Fifteen
FIFTEEN
Bea
I startled from a cozy sleep, groping for my bearings.
Rodeo. Semi. Tag.
It all came rushing back to me. A worn quilt was wrapped around my scorched shoulders, nestling me down into Tag’s bed. His pillows smelled like the t-shirt I borrowed after falling into the mud—fabric softener and a touch of spice.
Last night, we went to the bathhouse, took showers, then quietly walked back to the semi. It was more spacious than it looked from the outside. A full-sized bed sat next to a tiny dresser behind the driver and passenger’s seats, a curtain divider drawn between the cab and the sleeper area. The hum of the air conditioning unit lulled me to sleep in record time.
Tag had slept a few feet away in the reclined passenger’s seat. He said it was comfortable, but based on how much he’d tossed and turned, I had my doubts.
Bits of light streamed around the thick, gray curtain. What time was it?
I tapped my phone. 8:30 a.m .
I rubbed my lips together; they stung. Considering how sunburned I was, it was a miracle I’d slept.
This morning, my feelings stung worse than my skin. The burns served as a reminder that Tag had left me all day. More than anything, I wanted to understand why. As much as I wanted to ask over nachos last night, intuition told me don’t push. So I waited, hoping time would provide answers.
A low creak grabbed my attention. I slowly sat up and the quilt rolled down the front of my body, reminding me that my top half was naked. I’d gingerly discarded my shirt in the middle of the night because the straps were digging into my burn. I grabbed the pillow to use as a shield over my body.
Was Tag still here? I’d assumed, stuck in such a tiny space, I would naturally wake when he did. Reaching toward the curtain, I eeked it open half an inch, stifling a cry of pain—felt like my skin split.
Sunshine streamed into the cab. Tag climbed through the passenger’s door, fully dressed and clutching a yellow Dollar General bag and a McDonald’s bag. His face contorted with a wince as the side-step thudded under his weight. He wore faded khakis and a navy blue t-shirt that made his waist look fantastic. Per the usual, his hat pressed his curls against the back of his neck. He was moving like an iceberg and biting his lower lip, trying to be quiet.
A smile crept onto my face.
He eased down into the passenger’s seat and pulled items out of his bag in slow motion, arranging them on the console.
Sunblock, aloe vera, a couple bottles of water, a Gatorade, and a small bottle of ibuprofen. Then he opened the McDonald’s bag, placing two wrapped breakfast sandwiches in the line-up. Last but not least, a small cup of coffee.
He hadn’t even mentioned my sunburn yesterday. I was surprised he’d noticed it.
He restlessly adjusted the items for a few seconds and finally let them be when all the labels were facing the same direction like they were still on a store shelf. Next he fished out the receipt and a pen. I watched, mesmerized as his left hand awkwardly twitched over the tiny sheet of paper, the edge crunching a little .
Tag’s left elbow was pushed forward, his forearm curled down and around to the paper. He leaned close, like he was having trouble seeing the page. The whole thing looked immensely uncomfortable. Scribbs had complained about his left-handedness many times, usually after he realized he’d left ink streaks across the paper. But his writing was so distinct and varied greatly depending on how tired he was. Used to, anyway.
I couldn’t shake the stupid grin on my face as I watched him. He’d written me pages and pages like that? I’d received the product, but had never witnessed the process. I didn’t think it was possible to find a dominant hand endearing…yet, here I was, unable to tear my eyes away.
He draped the receipt over the items then disappeared, softly clicking the door shut behind him.
I grabbed the quilt and rolled myself like a taquito from my breasts down, careful not to let the blanket touch the top or back of my shoulders. Stepping out from behind the curtain, I plucked up the receipt and plopped into the passenger’s seat to read it.
“Good morning. If you’re feeling good enough to come out, text me and I’ll find you.”
The door swung open again. I jumped in surprise, the blanket slipping down a bit with gravity. All the essentials were covered…barely.
Tag’s eyes widened right before he slapped a hand over them. “Oh—shit. I’m so—oh gosh, I’m so sorry.” He staggered away as I scrambled back to the bed chambers, looking like a queen, my quilted train dragging across the dusty floor behind me.
