Chapter Thirteen
T he bull kicked high in the chute, throwing Caleb over his shoulders. Caleb’s head slammed against the wall in front of the bull’s nose, and the sound of his plastic helmet hitting the metal rang in his ears. His vision swam, and if the other bull rider hadn’t been holding onto his protective vest while he’d been getting his rope in place, he probably would’ve slid clean off.
“You’re okay, son.” The flank man patted him roughly on the shoulder.
He was okay, he told himself, scooting down the bull’s back to reposition his rope. His shoulder ached from the thin pillows and hard mattress at the cheap motel he’d slept in last night, his knee throbbed where the bull had squashed his leg against the gate, and now he had a headache so bad he felt nauseous.
But he was upright and breathing, and in the context of these last few days that was about as good as he could ask for.
It had to be ninety degrees in the arena, the air-conditioning struggling to keep up with the blistering temperature outside and the mass of bodies packed into the seats. Leather chaps over hardy jeans were not ideal attire for August in West Texas, and sweat trickled down his ribs, soaking his brand-new Red Spur shirt. Men in straw cowboy hats swarmed around the chutes and the adjoining platform, and the scents of rosin and sweat and cow were thick and cloying.
Caleb moved the rope handle into place, aligning his pinkie with the bull’s spine, and pulled it tight. The bull lurched beneath him again, but he managed to keep his rope from shifting. Just as well, because that’s when one of the operations guys leaned over and asked, “You about ready, Ross?”
Caleb jerked his head in the affirmative. Rodeos ran at a fast clip, and riders lingering in the chute was bad for the broadcast and worse for the rider’s nerves. There was little opportunity for perfection in this sport, and the fear bred by hesitation could be lethal.
He shoved his gloved fingers into the handle, then wound the tail of the rope behind his wrist and back across his palm. He closed his fist, and used his other hand to press his fingers together so the rosin would seal his grip. Then he shifted up to sit on the rope, anchoring his spurs in the animal’s hide.
“Good enough,” he muttered, and gave the nod.
The gate swung open and the bull shot out, kicking hard. As its head dropped Caleb held his right hand high and slightly forward, tucking his chin and keeping his eyes on a spot between the bull’s shoulders. Then it reared and he hunched over its spine, his thighs burning as he fought to keep his seat. Operating in a haze of instinct and adrenaline, he was only dimly aware of the roar of the crowd over the high-octane music pumping from the speakers and felt none of the bone-jarring impacts as the bull’s hooves leapt and landed. The bull spun into his hand and he adjusted, jerking his free arm level with his shoulder, then adjusted again, gritting his teeth against the force of the bull’s bucks as it turned in the other direction.
The bull’s legs came up and his balance faltered, his free arm coming around too far in front, crossing his body. A bad mistake, and one that cost him his center of gravity—and potentially his ride.
He slid sideways, then leaned hard in the opposite direction to re-center himself, but it was too late. He was off his rope, loose and jouncing on the bull’s back, and the only place to go from here would be the dirt. Caleb clung to the handle, every muscle straining to stay on as he slipped farther and farther with each—
The eight-second beep rang through the arena. The audience erupted in whistles and cheers. He’d done it. He’d gotten his ride.
He fumbled for the rope with his free hand but his opportunity for a graceful dismount was long gone. The bull bucked high and hard and threw him off, tossing him sideways. Caleb landed flat on his back, his head bouncing like a basketball as all the air was knocked out of his lungs.
For a split second he could do no more than stare at the rafters through the metal grate of his helmet, gasping for oxygen, his body flat and limp. Then he caught sight of the bullfighter’s cleat from the corner of his eye and his survival reflex kicked in, forcing him to his knees, then his feet. He staggered over to the empty chute and clambered onto the first rung of the gate, yanking off his helmet and spitting out his mouth guard as the bullfighters ushered the now remarkably docile bull out of the arena.
“Nice ride.” One of the ubiquitous, cowboy-hatted arena crew slapped him on the back, and Caleb belatedly tuned into the announcer’s voice booming through the loudspeaker.
“…a score of eighty-three points for the man from Tennessee.”
“Here you go.” One of the bullfighters appeared at his side, holding Caleb’s rope in his outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” he replied, hoping it sounded as sincere as he meant it. Bullfighters had saved his stupid ass on more than one occasion, and he was eternally grateful for them—even if he thought they might be the only people in rodeo more unhinged than the bull riders themselves.
