“And you stopped for a drink.” Tom kicked himself for commenting.
“Well, sure, the night being young and all. I knew you weren’t up for partying. We talked quite a while. She’s a pretty cool gal, sailing like she did all the way to South Africa on a boat no bigger than a gooseneck trailer.”
“Sounds like you guys hit it off,” Tom said. “Maybe she should write you up instead of me.”
Luke laughed. “That’s what I told her, but she said she profiles athletes, competitors, not poor working stiffs like me. I sweet-talked the desk clerk downstairs into finding her a room here for the rest of the weekend. She wants to write about bull riders, she should be smack in the middle of the action. She wanted to check to see if you were okay. I told her you wouldn’t be fit company tonight but you’d have breakfast with her downstairs around nine. You’ll have time before that truck dealership meet-and-greet tomorrow at eleven.”
“I don’t recall hiring you as my social secretary,” Tom said, “but since you’re being so helpful, rustle me another bucket of ice for my nose.”
“Will do, and I brought your sunglasses up from the truck. Maybe you can go with the celebrity look tomorrow instead of short end in a bar fight.”
Tom grinned and then grimaced—even smiling hurt. Luke could wear on him sometimes, but they always counted on each other, in or out of the arena.
* * *
TOM LOOKED INTO the mirror the next morning and swore—two black eyes with major swelling across the bridge of his nose; his upper lip had puffed up overnight like a sausage.
He sighed and dug in his weekend bag for a tube of Dermablend. Getting banged up was part of the job, but he’d try his best not to scare the little kids who were bound to show up at this morning’s meet-and-greet. He shaved and then smoothed the concealer over the bruises, wincing when he touched his nose. Broken again—one of these days he’d get it fixed, after he quit riding for good. Of course, it might get busted again if his horse went squirrely on him chasing a calf, but that was the risk of cowboying, like the barbwire catching his cheek.
The phone rang; Luke answered. “Hey, Jo,” he said. “Yeah, he’s almost ready—just putting on his makeup.” He yelped and dropped the phone as Tom whacked him with a towel.
“I THOUGHT LUKE was joking,” Jo said, trying to keep dismay out of her voice. Bruises around Tom’s eyes extended beyond the edges of his Ray-Bans and showed like muddy stains through the concealer. “You really were putting on makeup.”
He gave her a wry grin and pulled his hat brim lower. “Too bad my sister isn’t here—she’d have done a better job on my face. She’s studying acting in college. I mean theater arts.”
Jo dragged her eyes away from the damage. “Congratulations—I know you won the round last night, but what happened with your reride? I didn’t have a good view from my seat, just the medics going out again.”
“Heck, they run out like that every time somebody stubs a toe,” he said. “Widow-maker likes to sling his head. He gave me a little tap with one of those big horns on my way down—just bad luck it started my nose bleeding again.”
She bought time by sipping the coffee the waitress had already poured. Her job was observing and reporting on athletes’ careers, not passing judgment on the wisdom of their decisions. She framed her next question with care. “Would a helmet have helped?”
“It might have, but one of the worst wrecks I ever saw, the rider was wearing a helmet and he came close to dying from a concussion that would have killed most people. I rode with one for a while, but it messed with my peripheral vision and screwed up my balance on the get-off. The younger riders have to wear them, but old-timers like me still get to choose.”
He picked up the menu. “You ready for breakfast?”
“Is Luke joining us?”
“Naw, he’s out running—keeps him one jump ahead of the bulls, he says. Then he’s doing a workshop for high school kids who think they want to be bullfighters.”
They both chose the breakfast buffet. Jo picked up fruit and a biscuit with honey, trying not to stare at Tom’s heaping plate: scrambled eggs, bacon, home-fried potatoes, biscuits with sausage gravy...
He caught her glance and grinned. “I’m catching up. I don’t eat much before I ride, and I didn’t want much by the time Doc cut me loose last night.”
“So you saw a doctor?”
He laughed. “Not just any doctor, our doctor. Doc Barnett travels with the tour. He’s a trauma specialist and orthopedic surgeon. He wouldn’t let me leave Sports Medicine last night till my nose stopped bleeding, and I’ll have to take a concussion test before he clears me for the next go-round.”
“Do you really have to ride tonight? Couldn’t you—”
He laid down his fork and took off his sunglasses. “Look at me,” he said. “Welcome to professional bull riding. Now that you’re staying at this hotel, you’re going to see guys younger than me hobbling around like old men.”
She looked away from his battered face, hot with shame at her rookie blunder. “I’m sorry I questioned your decision. It just seems foolish—”
He frowned. “I appreciate your concern, but this arrangement isn’t going to work if I have to debate you every time I get beat up a little. You wanted to dig into this sport—this is what it looks like. We’re all freelance competitors. We don’t have team contracts with guaranteed salaries. If we don’t ride, we don’t earn any money. We’ll sit out a round or an event if Doc Barnett tells us to—he has veto power if he thinks riding is too big a risk. Otherwise we suck up the pain and get on our bulls.”
He replaced his glasses and sopped up the last smear of gravy with a fragment of biscuit. “I have a meet-and-greet for a sponsor in about an hour.” He grimaced. “If they’re not afraid I’ll scare the little kids.”
She laid her napkin on the table. “I can improve on your makeup if you like.”
“Lady, I’ll take all the help I can get.” Tom scribbled his room number on the check and led the way through the lobby, stopping several times to pose with fans and sign cowboy hats and T-shirts. If being waylaid irritated him, he hid it well, asking where they hailed from and if the kids planned to be bull riders. “See you all this evening,” he said with a final wave as he and Jo stepped into the elevator.
He fished for his room key outside his door. “Let me make sure Luke’s not in the shower.”
No Luke—the room stood empty and disordered. “Go clean that stuff off your face,” Jo said. She opened the drapes and pulled a chair close to the window. “Then sit here.”
Tom emerged from the bathroom carrying the tube of Dermablend and sat. Jo flinched on seeing the full extent of the damage but this time made no comment. She tipped his head back.
“Close your eyes,” she said and tapped dots of the concealer over the bruises, blending them together with a tiny sponge she took from her purse.
She stood back and surveyed her work. “Go look in the mirror.” She followed him into the bathroom.
“Whoa! Not near so scary,” he said, peering at his image. He touched his swollen upper lip. “Nothing you can do with this, I guess.”
“I don’t think so. Besides, it gives you kind of an Elvis vibe.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” he said in a credible imitation of the King.
She giggled, surprised by his whimsy.
Luke appeared behind them, wiping sweat from