Rough Rider, Page 2

  Straddling the rails above the bull, Dirk focused solely on his routine. Releasing one foot at a time from the steel rail, he stepped lightly onto the bull’s back, testing Mag’s reaction and then easing himself into position behind the animal’s massive shoulders. The bull snorted, pawed, and then tensed, a dangerous shiver of awareness rippling through the three-quarter-ton beast.

  Using his gloved hand, Dirk gave a few swift jerks up and down the sticky, rosin-coated rope and then pulled it through his hand in a suicide wrap. He then sidled his hips up closer to his hand and pounded his closed fist to cement his hold.

  Although he’d spent plenty of time backing broncs, nothing on earth compared to the addictive rush of a bull ride. The sensation of backing a bull was a heady shot of pure adrenaline that coursed through his body, exciting every nerve. Just like a junkie seeking the next fix, bull riders risked life and limb grasping for that elusive eight-second high.

  It was balls to the wall every time the chute opened.

  He inhaled deeply and then slowly emptied his lungs. In these final seconds his senses were hyperaware. Everything seemed magnified—his own heartbeat, the sensation of his blood pulsing through his veins, the noise of the crowd buzzing in his ears, the familiar smells of dirt, sweat, and manure.

  Dirk shut his eyes and closed his mind to everything but the snorting mass of muscle and sinew under him. “Fuck Grady,” he murmured. “This is between you and me, Mag. It’s just us.”

  Dirk opened his eyes and raised his right arm, acutely aware of the metallic click of the gate latch echoing in his ears as he gave the nod to the chute man.

  The gate swung free to the last gong of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells,” and Mag exploded out of it like a derailed freight train. With his jaw set in fierce concentration, Dirk countered the frenetic and frenzied fits of jumps, kicks, dives, and spins in the battle of domination with the bull.

  With his body jerking in all directions at once, Dirk reached for that precarious sweet spot of equilibrium, rising into his riding hand on each kick and pushing his fist deep into the bull’s shoulder on every rear, following the bull’s lead in the deadly dance. Hell-bent on hurling him through the air, the bull snorted and grunted with the jarring force of each buck and kick.

  Heeding Janice’s advice, Dirk held off plying his heel—at least for the first five or six seconds—but with only a second or two remaining, he raked his spurs upward into the bull’s hide, hoping to score extra points. Just as Janice had warned, Mag gave a furious toss of his horned head that narrowly missed Dirk’s face. Undeterred, he dropped his heels back into position for another go—but the buzzer sounded.

  Dirk fisted the air to proclaim his victory, then grabbed the rope tail to release himself. In that instant, the bull dropped his head and ducked off into a hard right that threw his body hard left. In the blink of an eye, he was cast into the middle of a slow-motion nightmare.

  Mag bucked, leaped, and jackknifed in midair, only to land in a clockwise spin that pitched Dirk over the bull’s right side—into the well of the spin. He struggled to keep his wits about him and his feet on the ground long enough to free himself, but the bull had other ideas, hooking him with his horns and tossing him into the air and onto the other side…now the outside of the spin. Time seemed suspended as Dirk flailed—completely at the mercy of a raging bull.

  White-hot pain seared through his arm and shoulder while Mag spun with enough momentum to turn Dirk into a horizontal propeller blade. Twisted the wrong way in the bullrope, his left hand had gone completely numb, while his right arm, which he needed to free it, jerked helplessly in the air in rhythm with the bucking bull.

  The first bullfighter appeared in the periphery of Dirk’s vision, but with his feet dragging and scrambling for purchase, he was powerless to help himself. Mag’s attention now turned to the bullfighter. Whipping around the other way, the bull harrowed the fighter across the arena like a supercharged John Deere.

  Horses, ropes, and two more blurry bodies appeared, but true to his name, Mag was a force to be reckoned with—bucking, charging, and dragging Dirk helplessly along with his body flailing like a rag doll. Dirk’s chest was heaving, and sweat poured off his body in his effort to prevent his complete mutilation, but he was losing it fast.

