by.
My focus remains on the beat-up bridle in my hands as I attempt to fix the braided leather. Still, my eyes slide up every so often.
Granger slows his horse to an easy walk before lining her up right next to the jumping dummy in the middle of the arena. He wiggles back and forth in the saddle a few times out of habit. When I hear the sound of him sliding to the right, my eyes flick over and lock on his positioning.
Within three seconds, I’ve seen what I’ve needed to see of his shoulders, arms, and hips. He pauses after the head catch and adjusts his feet before sliding them back and driving them into the dirt again to simulate the throw.
I purse my lips momentarily, impressed with how much his form has improved.
Not that I’d tell him that, of course. Being cocky will get you beaten quicker than anything.
Maybe not right away, but eventually the universe will turn against you and knock you down, notch by notch, until you’ve hit the bottom.
“That’s the one,” he calls out after standing up and brushing the dust from his jeans.
I cock an eyebrow without looking in his direction.
“Come on,” he adds, holding his arms out in my peripheral vision. “That was as good as any I’ve done so far. Just admit it.”
“Weak,” I say flatly.
“I’m plenty fucking strong.”
“It’s not about being strong,” I explain, wanting to make sure he understands the concepts correctly. “It’s about control. Momentum. Finesse.”
“Big words for Heston.” He laughs and takes off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. “You’re in a talkative mood this morning.”
I ignore him and throw the bridle into a bucket with the rest of the random crap I’ve been fidgeting with.
When I climb the fence and head to the bucking chute, I pull out the load slide to let a steer in.
Granger slumps as I shove it closed and grip the release latch on the front gate.
It’s a little rusty because it doesn’t get used very often, but it’ll serve my purpose.
“This again?” Granger mutters.
“This again,” I quip back. “Let’s go.”
“I thought we had moved on to live runs. This is too elementary. I’m hitting the road in less than a month.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You think you’re too good for chute-dogging?”
He doesn’t say it, but the way he shrugs and scratches his brow tells me that his answer to that question is a resounding yes.
“Nobody is above the fundamentals. No one. Jumping in after the season has already been going since early January, and thinking you’re better or just as good as anybody else already competing, is plum stupid.”
He makes a face and rolls his head to the side in frustration. “That makes no sense. How am I ever going to beat those guys if I don’t believe I’m better than them in the first place?”
“Humility,” I explain. My tone is firm, and I don’t let up when he drops his shoulders and looks at me like I took the wind out of his sails.
“Believe you can win every single time. But don’t expect to.
Ever.” His head tucks back at my timbre, but I continue anyway.
“There’s a big difference between those two things.
The moment you feel like you have nothing more to learn, and no one can touch you, that’s when your ego fucks it all up.
Don’t come back wishing you listened to me when you’re spitting clumps of dirt out of your mouth instead of hooking a shiny, new buckle to your belt. ”
I can’t remember the last time I strung that many words together without a hitch.
But he’s young and has no idea how high the stakes are.
I guess I feel a little protective of him, so it needed to be said.
No one knows more than I do how easy your mental state can end up ruining your life in that world.
“You’re saying I’m too cocky?”
“Essentially.” I spit on the ground to my right without looking away from him.
He holds his hands up in surrender, knowing he’s pushed too many of my buttons today. “Okay,” he concedes. “I get it.”
“Good.” I nod. “Now, are we done chit-chatting so we can get back to work?”
Instead of complaining again, he climbs up and jumps in with the steer, who’s already damn near housebroken just like the rest of the ones I brought in a few days ago.
I have Savvy and Mesa to thank for that.
I told them not to come out here and feed them treats or try to pet them, but they took that as a flexible suggestion rather than a rule.
The steer chews its cud and leans against the inside of the chute, even as the kid carefully positions his arms and hands into a proper catch.
“Why is there a tag in his ear that says Fuzzles?”
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Remind me to lock up the cabinet in the barn with blank tags.”
The steer sticks its tongue out of the side of its mouth to lick the kid’s arm.
When I picked up a small group of Corriente calves from the sale barn, I planned on giving them to Granger to practice on.
The wordless gift was easier than telling him he was doing a good job or that I was proud of him or some crap like that.
He was practically jumping out of his skin with excitement when I showed up with them in the trailer. Between his meticulous care of them and the girls’ affinity for turning everything around here into a pet, they act more like a litter of puppies than roping stock.
“Take it slow,” I say, ignoring the fact that I’ll have to find some friskier steers once he’s ready for more runs.
Granger nods, and I swing the chute gate open. There’s no struggle, which is good for a scrawny kid like him but not so good for someone trying to up their game. Like they’d choreographed it together beforehand, the steer skips out into the arena, and Granger focuses on smooth execution.
I level my chin, studying the way he keeps his upper body square but loose. He gracefully slides through the throw and pops back up the moment the steer lands on its side with a soft thud.
The calf rolls in the dirt like a happy dog before lifting its head and turning to look at me. Again, he chews his cud, not even bothering to get up and skip away. The kid scratches behind the steer’s ears and then beams at me, satisfied with his polished but watered-down run.
He thinks he’s smooth. But Granger still isn’t strong enough. When he has to fly off his horse and onto a steer with twice the brawn who lives for the thrill of outrunning the next cowboy, he’ll be flat on his ass at the end of it instead of standing tall and grinning at me.
I rub my temple just picturing the guys he’ll be up against. There’s a reason the rodeo announcers are known for calling out the “big boys” when it comes time to start the bull dogging event.
Each one of them could crush Granger’s head between their thighs until brains spilled out like it was a half-rotted watermelon if they wanted to.
With that in mind, his approach will have to be nearly perfect to beat them. His grit will have to outweigh their muscle, and buttering him up or going easy on him isn’t going to get him there.
“You might want to pick up something else, kid,” I say. “Something that doesn’t require much body mass or basic intelligence. Bull riding, maybe.”
He chuckles and points to me with a finger gun like he knows my game by now. “You’re funny. It won’t make me quit, but nice try.” His hands reach back to tuck in his shirt. “And that’s the last chute-dogging. I need real runs. A lot of them, if I’m going to Houston next month.”
“Houston,” I choke out. I slap a hand over my abs as they clench with a chuckle. “Boy, you need more than a pro card and a little gumption to make a run there.”
“I know.” He holds his hands up again to make sure I know his confidence isn’t boiling over. “I’m probably not going to win, I get that. Not yet. But all I gotta do is make the short go. That’s my goal. I can do it.”
I cross my arms. “You’re not ready.”
“Yes, I am,” he argues, eyes narrowing.
I scan over his slight frame. He’s probably going to be the smallest guy there. I think he’s already well aware of that fact. But we both know how good his horse is, and his ambition and dedication to training certainly aren’t lacking.
Okay, he might be ready.
“Boooo!” A voice calls from the other side of the arena. Granger and I spin our heads to see Hattie standing on the top rail and leaning forward with her hands cupped over her mouth. “Let’s see a real run!”