Laughter exploded out of me as I jerked the curtain closed again. Really, I was mortified and wanted to die. The contrasting pale white and lobster red lines across my top half must’ve been one heck of a sight. I had no idea why I was laughing. “Tag!” I called through the curtain. I wheezed, “You’re—good. I’m—I’m in the back now. You’re fine.”
There was a low moan of dread, filtering in from outside the semi. A thud as he put his foot on the step rail. “Bea. I am so sorry. I had no idea you were even awake. ”
“No, I’m the one that’s sorry.” I gasped. “Come in. I’ll stay back here.”
“I just needed to grab my wallet. I left it on the console.”
“You’re good!” I tried to reassure him. “Grab it.”
A soft creak sounded again as he came up and into the cab. “I’ll get it and run.”
No way I was letting him walk away without me. “Do you want to wait? I need like five minutes to get ready.”
A long pause. “Sure.”
His tone told me he would rather evaporate which made me laugh harder.
“I’m sorry, Tag. I wasn’t wearing a shirt through the night because of my sunburn.”
“Oh, uh, it’s fine.”
I giggled again. “Do you mind handing me that aloe?” I stuck my hand through the curtain.
The cool bottle was pressed into my palm.
“Thank you, by the way, for all the stuff.”
“How’s it feeling?”
“Awful.” I squeezed some aloe into my hand and got to work, the temperature difference between the gel and my blazing skin causing me to gasp. “All of my shirt options are sleeveless, too. And that won’t work. I’ve got to cover my shoulders if I’m going back out.” Even though, holy heck, it was going to hurt to cover them.
“You don’t have to come out if you don’t want to.” I tried to ignore the fact that he seemed like he hoped I wouldn’t.
Quiet fell as I smoothed the slippery liquid around the bottom of my armpits and down my arms.
He cleared his throat. “You want a t-shirt? I have extra.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, top drawer in that little dresser back there.”
I jerked it open to find a stack of meticulously folded t-shirts, socks and underwear. A super soft red one would do the trick. “Found one. Perfect.”
I gritted my teeth, mentally preparing to ease my sports bra over my shoulders. I stifled a groan. Tears filled my eyes as I grabbed the hem, adjusting it down. I puffed out a few breaths to keep my composure. Reaching for the shirt, I instinctively lifted it to my nose, taking a quick sniff.
“Tag, do you do your own laundry?” I pulled it on, relishing in the buttery, aged fabric.
“Yeah?”
“I was just wondering because all your clothes, sheets, towels smell like Gain.” I fiddled with the hem of the shirt, making a quick, bunched knot over my hip bone.
He didn’t respond.
“Are you one of those people who separates lights from darks and does a separate load of towels?”
“Yep.”
I stifled a laugh, rolling the sleeves. “I just heave it all in together and crank the temp to hot—the weaklings have to fend for themselves. I put my mother to shame because she raised us to be sorters—” The words had no sooner left my mouth, than I froze, blasting to the past.
In one of our later letters, Scribbs explained the novelty of detergent in his childhood home. “We didn’t always have essentials like detergent. Only every once in a while. I usually did the laundry. Sometimes I used a little of Mama’s body wash or dish soap or just prayed the hot water would be enough (it’s not).”
How did I forget? That particular letter was so sad, so upsetting, but so honest. I was fifteen-ish at the time. I cried over his words as he finally opened up to me about the scarcity he and Cooper suffered because of his mother’s addictions. So many things I never thought twice about weren’t guaranteed for him as a kid: soap, meals, electricity, water, properly fitting clothes.
“As hard as it was to miss meals, I wasn’t half as hungry as Mama. She had something worse than food hunger—heart hunger. And I guess I had a bit of that kind, too. We all did. Maybe we all still do.”
His laundry was only one way he daily overcame his past. Curiosity curled around me like a vice grip—what life had he truly lived? I possessed one tiny piece of Samuel Taggart—the part he put on paper. As a teenager, it felt like everything, but now…I realized how small my knowledge of him truly was.
