“Easy boy,” he said as he firmly patted Red Comet’s neck. The horse blew out air, took a step back and turned his head slightly to check out Carson. Once the animal seemed satisfied with what he saw, he bent a knee and faced forward again.
“You got yourself the luck of the draw tonight,” the cowboy attending Carson’s chute said as a wide grin spread across his weathered face. “He’s awful twitchy tonight. Might be wise to ask for anther bronc.”
“Meant to be,” Carson answered, knowing perfectly well that Red Comet was the best bronc in the bunch, the bronc that could give him the highest score. For the past two years, if Red Comet’s rider wasn’t bucked off during the mark out, he’d usually score in the high eighties or low nineties, and Carson intended to be one of them.
He took in a deep breath, savoring the combination of rich earth, manure, sweat and determination as he leaned over Red Comet, giving a tug on his bronc saddle to make sure it felt snug and secure. Adrenaline ripped through his veins as the usual rodeo-high took over his mind and body. It was almost as if he was one with the night, supercharged and eager to go.
The fans whistled, clapped and laughed at Barney the clown, wearing his monster-sized bright green Western hat, a matching shirt and checkered pants. The clown joked with the announcer as the other saddle bronc riders prepared themselves for the event. Carson knew he would have no problem outscoring the entire group. He was on track once again to make it into the top fifteen saddle bronc riders in the country. Once there, he’d qualify for the NFR Championship in Vegas. Getting the winning score tonight would give him a large enough purse to place him four or five holes from the top, and from there he would win it all. He was sure of it.
When Carson saw the third horse in front of him go, he zipped up his vest, tucked the flank strap flat under the saddle, marked his hack rein, checked that his stirrups broke half over the horse’s shoulders, secured his cream-colored hat on his head and climbed up the metal rails on the side of the chute.
“Ready to rock and roll,” he said to the cowboy over the chorus of cheers that went up for the bronc rider who’d scored an eight point six. The announcer yelled out the score as the jumbotron closed in on the last rider’s smiling face, and the supersized neon sign displayed his numbers in fluorescent yellow.
The cowboy helping Carson held fast to the bronc’s neck rope as Carson eased himself onto the saddle while holding on to the swell and slowly dropping his legs on either side of Red Comet, careful not to rile the horse. He slipped his right foot into a stirrup, making sure it hit his boot in the correct place, then leaning to one side he grabbed the hack rein and slid his left foot into the other stirrup.
Red Comet threw his head back, snorted and tried to move forward, hitting his nose on the metal bars. The cowboy held him as steady as he could, but Carson knew the horse was anxious to break out of his restraints.
“Easy there, buddy,” Carson said in a reassuring voice. The horse whinnied, took a step back and seemed to accept the command. Once Carson had eased his butt down in that saddle, he knew dang well it was the most dangerous time for both the horse and the rider. Carson’s heart thundered inside his chest as the pickup men escorted the rider right before him out of the arena. It was now Carson’s turn and he was ready to win. The faster he could get out of the chute, the better his chances at a high score. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out as he thrust his chin down to his chest, held on to the rein with one hand, held up his other hand and gave the signal.
Red Comet exploded out of the chute and bucked with his head up, exactly as Carson had expected. The mark out was perfect, with Carson keeping his feet well above the bronc’s shoulders as Red Comet’s front hooves hit the ground for the first time. The jolt racked his body, and his butt popped up off the saddle, then came crashing back down, hard. He leaned back and braced himself for the next one.
When the horse bucked again, everything went wrong in an instant. Carson had allowed his mind to drift, and in that split second, the horse went down with shocking suddenness, and Carson went down with him, hitting the ground with such force that it took his breath away. For a moment it seemed as if the entire arena fell silent, and all Carson could hear was Red Comet’s heavy breathing, along with his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. Dirt shot up his nose and filled his mouth with its gritty, acrid taste. His breath came in short spurts, and he seemed to be pinned under the tremendous weight of the horse. He heard screams and gasps from both the fans and the other cowboys as Red Comet struggled to right himself.
Carson couldn’t move his left leg, his shoulder burned with an intensity he’d never felt before, and even though he’d spit out dirt and blood, he still couldn’t catch his breath. All he could think of was getting out of there, of standing and walking off the arena floor, but his leg was still pinned under Red Comet. Panic began to creep up his spine. He refused to let it take hold, and as his horse continued its struggle to stand, Carson somehow managed to roll free. The quick movement brought on a wave of intense nausea that he tried desperately to control. No way was he going to vomit for somebody’s home video.
He told himself to calm down, that help was on the way, but the fact that he couldn’t take a deep breath kept him on edge, kept the panic knocking around in his head.
Then, as thundering hooves shook the ground, and a flash of bright green crossed his path, Carson’s entire world faded into black.
Three months later: December
Carson Grant emerged from yet another sleepless night with one thought on his mind: Marilyn Rose Connor, his fiancée, had called off their wedding. Not only was his body bruised and battered from the bronc riding accident in the arena, which almost killed Barney, a rodeo clown who had tried to save him, but now his heart had been hung out to dry.
He’d known things hadn’t been good between him and Marilyn Rose for months. But he thought they could work it out, talk it over, see a counselor or, at the very least, argue.
Apparently, that wasn’t what Marilyn Rose had thought. She wanted it over, plain and simple. No talks. No therapy, and under no circumstances would she argue. Going over the past two years of their love affair, he couldn’t remember one moment when she’d fought with him over anything. Even when he’d forgotten their anniversary and inadvertently stood her up for dinner at some fancy restaurant in Las Vegas. When he’d finally caught up with her, she’d merely pouted for a few minutes and let it go.
He had expected a bit of fire, a few harsh words, a verbal slap, but Marilyn Rose didn’t believe in arguments of any kind. She viewed an argument as a failure in the relationship and therefore under no circumstances would she fall into the trap of angry words.
Carson had mustered up a few of those angry words last night when, cool as a breeze coming off a snowcapped mountain, she’d handed him his engagement ring, which he had refused to accept. Instead of lashing out or pleading like a puppy dog, he’d left her sitting at a table inside Sammy’s Smokehouse at the edge of town and somehow managed to walk the five blocks home, in the icy snow, alone, totally dependent on his cane to see him through. She’d followed him, calling out to him to please get in her car, but eventually, after he ignored her pleas the entire way, she drove off right before he opened his front door.
“Dang fool,” he mumbled to himself.
Carson rolled over on his back and stared up at the blank ceiling wondering why he’d never taken the time to do something