Handful of Sky (11 page)

“Son,” Hunt addressed a lanky young man in a plaid shirt and glasses, “if this is all you think you’re worth”—he
held up a shoddily made rigging—“don’t even bother to climb into that arena because I don’t want to have to drag you out.” The owner of the inferior piece of equipment bowed his head in embarrassment.

Shallie knew that the boy’s momentary shame was a small price to pay for a piece of advice that could very well save his life. Hunt pulled a rigging out of his own bag and handed it to the young cowboy, then continued to inspect the others. When he’d deemed them all well prepared, he signaled to Petey, who drove eight high-spirited broncs into the chutes. Dust and the clanging of the metal chute gates clogged the air. The once eager students grew quiet and watchful as they sized up the horses they would soon be tested by.

“Look at them real good, boys,” Hunt warned. “Because not a single one of those animals realizes that this is just a class. To them each one of you is the toughest, meanest rider to ever put metal to horsehide and that’s exactly how they’re going to treat you. They don’t know that you’re students. They won’t be holding back because you’re just learning. This is for real for them so it better be just as real for you too.” Hunt’s tone grew intent as he tried to impress upon his listeners just how serious rodeo was.

“Now what I want each and every one of you to do is climb on board and clamp your riding hand down on that rigging. Then, with your free hand, I want you to reach up and grab yourself a great big handful of sky and hang on.
Because that’s rodeo, boys. You may lose that rigging, but you’ll always have the sky.”

His students stared at Hunt, silenced by what was the closest they’d ever hear to a lyrical description of rodeo. Hunt pointed a finger at the lanky kid in glasses.

“Halstrom.”

The young man jumped to his feet. “Yessir?”

“Halstrom, you were looking pretty good on that bale of hay we used for spurring practice. You think you’re ready to put it to something a little livelier?”

“You bet,” he answered.

Only Shallie noticed how the gangly youth wiped moist palms on his bright green chaps. His bravado was false, but then that was the only kind that was truly real in rodeo. Any man who settled down on the back of a horse that was flaming with murderous intent and said he wasn’t scared either didn’t know enough to respect the animal or had a few vital connections missing in the self-preservation department.

“Okay, take chute one.”

Halstrom scrambled up the gate while Hunt assigned the others to their mounts. Halstrom’s long face was lost in the deep shadow cast by his hat brim. Petey helped him to rig up, then swung down to wait at the gate. The bespectacled cowboy was in good form as he burst out of the chute, practically leaning against the horse’s rump when it bucked its hindquarters high in the air. Shallie
marveled at how Halstrom was transformed on the back of a bronc, completely losing the awkward lankiness he had on solid ground. But one good spin tossed him into the air.

“You didn’t want it enough, did you, Halstrom?” Hunt called down from his perch on the catwalk.

Halstrom answered with an angry grab at his hat, lying crumpled in the dirt.

“I didn’t hear you, Halstrom. If you’d wanted it badly enough, you would have ridden. Isn’t that right?”

“Yessir,” Halstrom barked.

“You’ll do better next time, won’t you, Halstrom?”

“I damned well will.” The boy’s response was a furious promise. It pleased Hunt, who turned away with a grin, shouting to the others to be ready for their rides. “Get mad,” he yelled as if repeating a chant. “Be aggressive. Show me what you can do. Show the world. Bear down. Want it. Get it.”

The next student out of the chutes, a cowboy named Wildes, was already benefiting from Hunt’s hard-bitten message. There was an unyielding set to his jaw that defied the animal beneath to jerk the rigging from his hand. He rode to the eight-second buzzer, then came ambling back to the chutes, a cocky, self-satisfied strut to his walk.

“Think you’re pretty hot, don’t you, Wildes?” Hunt called down, freezing him in midstride. “Well, you
goose-egged. Scored a big zero for that ride you’re so proud of.”

“Wha-a-a . . .” Wildes stammered.

