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A COUPLE HOURS LATER, Tom sat in his hotel room, listening to the Weather Channel report on the latest snowstorm barreling down out of the Southern Rockies. This one didn’t sound like it would be as dangerous as the one last spring, but he called home anyway.
“There’s only about six inches predicted for here,” his dad said. “We’ve got the heifers in the lower pasture and hay already out, so we’re all set. Stop worrying and ride your bulls.”
Shelby took the phone. “We’re fine here—everything’s under control, including your father.”
Reassured, Tom hung up and took another bite of the half-eaten ham sandwich from room service. A bottle of Coors gone flat sat on the bedside table.
He had grabbed a quick look into the hotel bar after Doc had finally let him leave Sports Medicine but had seen no sign of Luke or Jo Dace. Now the bedside clock read 11:42 p.m. Where was Luke? He and his brother generally got separate rooms because of Luke’s social life, but half of Oklahoma and part of Texas had hit the town for the bull riding this weekend, so they’d been forced to bunk together.
He took a swig of the beer and swore as the bottle tapped against his teeth. His whole face hurt and he had a headache to match. He wasn’t waiting up any longer—Jo Dace was a big girl, who’d probably fended off guys more determined than Luke. He limped to the bathroom and scrubbed at the bloodstains on his shirt soaking in the basin before peeling out of his sweaty undershirt and jeans. The door clicked open as he turned on the shower.
Luke tossed his hat on the bed. “You still up? I figured you’d take a handful of Advils and turn in early.”
Tom bit back a dozen questions and stepped under the spray, wincing as the hot water hit his face.
“Jo didn’t know to book a room here, so I walked her back to her hotel,” Luke said. “It was just a few blocks.”
“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.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_a7d744af-0957-5b53-a7bf-43768ffa70ca)
“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 his face with a red headband. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Just consulting with my...” Tom looked to Jo. “What’s that fancy word?”
“Esthetician?” She turned to Luke. “How does he look?”
“Pretty close to human. You better hustle,” he said to Tom. “The van’s here. Take Jo with you. It’ll be part of her education—she’ll get a good look at the fan base.”
* * *
THREE HOURS LATER Jo wished she’d eaten a breakfast like Tom’s. He and two other cowboys sponsored by Bass Pro Shops sat at a table signing shirts, hats and programs, and other memorabilia. Many fans also wanted a photo with their favorite rider, which frequently involved hunkering down with small cowboys and cowgirls. Jo made herself useful by fetching fresh Sharpies as they ran dry and keeping bottles of water at the riders’ elbows.
In between, she chatted with the fans lined up to the door, hearing about how Grandpa rode bulls in his youth and how four-year-old Jason, wearing miniature chaps and vest, watched every televised event seated on his toy rocking bull.
When the store manager finally announced it was time for the riders to leave, Tom and the other cowboys made their way along the line of fans still waiting, giving everyone a chance for a quick photo or autograph.
Tom sank into his seat in the van and turned toward Jo. “How’s my war paint holding up?”
“Still looking good,” she said.
“How’d you rate your own makeup artist?” Len Haley asked.
Tom had introduced her to the other riders, but apparently they assumed she was part of the support team.
“Jo’s not staff,” Tom said. “She got interested in bull riding at the Madison Square Garden event so I invited her for this weekend. She took pity on me when she got a look my face this morning.”
Okay, he wasn’t advertising their exact arrangement; she would play it his way.
The van dropped them back at the hotel and the other riders excused themselves with a touch to their hat brims. Jo stood in the lobby with Tom, trying not to drool at the aromas of food wafting from the dining room. Her stomach grumbled.
Tom laughed. “Sounds like I need to feed you. Now you see why I stocked up earlier—a cowboy never knows when he’ll have time for his next meal.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jo said. She followed him to the hotel dining room and halted in dismay. Although it was nearly two o’clock, every table was filled.
“We should be able to seat you in a few minutes,” the hostess said. “If you care to wait—”
“Tom!” Len Haley waved from a booth near the buffet. “Come sit with us. I called ahead for Sophie to get us a table.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if we do.” Tom ushered Jo into the booth and slid in beside her.
The young woman with Orphan Annie curls reached a slender hand across the table to Jo; her thumbnail sported a dramatic bruise. “Hi, I’m Sophie, Len’s top hand when he’s on crutches.”