We were honest and open. We gave each other advice, deciphered angry rant writing, and commiserated over the miles…but paper had its limits. I knew his history, his desires for the future, his thoughts about some things, his struggles, and what he was passionate about. Tag had truckloads of childhood trauma, and he told me all about that, too.
Except for his rain story. Despite my asking about it a few times.
But as raw and real as our letters were, they couldn’t teach me his ticks, his quirks, his demeanor, his personality, the presence he brought to a room, the sparkle in his eyes—all of which were very telling things.
In writing, we edit, only letting through what we want . But real life has no editor. Faces, eyes, and knee-jerk reactions tell the story we would rather keep locked away.
Reality hit me square in the chest. Here I was, in the same semi as my dear friend. What a twist of fate! Life might as well have wrapped up the world and handed it to me.
I had three weeks to figure him out. Just three.
I wouldn’t waste the opportunity. I wanted to know him. The real him. The him that couldn’t be contained inside the four corners of a page. With new resolve and energy buzzing warm in my veins, I pulled the curtain back.
Tag’s gaze snapped toward me, trailing down for a fraction of a second before landing back on my face. He shook his head like he was disappointed. “Your sunburn looks terrible.” He sucked a deep breath, his chest expanding. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have disappeared like that.”
I had wanted to ask why he did it, but I realized I already knew why—this loner cowboy didn’t let people get too close. Our letters were probably an anomaly.
He pulled his eyes toward the console and waved at the sandwiches. “Uh, have a sandwich. I hope McDonalds is alright with you. It was that or an all-hours Taco Bell.”
“You chose well. ”
His lip twitched. “I can wait outside or we can catch up later.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No, but?—”
“Well, sit. I won’t eat two biscuits.” I plopped into the driver’s seat and unwrapped a McGriddle. “Seriously, it’ll go to waste.”
When he didn’t reach for it, I grabbed it and underhand lobbed it at him to where he sat in the passenger’s seat. He caught it against his chest.
“So, tell me what we’re doing today.”
For a second, he hesitated. Maybe the we’re threw him off. Then, he cleared his throat. “Uh, since my broncs are short-go, they’ll be part of the main events tonight with the bull ridin’.” He quietly unwrapped the sandwich.
“Short-go?”
“That’s the rodeo way of sayin’ finals or semi-finals.”
“Oh.” I was impressed. “I guess that means your horses are pretty good.”
He quelled a smile. “They’re pretty good. So are the cowboys.”
“So is this like pro-rodeo?”
He huffed a laugh but somehow didn’t smile. “No. I hope to go…eventually.”
I let my smile free. “That’s really cool. Who’s your best horse?”
He tipped his head, chewing a bite. He lifted a shoulder and wouldn’t meet my gaze. Was he…blushing? It almost looked like he had an answer, but didn’t want to tell me.
When he shrugged, I said, “Why don’t you tell me how the scoring works.”
Tag didn’t take another bite of his sandwich for the next ten minutes.
And that felt like an accomplishment.
The day flew by.
We stood by the arena fence, near the chutes, watching the last of the saddle bronc riding. Tag’s arms were draped across the top rung of the metal fence, his hands clasped on the other side. My voice was raw from screaming and cheering so much.
Tag didn’t ditch me. On the contrary, he was quite attentive though still very distant and quiet. He didn’t have much to say unless I asked a rodeo question—which got him talking every time. I was very educated in rodeo-speak now because I liked listening to his accent and the way he dropped his gs .
Any hint of worry I’d had that Tag was cruel to his animals to make them buck evaporated about thirty seconds after I saw him interact with one. Maybe paper had captured his heart for them. He was gentle and kind. He was the only contractor who knelt in the dust to put protective boots—things that almost looked like leg warmers—on his horses before they were led to the chutes. When they finished their eight seconds of bucking, he led them away to a side pen, took the boots off, and gave each a treat and a thorough inspection. It must’ve been tradition because every single horse nuzzled his pockets as he took off their boots, impatiently waiting for their rewards.
I learned the flank strap didn’t hurt them, just tickled a little. The entire point of Meadowbrook was to teach the horses what to do when that strap tightened: get the cowboy off. And man, Meadowbrook’s horses were good at it, bringing in some of the top scores of the night.