  “Hang on, cowboy! Stay on your goddamn feet until we shut this motherfucker down!” Grady’s voice was the last thing Dirk heard before the bull’s horns struck again, slamming into his head and then ramming his rib cage. Pain, blinding and deafening, exploded inside him, wiping his mind and sucking him down into its black void.

  * * *

  “Fucked that one up but good, din’t ya, cowboy?” Grady’s face came slowly into focus.

  “Made the whistle, didn’t I?” Dirk grunted back through the racking spasms in his rib cage. His head pounded like hell and it hurt like a sonofabitch just to breathe. He spat a mouthful of blood and then searched with his tongue for any missing teeth. Satisfied they were still intact, he performed a tactile survey of his face, squinting at fingers that came away smeared with blood. “Holy shit! How bad is it?”

  “Coulda been a lot worse. Looks like the cocksucker only broke your nose. Don’t sweat it though, Pretty Boy. It’s an improvement.” Grady grinned. “’Sides, chicks dig scars.”

  “Not Rachel,” Dirk groaned. “She’s gonna be pissed.” That was for damn sure. They were supposed to have photos taken together at the after-party for her Miss Rodeo America campaign.

  “Talk about pussy-whipped,” Grady mumbled with a head shake.

  “How many points?” Dirk asked, eager to know. It had been a hell of a ride. Roughest ever, but at least he’d covered the bull. The hang-up afterward wouldn’t count against him.

  “Eighty-eight,” his buddy answered with a scowl. “But that motherfucking bull did all the work. He scored forty-nine of it.”

  A grin broke over Dirk’s blood- and muck-smeared face. “Beat your last ride by two points, didn’t I? Looks like you’re gonna be buying the drinks.”

  “I still have another go, but even if I don’t outride you on the next one, you owe drinks to the whole damned team for that dinked-up performance.”

  “A bet’s a bet, Grady.” Dirk tried to sit up and hissed with pain.

  “Hold on there, cowboy.” A hand landed firmly on Dirk’s shoulder. “Gotta check you out first.”

  “Says who?” Dirk tried to look up but a foam cervical collar restricted his movement.

  “Says me. I’m Josh, the chief medic here. It’s good that you’ve revived so quickly, but a loss of consciousness suggests a concussion. How do you feel?”

  Pretty fucked-up. “Fine, except my shoulder,” Dirk lied. He knew for a fact that was screwed up, but the bone-jarring pain that jolted him with every breath told him he’d probably busted a couple of ribs too. He hoped he hadn’t punctured a lung but wasn’t about to volunteer anything that might put him in an ambulance.

  Josh palpated his left shoulder.

  “Sonofabitch,” Dirk groaned.

  “Looks like you’ve got an anterior dislocation. Have you ever had one before?”

  “Yeah. Once. Long time ago.”

  “That makes repositioning the bone back into the joint a lot easier.”

  Dirk gritted his teeth. “Just do it, all right?”

  “A few questions and we’ll take care of it. What’s your full name?”

  “Justin Dirk Knowlton.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “June…” What day was it anyway? Dirk squeezed his eyes shut. It was right on the tip of his tongue. “Thirteen…shit, no…fourteen.”

  Josh’s mouth tightened. “Where are we?”

  Dirk gazed up at the stands again, blinking several times to force his vision back into focus. This one was easier. “The rodeo.”

  “Which one?”

  “Wha
t the hell does it matter? They all look the same from down here.” He grimaced. “They smell the same too.”

  The medic frowned and scribbled some notes. Grady squatted beside him with a muffled cough that sounded a lot like “Casper.”

  “We’re at the Finals,” Dirk blurted. “In Casper. Will you please put this damn shoulder back in now?” Dirk looked up into the stands where spectators leaned over the rails for a better look. He despised being on display all sprawled out in the dirt.

  Janice had now joined Grady and a number of others crowded behind her to gawk.

  “C’mon,” Dirk insisted. “Don’t make me lie here like a jackass.”

  “Please, Dirk,” Janice pleaded. “Just let him check you out and make sure you’re OK.”

