Chapter 2
Cash
“In Chute two, we have Ashley Colter, Inspiration, Montana! Bring some noise for the winner of…” I stop listening once the announcer gets to my accolades and awards.
The stands are jam-packed tonight, despite the late spring cold snap we’re having.
The weatherman is forecasting snow again later in the week.
I focus on the heaving one-ton beast beneath me, watching the breath steam from his nostrils. The barely restrained anger fueled by testosterone, the flank strap around his waist, and his indignation that I’ve dared to climb on his back, is palpable. The air smells musky, and dirt clogs my lungs.
Checking my bull rope for the third time, I give it a yank before wrapping the tail more securely around my fist. Using my left hand, I push my hat securely over my brow as my introduction ends.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Nod.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The gate swings wide, and the bull takes off out of the chute, bucking wildly. I ignore the distraction of the crowd and the barrel men.
One second.
Breathe. I tighten my thighs, trying to hold my seat.
Two seconds.
The wild bull beneath me kicks his legs out behind us, propelling me forward, between his shoulders.
Three seconds.
Kicking up and into the air, I’m nearly unseated by the change in direction.
Four seconds.
I dig my heels into his side, fighting to keep my balance as his frenzied bucking grows wilder and more unpredictable.
Five seconds.
My labored breathing comes in rapid pants. I lean into his movements as he tries to throw me from his back.
Six seconds.
The bullfighters run around us, keeping the bull’s attention divided between me on his back and them.
Seven seconds.
His sides heave under me but his relentless twisting, jumping, and bucking doesn’t slow.
Eight seconds.
Bwooooom! The horn blares, my time is up. Releasing the rope, I slide from his back. I’m immediately grabbed around the shoulders by my barrel men as the bullfighters drive the bull in the opposite direction. Scrambling, I run to the gates, jumping over in a smooth movement.
I’m pleased to find that my hat stayed on my head.
“Fantastic ride, Cash!” Sleepy tells me as he pats my back. Thomas ‘Sleepy’ Jenkins has been my coach since I started riding in high school and has kept my head in the game through two national championship runs and a hundred buckles in between.
“Thanks, Sleepy. He was an angry shit, but we got there.”
“Come on. The scores are coming up.” Following behind him, toward the scoring area, many hands reach down from the stands, hoping to catch a glimpse—or a handful—of Ashley Colter, rodeo champion.
I keep my head down. I don’t celebrate a ride until the scores are in. I know what the ride feels like to me, but I have no idea what it looks like to them.
Living my life for nearly twenty years in the space between eight-second rides has been amazing, but it’s the rides that keep me moving forward. At thirty-four though, I’m expected to stop riding in the next few years. There just isn’t any further career growth for an aging rider.
“Spectacular ride for Ashley Colter! Ashley was riding Goliath, from Kingston Ranch. Their scores are as follows—Goliath has a total score of forty-one and Ashley scored in at forty-seven for a combined score of eighty-eight.” The crowd instantly goes wild.
Eighty-eight is a good showing, and something I should be proud of, but last season I consistently scored in the nineties.
“Proud of you son. Eighty-eight is a great score for the first bout of the season,” Sleepy tells me, dropping his arm lightly over my shoulder.
Shame colors my cheeks that I even consider a solid score like this to be less than amazing. Some riders never break the nineties their entire career.
“Thanks, Sleepy. I’m going to the tent for a drink before the calves come out.”
Leaning back in the lounge chair in the rider’s tent, I close my eyes and lay my dusty hat in my lap, trying to relax a bit before my next event. I’m ahead on the leaderboard against the other riders but Miles Wilkes is coming up and we’re always neck and neck, every season.
“There he is—Ash.” I hear whispers from my left, and crack one eye open just enough to see who’s speaking.
Two women, decked out from head to toe in ‘cowgirl’ outfits, are staring and whispering. They aren’t whispering quite low enough that I can ignore them and not quite loud enough to make out their words. Calling me ‘Ash’ grates on my nerves.
A woman, thin as a reed, with long tan legs in very short shorts, a flannel tied up at her waist, and white boots with some sort of jewels on them, giggles loudly as her friend whispers something in her ear.
The second woman, in equally short shorts watches me with fixed intent.
I attempt to keep my eyes closed, ignoring them.
Her belt, with its large buckle, highlights her slightly curvier waist which, if I’m being honest, I appreciate a lot more than the tiny woman next to her.
Her brown boots look like they’ve at least been in dirt before, though neither of them seems like they’ve ever seen a real ranch.
Also, they look a little young to be sneaking into the rider’s tent trying to get my attention.
Popping my head up, I look at them and they startle, surprised at my movement. “Y’all can’t be in here, riders only,” I tell them, flashing my best smile and keeping the annoyance out of my voice.
They look around and notice, seemingly for the first time, they are the only women present. Blushing, they turn and flee from the tent, laughter trailing in their wake. Shaking my head, I watch new scores populate on the leaderboard. I’m first but Miles is riding now.
Ten seconds, twenty, pass as I wait for his scores. Ninety-one. Flopping my head back against the chair, I sigh heavily. At twenty-four, he’s a quickly rising star and at ten years his senior, my star is heading down. Second place in the first show of the season and I’m already tired.
“Riders, if you’re showing in roping, head into the arena,” a cracking voice announces over the speakers. I know I will do well in roping. My experience on the ranch makes me damn near an expert.
In my truck that evening, I head back toward Inspiration. On my passenger seat rests a new buckle for my collection, for winning the roping portion, but coming in second riding today won only prize money.
Pulling off the road and onto the dirt track leading toward the farmhouse, I bump along under the huge arch reading, “Colter Ranch,” the gates already swung open. It’s lonely here since Daddy and Mama left for Bozeman a few years back. Just me and the dogs, the ranch hands, and the horses.
“Hey Tank, Snapper.” I rub each of their fuzzy heads as I pass them on the porch, hearing them pad in through the door behind me.
Tank’s closing in on his retirement of cattle wrangling too, at ten years old.
Snapper runs in circles, his puppy energy too much to contain in his compact body, his oversized paws making him clumsy.
“Settle down,” I order with a snap, heading over to the pantry to fill their bowls before grabbing a beer from the fridge and sitting down on the couch. Exhausted, I fall asleep to the sounds of the dogs snoring at my feet before I even finish my beer.