The thing that amazed me most was six of his short-go horses were rescues . It amazed a lot of other people, too. At least half a dozen times, someone stopped Tag to say, “ Is Windy Foot really a rescue?” Or “We heard a rumor Tom Sawyer’s from the feedlot.”
He was respected here.
Cowboys came up, shook his hand, and told him how happy they were to get one of his broncs in the draw. A good score for the horse meant a better chance at prizes for the cowboy. They wanted to ride a Meadowbrook horse. Some people asked for advice. The older folks goaded him about being in the pro league next year.
If my goal was to know him, this was a great place to start. Fully immersed in his world, I soaked in every moment.
As one of Tag’s horses was loaded into the chute, the riding cowboy—a young guy with a white hat—stalked up and threw himself onto the fence. We stood a few yards away. Tag stiffened.
“Hey!” He yelled over the background noise, startling me. Before I could even figure out where he was looking, he stormed off toward the chute where his horse was loaded. My heart thumped in my chest. What happened? I followed him.
The older cowboy manning the chutes looked down when Tag said his name.
“Piper! Don’t let him get on my horse!”
Piper tapped the riding cowboy on the shoulder and pointed at Tag.
Tag yelled. “Take ‘em off, man!”
The cowboy didn’t seem to need an explanation. He rolled his eyes. “You’re joking, right?”
“Take ‘em off or you don’t ride.”
The cowboy laughed and shook his head.
Tag stalked closer. “She’s gonna do her job just fine without two inches of metal diggin’ into her.”
“I’m not taking them off!”
What off? What off? I was frantic trying to keep up with the conversation.
Tag turned to Piper, his voice an angry growl. “Get JoJo out of the chute now .”
Piper spat, “I don't got time for this bullshit. Just do what he says, Jones.”
The cowboy—Jones—jumped down from the fence, spewing profanity and calling Tag a prima donna. He stooped down and unbuckled something from around his boots. Standing up, he kicked the offending item away. Spurs . Huge, silver spurs with sharp points. “Happy now?”
Tag didn’t respond. Just nodded at Piper and turned back to the fence.
He slung his arms back over the top rung, appearing nonchalant. But he was pissed. It radiated off him in waves. He muttered, “That egotistical mother?— ”
He stopped abruptly, glanced at me. We held a beat of eye contact, a storm brewing behind his gray irises.
He looked away. “Sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’ll get a call about that.”
“Think so?”
“Know so.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “They use those spurs to compensate for confidence. Once I take ‘em, their game’s thrown.” He nodded toward the chute. “Watch.”
The chute door clanged open. JoJo went berserk and threw Jones into the dirt at 5.8 seconds. He stormed out of the arena and raised two middle fingers our direction. No reaction whatsoever from Tag.
“Told you.”
“Can you get in trouble for that? Or lose contracts?”
He shrugged. “I’ve had a few contractors say they’d drop me from the stock rosters, but they never do.”
“Why not?”
“They want my horses.”
“So they put up with you to have them.”
He nodded once. “Yep.”
The rest of the evening went by without a hitch. When the last Meadowbrook bronc—a red mare—was loaded into the chute, I asked, “What’s her name?”
He looked away. A touch of red traveled up his neck as he answered, “Uh, it’s”—he pretended to be distracted, gaze darting to the stands—“it’s American Pie.”
The air left my lungs. American Pie? My brain immediately tried to infuse the name with significance, assuming he named his horse after the moment we met. Which was silly. It was probably just his favorite song…even though it was kind of a weird song.
I glanced over at him, but he refused to look at me. His eyes still restlessly roamed over the stands, but the touch of red on his neck gave him away .
Butterflies roared through my belly. I didn’t know how to even process his reaction and what it might mean.
Stifling a smile, I simply said, “I like that name.”
American Pie and her cowboy scored a ninety-two. Highest score of the night. As I cheered and bounced up and down on the fence, my eyes blurred with tears and my throat got tight. He was smiling as he led American Pie back to the corrals.
I was so damn proud of him.