Trying to contain her excitement, Lainie casually asked, “Can you give me any ideas on the full-time job?”
“Off the top of my head? It’d be administrative duties. There’d be no traveling,” he warned. “You wouldn’t work either circuit, which I know is your favorite part of the job.”
“Would I be in Colorado Springs?”
“Of course.”
Lainie scowled at him.
“I know you don’t like living there, but suck it up.”
“Fine. Who’s working the circuits as an official Lariat rep while I’m gone?”
“No one.”
“So I’m not the only one forced to take a vacation?”
Doc smiled sheepishly. “No. It’s pretty much everyone across the board. This time of year, with Cowboy Christmas, it’s notoriously slow as far as big official events.”
“I find it hard to believe no one gets injured during that time.”
“Actually, there are more injuries, being as the contestants are racing from event to event. But treatment is sporadic. Very few of the smaller venues can afford to do more than park an ambulance beneath the stands, get a local doctor to volunteer, and hope like hell there aren’t life-threatening injuries.”
Two knocks sounded; then Doc’s assistant, Randy, poked his head in. “Parnell is lookin’ for you, Doc.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there.” Doc rubbed his forehead again. “Never fails. I’m damn surprised we had a conversation this long without bein’ interrupted. At any rate, we’ll talk more later, okay?”
“Okay.”
Then Doc was gone.
The closer to performance time, the busier Lainie was. She taped wrists, thumbs, ankles, and ribs—with the Lariat-stamped medical supplies. She fielded phone calls. Dealt with the little crap the sponsors required, making sure the logo was visible everywhere in the assigned room, down to the positioning of the water bottles in the coolers. She was low woman on the totem pole—in fact, she was the only woman on the totem pole. Which meant she did a lot of fetch-and-carry.
She loved the bustle, the action, and the sense of family on the CRA circuits—maybe because the family aspect was sadly lacking in her life, but she felt she belonged here.
No matter how many times she heard the announcements over the PA system of the night’s rodeo sponsors, the names of the rodeo queens in attendance, the entertainment, the call for veterans to stand, when the local singer began “The Star Spangled Banner” she still got goose bumps from being part of something so wholly American.
If things were boring in the medical room—which they all hoped for—Lainie and the other Lariat employees took turns watching the action in the arena. Normally she preferred barrel racing and team roping to the rough stock events, but tonight she had the overwhelming urge to attend the bull riding section.
It was no coincidence the rodeo promoters kept the most popular event for last. In some of the bigger venues, the bull riding was interspersed between other events. The crowd went wild at the announcement of the first rider. Lainie hustled through the barricades separating the chutes and gates from the arena, flashing her Lariat pass at the guards policing the area.
The buzzer echoed and a smattering of applause followed. The guy was bucked off with no score. Lainie climbed up the metal rungs and rested her arms on the top of the fence.
Oh, looky there. One very hot bullfighter was bouncing from foot to foot. His nylon performance shorts brushed the backs of his muscular calves. Hank’s loose-fitting sponsorship shirt covered the tight vest. Not as thick as the vest required for bull riders, but it offered some protection against horns and hooves.
Three bullfighters worked the chutes. Because they dealt with all the bulls rather than just one, bullfighters were injured more frequently than bull riders. Why any man would willingly go head-to-head with a bull confounded her.
She zeroed in on the guy on the bull behind the gate. He wore a black cowboy hat, not a protective face-mask helmet. She shook her head at the poor choice. Before too long she hoped helmets were required safety equipment for all bull riders on all circuits, the same way vests were required.
The rider nodded his head and the gate jerked open. The bull leaped out; strings of snot flew from his nose; his hindquarters left the ground as he attempted to fling the rider into the air. The bull succeeded and bucked the rider off at 4.8 seconds.
Again Lainie was reminded of where the spectator’s focus was: on the bull and rider. Not on the bullfighters who distracted the snorting beast so the rider could scramble away unscathed.
Dammit. Even she hadn’t watched Hank during the bull ride—and she had a vested interest in making sure he kept his big, hot body safe. She squinted at the scoreboard across the arena floor to see what rider was up next. No one she recognized. The announcer blathered on and she focused on the far chute. Namely on Hank, ten feet off to the side of the chute, still bouncing in anticipation. Lainie could hang stark naked from the ceiling and Hank wouldn’t notice her; his concentration was absolute.
The gate opened and Hank stayed out of the way—until the rider hit the dirt. Then he ran straight at the bull and danced to the right, weaving and bobbing, forcing the animal to charge him rather than the guy who was still struggling to get up.
Then the bull abruptly switched direction and trotted back through the livestock gate. But Hank was already down by the next chute, waiting for the next rider. It was fascinating to see Hank working. She knew other bullfighters deferred to him, which was a big deal, because Hank wasn’t that old. For the first time she wondered if Hank had aspirations of moving up. Since the EBS dealt only with bulls and not other rodeo events, getting a job as a bullfighter with that organization would be a huge boost.