Why aren’t you searching for Kyle?
Question of the day. The year. Maybe of her life.
Everything changed two days ago when she and Hank were alone at the cabin. She realized Hank wanted more than a fling. He probably always had.
It touched her in the last week that he’d gone out of his way to do fun, sweet things for her every day. Little romantic gestures like making her coffee. Helping her with word puzzles. Finding a magazine to interest her. Hand-feeding her Skittles and M&M’s when she was behind the wheel. Or just holding her hand. Even when he slept.
But those silly tokens hadn’t been the tipping point. That’d happened last night, when she’d caught Hank’s eye as they were driving to another rodeo. The glow from the dashboard seemed dim compared to the light in Hank’s face when he’d looked at her. As if he was exactly where he wanted to be, in the cab of a pickup truck, in the middle of nowhere, with her.
The time at the cabin had also changed the dynamic with Kyle. When Kyle wasn’t driving, he was sleeping in the camper. He’d distanced himself—not that he was acting like a jerk, but he’d become quiet, claiming his winning streak meant he needed more time to mentally prepare himself for an event, not less.
Lainie had gotten used to Hank. Used to being with him all the time. They meshed in so many ways, it scared her.
It scares you because you were a little bit in love with Hank when this started. Even when you said you weren’t going to choose, you already had.
Did Kyle sense that? Was that the real reason for his retreat?
Maybe, but Lainie couldn’t shake the feeling that for Kyle, this sharing thing had merely been convenient, but for Hank, it’d always been so much more.
She just didn’t know how to address it.
The sun clung on the edge of the horizon. Once that fat orange ball faded from view, the stifling heat would abate. Folks fanned themselves with programs. Kids sprayed one another with water-bottle spray fans. Babies cried. Children ran pell-mell up and down the wooden bleachers. Food and beer vendors constantly shouted their wares. Welcome to small-town rodeo America.
The first bareback rider started the night out with a bang—a score of eighty-two. Most riders hung on for the full eight seconds, but none surpassed the high mark set from the start.
Saddle bronc scores were usually higher than bareback scores, which seemed weird, given that bareback riders didn’t have the saddle to help them keep a seat on the animal.
Interspersed between the bulldogging and the calf roping was a rodeo clown act. Hank always bristled when people confused bullfighting with what passed for entertainment.
During the act, Lainie wandered to the fence separating the contestants from the general public. Rodeo promoters stationed a guard at the contestant entrance. But a pair of double Ds popping out of a low-cut shirt pretty much guaranteed entrance anywhere.
Pangs of loneliness settled low in her belly. She was surrounded by families joined together with their love of rodeo, from great-grandparents down to the tiniest baby. Rooting for hometown contestants. Gossiping. Betting on scores and times. Beer drinking and some even dancing on bleacher seats. Lainie was a part of it, yet not completely. Working for Lariat often left her with the same sense of disconnection. Disconnected from her life and from her job.
Dammit. She wasn’t a brooder by nature. Drifting in that direction wouldn’t change a damn thing in her life tonight.
For the next hour, she watched the team roping—heelers had a damn hard go of it—and the specialty act consisting of trick riders and more unfunny clown antics. What struck her as odd was that the venue didn’t dictate the caliber of the entertainer. She’d attended big events where the clown’s entire repertoire consisted of fat-mother-in-law jokes and seen smaller venues that hired a better than average performer.
Barrel racing reminded her of Tanna, and Lainie realized she hadn’t spoken to her in a week. Time on the road was a blur.
“Who’s ready to see some bull riding?”
The crowd went wild.
The announcer detailed bull riding rules while the barrels were picked up. Guys ran out with rakes and shovels to even out the dirt. Lainie’s stomach did a little flip when Hank’s name reverberated through the loudspeakers.
As usual, Lainie’s heart leaped the second that chute opened. As soon as the rider untied his riding hand and landed on the ground, Hank was focusing the bull’s attention on him.
Twenty bull riders were on the docket. Some guys took extra time getting ready in the chutes, which caused the announcer to fill the air with mindless drivel. A restless energy rippled through the crowd. As much as no one wanted to see a bull rider hurt, the projectile ejections, the close brush with hooves made for a great show.
Who didn’t love a great show? Thousands of people had witnessed her father’s death. For some, it’d been an event to brag about. Some ghoulish people even bragged to her that they’d been in Cheyenne that fateful day. She never quite knew how to respond, so most of the time she mumbled something lame like, “Good for you,” and escaped as soon as possible.
Kyle rode twelfth, drawing Moneymaker, the rankest bull in the go-round. Moneymaker had a reputation for staying calm in the chute. But the second that gate opened, the slavering beast roared to life with a vengeance. Unpredictable on his best day, Moneymaker had been ridden only four times in thirty-four outs, and each one of those rides garnered scores in the nineties.
Lainie gleaned some of the information about the bull from the program guide, some from the conversations around her, and some from the announcer.