Her cheeks light up like a pink sunset and the corners of her mouth turn up in the slightest smile as she keeps her eyes fixed on the grass. I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed because she almost stepped in manure, or if she’s happy about the inadvertent invitation to come along again next time. Maybe it wasn’t inadvertent.
I stop in front of the back pen to show her the bulls.
“Yikes. They have horns.” She stands five feet back from the fence. “Why in the world would someone try to ride a beast like that? Bull riders must have a death wish. Or they’re not right in the head.”
I chuckle. “Everybody in rodeo is not right in the head. But once it’s in your blood you can’t help it.”
“Was your dad in rodeo, too?”
“Yeah. He was a bulldogger.”
Her eyebrows angle dubiously. “What type of event do they do with dogs?”
“It’s not with dogs. Bulldogging is what they call steer wrestling. The rider slides off a horse at full speed and wrestles the steer to the ground.”
“Really? Is that a practical skill? Do you have to actually tackle cows on the ranch?”
“No. Not exactly.” I chuckle. “Sometimes the ornery ones need to be wrestled with when we’re branding. I’m better at roping them, though. I used to compete in the roping event when I was younger.” I wink. “But the ladies like the bronc riders better.”
The wink makes her bite her bottom lip. Damn, that’s a move that’s going to drive me crazy if she keeps doing it. I exhale and remove my hat to run my hand through my hair. She doesn’t even know how sexy she is. Unfortunately, my body definitely does.
As we walk, she asks me more about rodeo and ranching. I’m not normally the chattiest guy in the world, but I like answering her questions because she’s genuinely interested in the answers. And since I’m also more than interested in getting to know her better, we talk the entire time as I show her the rest of the fairgrounds.
When we return to the participants’ lot, Chuck and BJ are both sitting on the tailgate, wrapping their riding arms. They’re grinning at the way Della just looked up at me with her big doe eyes. Avoiding their eager-to-get-paid expressions, I turn to face Della. “I need to warm-up and get ready. Do you want to hang out here with us or head over to the grandstand to watch the barrel racing? It’s going to start soon.”
She glances at the stands and then over at Chuck and BJ. “I’m interested to learn about what you guys do for your pre-game warm-up, or whatever you call it. But I wouldn’t want to be in the way if I stayed.”
“You won’t be in the way. You’ll probably get bored watching us stretch, though. And you’re definitely going to wish you didn’t have to listen to Chuck’s inappropriate jokes. But you’re welcome to hang out here.” I pull out a fold-up lawn chair from the back of the truck and set it up for her.
“I won’t be bored, but I don’t want to mess up anybody’s routine by lingering.”
BJ hops off the tailgate and slides on his leather vest. “Making lewd comments to girls is part of Chuckie’s warm-up routine. And I personally perform better with an audience, so you’ll be doing both of us a favor.”
She looks over at me. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Positive. Sit down.” I slide the chair over for her and then open my bag to grab my spurs and boot ties.
Chuck, who’s only wearing his compression shorts, sits on the grass to stretch his hamstrings. “So, Della. Back to our earlier conversation about how you’ll celebrate if any of us scores in the nineties; what kind of underwear are you wearing under that pretty dress of yours?”
“Shut up, Chuckie,” both BJ and I say at the same time.
“What? That is a legitimate question. If she’s going commando I’m about to have the ride of my life.”
I shake my head and shoot her a you-asked-for-it look. Either she’s inexplicably amused by his infantilism or she’s trying to prove that he can’t get to her.
Chuck and BJ both have good rides—seventy-nine and eighty-three. I’m up last. My horse is loaded in the chute. And I’m nervous as hell. I underestimated how having Della here would affect my performance. It almost feels like the first time I ever rode.
“Woo!” Chuck slaps my back and then hooks the latigo. “I hope Della is warming up for that commando back flip because I feel a ninety coming on. Show her how it’s done, Havie.”
Motivated by his enthusiasm I strap on my neck collar and climb into the chute. After pulling my hat down over my forehead I wedge my glove into my rigging, roll my fingers, and crack my arm back for a tight fit. Lean back. Heels up. Nod.
The gate opens and the world literally blurs. I pull my knees up and drag my spurs along the horse’s shoulders, hitting his rhythm. The crowd roars because they can sense it’s a good ride. Better than good. Eight seconds of ripping on a horse that’s bucking like a champion.
The buzzer goes and the pick-up horse nudges next to me. I slide over its backside and land on my feet. As I tip my hat, I scan the crowd. Della is bouncing up and down in the front row and whistling with her fingers in her mouth. I point at her and then turn to watch the scoreboard. Too bad she was joking about the back flip because my score is definitely going to be at least a ninety.
Della
The boys are so excited about how well Easton rode. They are literally hooting and hollering as we pile out of Chuck’s truck and head to the front door of the bar. They ended up placing first, second, and third. Easton’s ride was apparently close to perfect and they are all pumped up. I have no idea what a good or bad technique is. But, even to me, it was obvious Easton was in control the entire time. And the horse was so powerful. At the start of the event, when the first two riders in a row fell off—one on his head—I couldn’t fathom why anybody would attempt to do something so painful and idiotic. Then Easton rode, and now, even though I have vicarious whiplash just from watching their heads being thrashed back and forth for an eternally long eight seconds, I can absolutely see why they love doing it.
The bouncer lets us pass without paying cover because the boys are rodeo contestants. The drinking age back home in Canada is nineteen, but in the three years since I’ve been legal, I’ve only been to a bar once before. It wasn’t really my scene during my undergrad since I don’t drink and can’t dance. And the prospect of picking up a stranger was nearly panic attack inducing back then. It still is. That bar was a techno-type dance bar. This one is a rustic country bar that could pass as a barn.
A house band with a female lead singer is on stage playing something twangy. I don’t know any country songs. Hopefully they don’t all sound quite that down home. Chuck asks us what we want to drink and heads over to the bar. He walks somewhat oddly, like an arrogant penguin with swagger. It might be a combination of the cowboy boots and a bronc riding groin strain thing, but BJ and Easton walk normally, so more likely it’s a Chuck thing. They hang out with me at a bar-height table that is designed for standing at. The band goes on a break and the DJ music they are replaced with is a million times better, even though I still don’t recognize the songs. Two girls who must already know the boys come over to congratulate Easton. There is a lot of arm touching and shoulder hanging going on from their end. Flirting doesn’t look too hard. I could do that.
Easton introduces me to them, but they’re more interested in talking to him. Obviously.
“Do you want to dance, Della?” BJ asks and extends his arm as an