  “Look,” Dirk protested, “my brain’s not scrambled. I just need my shoulder put back in.” He raised his right arm and ripped off the Velcro collar. “If you won’t do it for me,” he challenged the medic, “Grady will.”

  “It’d be my pleasure.” Grady grinned.

  Dirk reached a hand up to Grady who hauled him back to his feet, actions that incited a wave of spectator applause, whistles, and cheers. “Where’s my hat?” Dirk demanded.

  “Here.” Janice handed him the dirt-covered Stetson with a look of mixed concern and disapproval. “Are you sure you should be on your feet already?”

  “I’m standin’, ain’t I?” Dirk placed the hat solidly back on his head. “I’ve held up this show long enough.”

  “All right. All right,” the medic grumbled in defeat. “We’ll finish this up back in the med trailer.”

  Leaning heavily on Grady, Dirk staggered out to the mobile triage unit. Moments later, he was lying on the paper-covered exam table, bracing himself for the inevitable.

  “Relax your left arm and don’t fight me,” Josh said. “This is gonna hurt pretty bad for a minute or two, but then it’ll feel a whole lot better.”

  Dirk dropped his left arm by his side as instructed, grinding his teeth as the medic raised, rotated, and then jammed the bone back into place with an audible pop.

  “It’ll hurt much worse tomorrow. You’ll need to wear a supportive sling for a few days. No drinking or riding of any kind for at least a couple of weeks.”

  “Weeks? Yeah. Right.” Dirk laughed and then winced in pain. His left hand was swelling up like a friggin’ balloon. He couldn’t make a fist and hoped it wasn’t destroyed. His ribs were probably cracked, but there was nothing to be done for that and he wasn’t about to stand for any more poking around when Grady was about to ride.

  “I mean that about the drinking, Dirk. Especially tonight. The body responds unpredictably to alcohol following any kind of head trauma. The injury lowers tolerance and reduces cognitive function, not to mention impairing the brain’s healing abilities.” Josh’s gaze met Dirk’s and held. “It could even trigger a seizure.”

  “Right. No drinking. Heard ya the first time,” Dirk replied.

  Favoring his left side, he pushed up into a sitting position and then slowly stood, pausing only long enough for the world to stop spinning. He rolled his shoulder forward and then backward, finding his agony had been almost completely alleviated. “Thanks.” He tipped his hat and made for the door.

  “Hold on, cowboy,” Josh protested. “I’m not finished.”

  “Then you’ll have to continue without me. Gotta go now,” Dirk shot over his shoulder. “My buddy’s up next.”

  * * *

  Dirk emerged from the med trailer on his own, albeit a little unsteady. Janice watched him out of the corner of her eye as she flanked the next two bulls. With his arms over his chest and one booted ankle crossed over the other, he leaned against the chute to watch the last two rides. It was a deceptively casual pose that might have fooled anyone who didn’t know him, but she could tell by his pallor and shallow breathing that he hurt far more than he was willing to show. A moment later, the medic brought him a sling, but he didn’t put it on.

  “C’mon, Dirk,” she cajoled. “Don’t be a dumb-ass. Let me help you with that.”

  “Don’t need it,” he growled.

  “Then why are you favoring the arm?”

  He released it instantly from his chest with a scowl.

  “Please,” she cajoled. “No one’s gonna think less of you for wearing the sling. Everyone saw how that bull freight-trained you.”

  “Need both arms. I promised Rachel I’d dance with her tonight.”

  “Then she’ll need to make do with a one-armed two-step.”

  “No good. She’s Miss Rodeo Montana and I’ve just won the All-Around. The sling’ll screw up the pictures. She’s already gonna be pissed enough about my face.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Janice snorted but then grimaced at the truth of it. His face really was a mess with a split lip and a nose swollen to half again its normal size.

  Dirk shrugged. “The whole PR thing is her gig. I won’t ruin it for her.”

  “Then just take it off for the pictures.”

  His mouth compressed. “Thanks for the concern, Janice, but just let it be, will you? I already have a mother.”

  “Sorry…I just…well, you know…”

  He cocked a brow. “No. I don’t know.”

  “I thought maybe we’d become friends is all.”

