“Threats don’t work on me.”
“Yeah? Let’s test that theory, shall we?”
Hank spun on his boot heel and stormed out.
Halfway to his truck, he dialed directory assistance. “Connect me with United Airlines.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Cheyenne looked far bigger than what the population sign indicated. The orange glow of the sodium lights along the four-lane interstate turned the black sky an abnormal shade of purple.
Lainie forced herself to uncurl her fingers from the steering wheel. Her knuckles were white. Her palms were scored with red marks from the death grip she’d maintained on the hard plastic since she’d hit the Wyoming state line.
The lights of the Warren Air Force Base blinked across the prairie. A dark, jagged outline of mountains loomed in the distance. Several sizes of missiles were grouped together along the side of the road. The welcome to the “equality state” seemed appropriate.
She rounded a sloping corner on the interstate and there it was, Frontier Park. Carnival rides towered above the chain-link fence surrounding the park. Then everything disappeared behind rows and rows of trees.
No going back now.
She exited and followed the signs. Traffic was light this time of night. It didn’t take long to reach the big wooden sign hanging above the rodeo grounds, welcoming visitors to “The Daddy of ’Em All,” the Cheyenne Frontier Days rodeo.
Her stomach was twisted in knots. Her mouth was as dry as the dust kicking up beneath her tires. Her heart whomped against her chest. A cold sweat—she’d never believed that phrase until just now—coated her skin. Her body trembled so hard her legs bounced of their own accord.
One step at a time.
As Lainie parked alongside the visitors’ building, she prayed they’d locked up for the night. Maybe if she stayed in the pickup, a cranky security guard would swing by and shoo her away. At least she could honestly say she tried.
Get out of the damn truck.
Why had she decided to make the pilgrimage to this place after all these years? Her father wasn’t here. His soul or spirit or whatever had moved on long ago. What remained of Jason Capshaw was the tragic legend, the reverence regarding his flawless bull riding style, and a memorial statue at the place where he died.
And you. You’re what’s left of him. You’re part of him.
Lainie pictured her grandmother Elsa’s sweet face and the fierce pride when she spoke of her son. Her sadness at losing him at such a young age. Her joy that she’d at least had Lainie as a reminder. Grandma had traveled all the way from Oklahoma for the unveiling of the statue the Cheyenne Frontier Days Booster Club had presented on the fifth anniversary of Jason Capshaw’s death.
Sharlene hadn’t attended the ceremony; nor had she allowed Lainie to attend. People move on, Sharlene had pointed out. Sharlene had said that a lot. Now Lainie knew why. Now she understood.
Lightning zigzagged across the sky. As soon as Lainie opened her door, a blast of dry air hit her, stealing her breath. She glanced at the sky again. No clouds.
Rain, dammit. Then I’d have an excuse to hide.
Gritting her teeth, she shoved her keys in her back pocket. She skirted the front end of the truck and followed the line of the fence until it ended. The gate was wide open. Lainie looked up.
There it was. Less than forty feet away.
A metal handrail circled the statue. The bronze was centered on a gigantic piece of sandstone, prominent in the spotlight. Even from this distance she could tell the detail was amazing on both the bull and the man.
Lainie cut sideways so she’d get a full-on view of the face. His face. Her father’s face. A face she hadn’t seen in such detail since she was five years old. The artist had perfectly captured the look of determination her father wore when seated on the back of a bull. The twist to his lips. The squinty-eyed stare. The slight flare to his nostrils. The hard set to his jaw.
She blinked the moisture from her eyes as she drank in every facet. The tilt of his summer-weight cowboy hat, centered high on his forehead. The precise angle of his free arm thrown up in the air, parallel to his upper torso. The gloved fist wrapped in frayed bull rope. The forward pitch of his lean body, knees tucked tight, spurs digging in.
Other elements jumped out. The flowing look of the fringe on the chaps, as man and beast caught air. The deep creases and faded spots in his jeans. The worn-down runnels on the spurs. The scuff marks on the toes of the boots.
She gasped. How could she have forgotten those old boots?
A childhood memory surfaced of her father returning home from an event. She’d helped him air out his equipment bag, filled with a mixture of scents: wet leather, dust, and a hint of manure. The pungent trace of liniment. The cool tang of metal. The oily scent of rope. The bitter, powdery aroma of rosin. The rich smell of chewing tobacco. The dirty sweat-sock odor of his boots.
His beloved ragged, stained cowboy boots. Her mother complained about his unnatural attachment to those boots and threatened to throw them out. It’d been the only time Lainie had seen her laid-back, good-natured father mad enough to spit nails.
She’d asked him why he didn’t just buy a new pair. He’d told her those boots had absorbed a lot of great memories and brought him good luck. It seemed a waste for a man to throw good luck and memories away.
Jason Capshaw had been buried in those boots. A fact that she now realized would’ve pleased him.
Her focus returned to the figure astride the bucking bull. The artist had denoted the wrinkles of his shirt, as well as the gleam and size of the championship belt buckle centered between lean hips. Her gaze lingered on his face before moving up. She’d definitely inherited her dad’s hair. Wild curls peeped out from the sides and back of his cowboy hat. Springy strands so perfectly detailed, she was half tempted to climb up and see if the ringlets smelled like the Prell shampoo he’d favored. But the shampoo never quite masked the leather scent left in his hair from his ever-present cowboy hat.