“You got it. See you tomorrow.” The bullfighter grinned before jogging back to his place near the next chute.
Caleb slung the rope over his shoulder and climbed up and over the gate, stepped across to the platform, then dropped down behind it into the beehive of backstage activity. He accepted the well wishes of a whole load of people he didn’t know as he made his way toward the locker room, and then stopped and dug up a smile when he spotted his manager, Rusty, and Charlie from Red Spur headed his way.
“Hell of a ride, Calamity, hell of a ride.” Charlie pumped his hand, and Caleb tried not to wince.
“Eighty-three points. That might be the best score you’ve ever gotten,” Rusty remarked, reminding Caleb for the millionth time that he needed to find a new manager.
“So far that’s one of the highest numbers heading into the short go. You’re in with a chance to finish on top here. How’s the gear working out?”
“It’s fine,” Caleb replied. He sensed Charlie’s excitement dim at his response, so he added, “It’s good. New glove tape helped, for sure.”
Charlie’s expression brightened but Rusty, who knew Caleb much better, narrowed his eyes.
“You hurting after that landing? Do you need to see the medical team?”
“I’m good,” Caleb lied with his best imitation of a grin. “Just ready to sit down on something that ain’t trying to buck me off.”
Charlie nodded. “I bet. We’ll let you get cleaned up, and then we’d love for you to stop by the Red Spur table outside. We got the canopy set up, and it’s a nice opportunity for the fans to connect with our riders. Take a few pictures, sign a T-shirt—you know the drill.”
“Sure thing.”
“We’ll see you soon.” Rusty’s parting glance emphasized the last word.
Caleb said goodbye, and, once they were safely around the corner, let himself limp all the way to the locker room. With a brief, muttered greeting to the other riders he slung his helmet on a bench, sat heavily beside it, and dropped his head into his hands.
Dear God, he missed her.
The eight seconds he’d spent on that bull was probably the longest he’d gone without thinking about Jessa since he left her house nearly a week ago. He couldn’t get her out of his mind, couldn’t stop replaying their time together, couldn’t focus on anything except how badly he wanted to see her again.
His waking life felt like a distraction. Sleeping, eating, talking—these were boring, annoying chores that stole the minutes he wanted to spend wallowing in his memories, reliving the brief period when he’d been with her.
When he’d been happy.
That he’d gotten to the arena at all, never mind managed a qualifying ride and a decent score, was nothing short of a miracle. More than once on the drive west from Last Stand he’d considered yanking the wheel in a U-turn and barreling back to her doorstep, where he’d drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness.
But what would be the point? They couldn’t work, not in the long run. Jessa needed—no, she deserved —someone she could be proud of. Someone smarter, steadier, and worthier than him.
That moment she’d told her family they were married, the way she’d blown up her walls and threw it all open on his behalf, would haunt him the rest of his days. She’d put everything on the line for him, for what? What had he ever offered in return? All he’d done since she brought him home from the hospital was take—take her time, take her money, take her love, and the instant the stakes got too high, he’d tucked tail and ran.
It hurt, but it was better this way, he assured himself as he sat up straight and unzipped his vest. Let him be the villain—let her heap all the blame on his shoulders. He’d sure earned it.
This’ll help her move on quicker, he decided, forcing himself to imagine her with another man despite the searing flash of jealous anger that burst through his chest. She’ll know who she absolutely doesn’t want, so she can concentrate on who she does.
And as for him, well, he’d always known his time with Jessa would end in heartbreak. He just wished he’d had the balls to leave sooner and spare both of them this anguish, but that’d have to be his punishment. He’d broken his cardinal rule of moving too fast to feel and now he’d pay the price.
Boy, would he pay.
Caleb used to love gossiping with the other riders after a competition, but he kept himself to himself as he showered, changed, and packed his equipment. He stowed his bag in his truck and threaded his way through the crowd to the Red Spur tent.
His back ached, his shoulder throbbed, and his knee was so swollen every brush of his jeans felt like sandpaper, but as soon as he saw Rusty rush out to greet him, he knew his fantasy of muscle ointment and a cold beer was a long way off.
“Get in here, the crowd’s already thinning out. We need to get you some marketing materials before the next competition. T-shirts, koozies, headshots you can sign—we got to start building you a brand.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” Caleb asked wearily, then held up his palms as his manager scowled. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? Let me get through this and get out. I feel like the walking dead.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Rusty’s eyes narrowed.