  “A man can never be friends with a woman, Janice. Unless she’s a troll, there always reaches a point when the guy starts thinking about gettin’ into her jeans. It’s just how it is. You ain’t no troll, and I got a thing going with Rachel.”

  Janice looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flames heating her face. “That’s not what I…but you’d never…” She stammered at the idea that he’d ever think of her in that way.

  “No?” His gaze tracked slowly over her and his mouth kicked up in one corner. “Think again, sweetheart. By the way, I’ve noticed Grady sniffin’ around you. Be careful with him, Janice. He rides damn close to the edge sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His mouth moved, but the announcer’s blaring voice drowned out his reply.

  “Next up is last year’s CNFR champion bull rider, Grady Garrison of Three Forks, Montana, coming into the short round on Rio Bravo.”

  Janice grinned. “Speak of the devil…”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And he’s about as much trouble.”

  Janice grimaced. “Look, Dirk, I’ve been around long enough to recognize his type. Grady blows about as much hot air as a Chinook.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Don’t be fooled. He does blow a lot of smoke, but his bad boy act isn’t an act, and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut either.”

  Her temper flared. If Dirk didn’t want her, why shouldn’t she go out with Grady? A drink or two was no big deal. “You didn’t take my advice about the bull, why should I take yours?”

  “Because you’re a nice girl, Janice,” he replied. “I’d hate for him to change that.”

  On those parting words, Dirk tipped his hat and limped away to join some teammates, leaving a dull ache in Janice’s chest. “That may be,” she whispered to his back, “but it seems nice girls always finish last.”

  * * *

  Grady’s ride was the final event of the rodeo. He’d pronounced with his perpetual smirk that it was because they saved the best for last. Although Janice would like to have seen him pulled down a notch, he finished with another strong performance, riding and spurring his bull all the way to the whistle, and then dismounting with exaggerated panache for a score of eighty-eight points.

  With the final scores called, the spectators slowly dispersed from the arena. While the rough stock contenders packed up their gear, Janice fell back into the dirty and mundane routine of sorting and penning her bulls for the next haul. Dirk had joined the others behind the pens where the cowboys exchanged good
-natured ribbing and swapped stories about their respective rides.

  “So you coming or not?” Grady surprised Janice from behind.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “To the party.”

  “Oh, that. I said I’d think about it if you beat Dirk. You didn’t. You tied.”

  “That may be but I damn sure rode better than him, and you know it. Hell, it was the bull that made his ride. I had to spur the shit out of the dink I drew to get anything out of him.”

  Janice grudgingly acknowledged that Grady had milked the most out of his ride. Rio was a highly respected bucking bull, but he was approaching retirement.

  “Let me on that badass motherfucker”—he nodded to Mag—“and you’ll see a real ride.”

  “If you’re going to Thermopolis, you might get your chance.”

  “Is that where you’re headed next?”

  “Yup,” she said. “My ol’ man scored a contract with a bigger outfit. We’re to supply a dozen bulls for the summer circuit. I’ll be hauling them down the road—Thermopolis this week, then Sheridan, Cody, and Cheyenne for Frontier Days. After that, we’ll be back in Montana from Cowboy Christmas till the finals.”

  “Then you’re in luck, Sweet Cheeks. I’m heading to Thermopolis too. I need to rack up some points and paychecks if I want to get into the pro bull circuit.”

  “You planning on ridin’ bulls full-time now?”

  “Yeah. Unlike Pretty Boy there, with his ranch to fall back on, I got nothing else. I gotta earn my own bread and ridin’ bulls is what I was meant to do. I’m hoping that by summer’s end I’ll qualify for the new Rough and Rank circuit out in Vegas. That’s where the real money is.”

  “And bulls no one can ride,” she countered.

  “Hell, they’re all just some cow’s calf, ain’t they? ’Sides, some cowboy’s gotta ride ’em.”

  “And you think that’s you?”

  He smirked. “All the way to Vegas, baby.”

  “What about Dirk? Is he going to Thermopolis too?”

  “Nah. Says he has other plans.”

  “But I thought you were traveling buddies.”