“You didn’t mark him out.”

“Yes. I—” he started to protest, but Hunt cut him off.

“You might have
thought
you did. It might even have
felt
like you did. But your spurs were
not
over the points of that horse’s shoulders when his front feet hit the ground on that first jump out of the chute. And if they aren’t there, Wildes, up high where the judges can see them, you’ve just lost your entry fee. No matter what kind of spectacular ride you make after that first jump, it’s all over. You might just as well have stayed home.”

Shallie wished she could tell the dejected young man just how lucky he was to have someone who cared enough to tell him what Hunt had just told him. She’d seen too many rodeo cowboys throw away their hard-earned money because they’d never had that lesson drilled into them.

The rides continued, with Hunt finding an occasional point to compliment but more often jumping down with both feet on the stupid and not-so-stupid mistakes the novices made. If anything, he was even harder on the boys who made the fewest mistakes, who displayed the most potential. With these few, like Halstrom, he concentrated on reinforcing their “try,” a rodeo term that translates loosely into “motivation.” An
elusive quality that couldn’t be replaced by strength or technical expertise, it was the one essential ingredient in the making of a champion.

“You’ve got to know your horse,” Hunt lectured, while Petey loaded up the next round of horses. “Find out everything you can about the animal you’ve drawn. Ask. Any cowboy who’s ridden him, or seen him ridden, will tell you everything they know about him, just like you’ll tell any cowboy who asks
you
everything you know about any mount you’ve ever drawn. Psych that bronc out. Touch him. Smell him. Get as close physically and mentally to that animal as you can.”

Shallie doubted that there was a single person other than herself who truly understood what Hunt was saying. They couldn’t, because there was a wall between them and every horse they’d ever encountered in their life, a wall she knew wasn’t there for Hunt. She had seen the way he approached a horse, the way he rode. For those few seconds, he was linked to his mount by the high, wild streak that neither education, money, nor prestige had been able to tame. That was his edge, his gift. And there was no way he could transfer it to anyone else through words.

By noon only a couple of the best of Hunt’s students were still eagerly climbing the chute gates when Petey loaded a fresh section of horses. Most of the students were crumpled beneath the tiny pool of shade cast by
their large hats, their exhausted faces streaked by trickles of sweat running through thick layers of dust. A few would be sidelined for the rest of the day with sprained ankles and twisted wrists. Some were already making plans to escape at the earliest moment, having decided that there must be easier ways in the world to earn a little respect. All were walking gingerly, the insides of their thighs having been skinned down to raw patches of flesh.

When even Halstrom groaned at the question “Who’ll take chute one?” Hunt called a lunch break.

The two long tables in the main dining hall each seated two dozen, and every chair was filled by the time Sadie and her helpers began carrying in the food. The steaming bowls were heaped with brisket, which had been slowly cooking over a low fire of tangy mesquite wood for nearly a day—plus fresh vegetables from Circle M’s own plots, home-baked yeast rolls, corn on the cob, and enough iced tea to float a rowboat.

Shallie, sitting at an inconspicuous spot as far from Hunt as she could manage, was astounded by the ferocity with which forty-eight hungry young men could eat. She’d barely cut into the tender meat on her plate before half a dozen voices were calling out for various dishes to be passed around a second time. Once the single-minded clanging of utensils against crockery leveled off, the clamor of voices began, each one rising to be heard
above the others. The camaraderie sweeping the room encompassed Shallie as well.

“Couldn’t believe it when I bucked off that first horse this morning,” the lanky fellow to her left observed. Shallie recognized the class star, Halstrom, and commiserated with him.

“Mr. McIver’s tough,” he went on, “but he sure as heck got me mad enough to stick on every horse after that first one.”

“You certainly did,” Shallie agreed, suppressing a chuckle at the proud swell of accomplishment in his voice.