“You injured? Did you see the doctor? You’ve got a big ride tomorrow, Calamity.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You sure? Because you don’t seem yourself. You seem…sad.”
“I said I’m tired,” Caleb told him sharply. “So why don’t you quit wasting my time with the fans so I can do this and then get some rest.”
Rusty moved out of his way, but Caleb felt his manager’s gaze on his back all the way into the tent.
Charlie wasn’t there, but the two men working the tent knew who he was. One of them ushered him behind the table and passed him a Sharpie while the other announced the arrival of Red-Spur bull rider Calamity Ross to the small but growing crowd. Soon he had a steady stream of people asking him to sign apparel, take photos, or simply shake his hand in congratulations on his eight-second ride.
Caleb had never dared to imagine he might find himself in this position one day, and now that he was, he realized he was laughably unprepared. He hadn’t practiced a signature, so the ones he doled out varied from a fully spelled-out name to a big C with an adjacent scribble. He’d never posed for selfies in the mirror and had no idea how big to smile or what to do with his hands, wasn’t sure what to say to anyone beyond thank you and have a good night , and overall had enormous sympathy for those ill-fated deer who stared down headlights on dark stretches of empty roads.
The easy, cheerful charm he’d always possessed had vanished. Even worse, he wasn’t enjoying himself.
He wasn’t having a lick of fun at all.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just need to grab Calamity for two seconds.”
Belatedly Caleb realized his manager had appeared at his side. He smiled apologetically to the next set of customers—an older woman and a little boy—and stepped aside with Rusty.
“I got you these,” Rusty said without preamble, pressing a blister pack of round, white tablets into his hand.
“What the hell is this?”
“Pain pills. Just to help you sleep. Make sure you’re ready for tomorrow.”
“This ain’t my thing, Rusty. I don’t want them.” Caleb tried to give the pack back, but Rusty had already stepped out of reach.
“Keep them in case you change your mind. I’ll let you get back to it.”
Caleb’s already dark mood became pitch black as he stuffed the pills in his pocket and sat down. He forced a smile as the next set of customers approached, but he saw way past them into the bleak, loveless future rolling out before him.
Broken bones, a jacked-up spine, years and years of constant pain. A little money, for a while, and then the long, inevitable dry spells where his biggest meal of the day would be the dirt sandwich served up by the bull who tossed him fast and high. Cities and motels and arenas blending into one another, faceless onlookers in half-empty stands, miles and miles and miles of grimy truck stops and lonely highways.
The path he’d chosen.
The life he deserved.
“Tennessee, huh? What part? ”
Caleb glanced up over the head of the boy whose T-shirt he was signing to a woman he assumed was his grandmother.
“Eastern. About an hour southwest of Johnson City. You know it?”
“Not that far east, but my grandfather was from Knoxville. Still have some family out there. You’re a long way from home, cowboy.”
“You have no idea.” Caleb managed a polite smile.
“I’m gonna be a bull rider when I grow up,” the boy informed him. Caleb squinted, pretending to size him up.
“You do look brave. Gotta be brave to climb aboard those bulls, you know.”
“I’m really brave. I’m not scared of nothing—not even thunder.”
“Then I reckon you’ll do just fine.”
“I like your feather.”
“My what?”
“Your feather.” The boy touched the band of his own hat, and with a jolt of agony so intense he was momentarily breathless, Caleb remembered the cardinal feather Jessa had tucked into place, removing the white one he’d found in the Saloon.
“Now you’ll really stand out, and everyone will see you,” she’d told him, smiling in satisfaction.
That wasn’t true. He was someone now, but not himself, and never would be again. Because the only person who’d ever truly seen him was lost to him forever.
Caleb took off his hat, slid the bright-red feather out from beneath the band and held it out to the boy.
“Take it.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” the boy’s grandmother protested, but Caleb took the wide-eyed kid’s wrist, pressed the feather into his palm, and closed his fingers over it.
“Stay brave, okay?”
“Okay,” the boy whispered.
His grandmother gushed a string of thank-yous, but the boy held Caleb’s gaze silently as he was ushered away, his rounded eyes only dropping when the crowd swallowed him up.
He’d been brave, once. Brave enough to catch the best woman in the world, but he’d proved too cowardly to keep her. Too much of a coward to stay.
Caleb turned back to the growing line of fans, as numb and hollow as if he’d swallowed every one of the pills in his pocket.