Jo pegged Sophie’s accent as one of New York’s outlying boroughs, or maybe North Jersey. She introduced herself. “Sounds like you’re a long way from home,” she said.
Sophie laughed. “You’ve got that right—I’m a Hackensack cowgirl. I visit my folks when the tour hits the East Coast and then hightail it back to Texas where I should have been born in the first place.”
Len grabbed her hand. “See this? She can stick this little paw into a mama cow and turn a stuck calf like a real pro.” He kissed the blackened thumbnail. “But the squeeze chute still bites her sometimes.”
Sophie punched his arm. “You’re so romantic.”
Jo was already learning that the world of professional bull riding held many stories beyond a single athlete’s profile. “How did you come to marry a bull rider?” she asked.
Sophie giggled. “What do you think? I was a buckle bunny. We met three years ago in New York at an after-party.”
“First time I saw her twitch that cute little bunny tail, I was a goner,” Len said. “It took us a few more stops on the tour to make it official, but I knew right off I caught me a good ’un.”
A waitress appeared to take their orders; they all stuck to the buffet. Sophie and Jo made their selections and returned to their seats while the men were still loading their plates.
“So how did you meet Tom?” Sophie asked. “He doesn’t party much.”
Jo opted for a nonspecific version of the truth. “Tom was kind enough to answer some questions about bull riding after the Madison Square Garden event. He said I was welcome to come this weekend if I wanted to learn more.”
Len set his heaping plate on the table. “Okay, you gals can stop gossiping about us now.” He forked an extra shrimp onto his wife’s plate. “What’s on your schedule for this afternoon?”
“Betsy Wolf is babysitting all the kids so a bunch of us can go shopping. Sheplers is having a big sale.”
He groaned. “Sheplers is always having a sale.”
“Speaking of sales, is there somewhere nearby I could buy a pair of boots?” Jo asked. She stuck a foot out to display her plain russet ankle boots. “These are fine for New York, but they don’t fit in here very well.”
“Come with us,” Sophie said. “Unless you have other plans.”
“You should go,” Len said. “The gals can tell you a lot about bull riding. Some of it might even be true.”
“Oh, you!” Sophie slapped his arm. “Save it for the bulls tonight.”
They finished lunch and Sophie told Jo to meet her and the other wives in the lobby. “We’ll pile into Lou-Ann’s SUV and hit Sheplers like a swarm of locusts.”
“Guess I better make a money ride this evening to pay for your loot,” Len said. “At least I’ll enjoy a nice quiet afternoon without your yammering.” He countered his statement by planting a loud kiss on her cheek before they headed to their room for Sophie to grab her coat.
“What about you?” Jo asked Tom as they waited in the lobby.
“I didn’t sleep real well last night—it was kind of hard to breathe through my nose—so I’m going to laze around this afternoon.”
“Will I see you for dinner?”
He hesitated. “I don’t eat a full meal before I ride, just some protein snacks. You could graze your way around the concourse before the event—soak up the atmosphere, watch the fans. Paula will take you to your seat again.”
“So, tell me,” she said. “Do you enjoy the fan stuff?”
“Mostly I do. Sure, there’s times when I just want to sneak past and crawl up to my room without being bothered, but except for the fans, we’d be home chasing cows or maybe wildcatting on an oil rig. Once you get west of the Mississippi, a trip to a bull riding event is a real big deal for kids and their folks too. They might live out in the middle of nowhere, so a chance to meet their favorite rider means a lot to them.” He hesitated. “Like I’ll never forget how nice your dad was to Luke and me.”
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_ed204bb5-3af9-5e1e-9d7d-88a1a8fbd6f1)
THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened before Jo could respond and Sophie swept into the lobby trailed by two blondes, a brunette and another redhead. She grabbed Jo’s arm and towed her along. “All right, let’s shop! Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder to Tom. “We’ll bring her back safe.”
Sophie introduced Jo as “Tom’s friend from New York” as they rode another elevator down to the parking garage. The blondes were Susie and Barbara, Mara was the brunette, and auburn-haired Lou-Ann owned the Dodge Caravan with Oklahoma plates. Last names had come at Jo too fast to remember.
The women chattered about babies’ teething, 4-H projects and weather conditions on the northern Great Plains. “Snow up to your you-know-what,” Susie (or Barbara) said. “Being in OKC for the weekend is like a summer vacation.”
