Chapter Twenty-Three
Royce
The boys are rowdy. Not dangerous. Not yet anyway. Just twelve octaves of loud, restless energy. They’re convinced they already know everything about riding bulls.
Micah and I stand in front of them at the edge of the arena, watching one of them demonstrate a bullfighter’s stance with about as much grace as a newborn calf.
“Geezus,” Micah mutters beside me.
I bite back a grin.
The kid pops up, grinning like he just won the Pbr Finals.
I clap my hands once. “Listen up.”
The talking dies down.
“I don’t want you guys to be athletes who ride bulls.”
A few eyebrows lift.
“That’s what this new generation of bull riders are becoming. Athletes who happen to climb on bulls.” I point toward the chutes. “I want you to be cowboys who ride bulls.”
That gets their attention.
“I want you to know how to bullfight. Because if you ain’t scared of a bull standing in front of you, you ain’t gonna be scared to ride him. That’s for damn sure.”
Micah nods beside me.
“I want you to know how to load a bull. I want you to understand how he moves, how he thinks, how to give him room. I want you to respect the bulls, and the bulls will respect you.”
I let that settle before I continue, “Because when you’re in that arena, you’re both athletes. He’s just a stronger, meaner version.”
A couple of the boys chuckle, and I cut my eyes to them.
“And he will hurt you.”
That wipes the smiles off their faces.
“You play the game, you take the pain.” I glance down the line. “I’m not gonna lie to you guys. This sport will wreck your body. This isn’t something you play for a while, rack up some money, and go live happily ever after.”
I tap two fingers against my shoulder. “You will feel it for the rest of your life. I know bull riders. Good bull riders. The best of the best. Who have permanent limps, metal plates in their hands, screws in their arms, and titanium hips. I’ve had a lacerated liver and a bruised kidney.
None of it’s fun, but none of it has stopped a single one of us. ”
“Damn,” Micah mutters beside me. “Ease up. They’re gonna shit their pants.”
“So, when I say you gotta want it, I mean you gotta want it.” I point at one of the boys. “You. Help Micah load the chute.”
The kid straightens. “Yes, sir.”
I point at another. “You. Your turn to ride.”
His face goes pale for half of a second before he tries to cover it.
“And you two? You’re gonna bullfight with me this round.”
That gets them moving.
We run a few different bulls. Switch the boys around. Ride. Load. Bullfight. Ride again.
The first kid comes off a little crooked, but hangs on longer than I expected. The second gets bucked hard, but rolls clear. One of the bullfighters gets caught too close and has to scramble, but I get between him and the bull before things turn ugly.
For the most part, they do well. They listen, and hopefully, they’ve learned something.
And by the end of the session, they’re sweaty, filthy, breathing hard, and grinning like idiots. Exactly how they should be.
I’m watching Micah help one of the younger boys out of his vest when something catches my eye beyond the rails.
Marina.
She’s standing outside the arena, arms folded loosely over her chest, watching us.
I catch her eye, and she freezes. Then immediately steps sideways, like she can somehow disappear behind the bleachers.
I stare after her, and a laugh works its way up my throat.
Caught.
I dismiss the boys and send them off to clean up before dinner.
Then I head for Marina.
She’s pretending to be very interested in something on the side of the building when I stop in front of her.
“You liked what you saw?”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “I was watching the boys.”
“Sure you were.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a good teacher.”
That catches me off guard.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Though your speech there in the beginning didn’t do much to convince me to let Ryder start training,” she says.
I shrug. “Gotta give it to ’em straight. Weed out the weak before the rodeo life chews them up and spits them out.”
“You don’t think that was a bit harsh? They’re just teenagers.”
I nod. “And we’re building men. They need to hear the truth, not a load of bullshit.”
I lean one shoulder against the building. “So, you here to ask me to dinner this time?”
She gives me a look. “You don’t give up, do you?”
I grin.
“I thought you were listening,” I say as I step closer. “When I want something, I never give up.”
She sighs. “I actually do have a favor to ask.”
Now I’m intrigued.
“A favor? What kind?”
“I need a vehicle.”
I straighten. “Okay. Well, you can take mine if you can drive a stick. Or I’m sure you can borrow one of the ranch trucks.”
“That’s not what I meant. I want my own,” she says. “I don’t need it to be new or pretty, just reliable—something that can safely handle Wyoming weather so I can get Ryder to and from day care safely come winter.”
I study her face. “All right.”
“I found one online. A truck. For sale by owner. Good price. About thirty miles outside of town.” She pauses. “I just need a ride. And someone who knows something about engines who can take a look at it for me this weekend. I talked to the guy, and he said I could come see it on Saturday morning.”
Saturday. I already told Jovie I’d meet her after breakfast for PT and told Dad I’d help corral the herd for their pre-breeding vaccinations after lunch.
Marina seems to catch the hesitation. “Never mind,” she says quickly. “I’ll just ask Shelby. Or borrow a ranch truck. It’s okay.”
She turns to leave, and I reach for her hand.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Shelby doesn’t know shit about engines. And there’s no fucking way you’re driving to meet a stranger alone.”
She glances back at me as I push away from the building.
“I can take you in the afternoon. Would that work?”
She studies me for a second. “Um, sure. I can call and reschedule.”
“Then I’ll be by to pick you up at noon.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
She starts to walk back toward the cabins, and I enjoy the view.
Then I pull my phone from my pocket to call Dad as I head to the clinic to talk to Jovie.