Halstrom stopped and openly inspected Shallie from behind his thick glasses. Finally the light of recognition dawned on his face. “Hey, you’re with the Double L, aren’t you? I’ve seen you working a few shows.”

“I own the Double L with my uncle,” Shallie answered.

“You do?” Halstrom asked in amazement. “A lady contractor? That’s a new one on me. But what the heck, as long as you keep bringing stock as good as the Double L brings, it’s fine with me.”

Shallie grinned. Maybe there was hope for the upcoming generation of rodeo cowboys.

“Hey, guys,” Halstrom called out to his buddies. “This here’s the half owner of the Double L. A lady stock contractor.”

For a few seconds the conversation and clanking of silverware ceased while the cowboys appraised the strange specimen presented to them. From the next table came a comment.

“This ain’t no bull. I drew a Double L horse at a show in Hereford. Zeus I think was the name. Anyway, that is the rankest animal I ever tried to stay on.” Other voices joined in. “Best roping calves around.” “Always a good weight and they run true.”

All around her, talk ran thick with the morning’s pumped-up energy. Snippets of tales of victories won and only nearly missed reached her ears. As her gaze swung from one sun- and windburned face to another, Shallie could think of no other gathering in the world where she’d be more pleased to be accepted. Then, from across the room, Hunt’s eyes caught and held hers.

Even at that distance, Shallie felt his magnetism disarm her. There was a mocking challenge in his look that made her squirm and look away. Mechanically, she put a forkful of food into her mouth. It could have been sawdust as she chewed drily through the now tasteless lump. Under his scrutiny, even the most automatic process required the utmost concentration. Every motion of her jaw was a forced effort. She glanced up. Hunt’s attention had been claimed by a student. Shallie began breathing again.

This is ridiculous,
she thought.
Exactly what gives
him the power to turn me into a frightened rabbit caught out in the open by a fox?
As she sawed furiously through a piece of brisket, Shallie decided she would leave as soon as the meal had ended. There was no law that said she couldn’t drive the rig back herself.

After lunch she grabbed her overnight bag and headed out to the corral to load up Pegasus. Her first shock was finding that the horse was gone. The second was discovering the Double L semi had disappeared as well. She threw her bag on the barren ground and ran back up to the house. Hunt and a few students were lingering over coffee.

“Mr. McIver.” It cost her an effort to keep her voice calm. “May I have a word with you?”

“Why certainly, Miss Larkin. It would be my pleasure.”

“I assume you can tell me where my truck and my horse are.” Shallie planted her hands firmly on her hips, reinforcing the no-nonsense tone of her question.

“Right at this moment, I’d say they are probably about sixty miles northwest of Austin. I sent Petey to take them both on back up to the Double L, and the way that maniac likes to haul a . . . ah, cover ground, I’d have to say that he’s at least that far along.”

“You sent Petey home with
my
truck and
my
horse and without
me
?”

“Sure. You’ll be needing a good hand to fill in until
you find someone to replace that weasel Hoskins, and Petey was itching to see some new country, so—”

“So, you just sent him on his way without so much as a word to me. Technically what we’re talking about here is theft, horse and truck.”

“I suppose you’re right. Technically, that is.” His light, mocking tone infuriated Shallie as much as his packing her horse and truck off.

“Just how am I supposed to get home?”

“They have airplanes where you come from?” he continued to tease. “Don’t worry. I’ve made a first-class reservation for you on the late flight to Albuquerque. At Circle M’s expense, of course. I even called your uncle to tell him when to pick you up at the airport.” Turning away from her, as if they had nothing further to discuss, Hunt called to the students, “Let’s ride some broncs, boys.”

T
he afternoon ground by in
a turgid haze. Accustomed to working from the moment the sun crept over the Sandia Mountains to the moment she dropped, exhausted, into bed, Shallie was like a wild animal penned in a beautifully upholstered cage. The enforced idleness grated on her nerves. She picked up one magazine after another, only to toss each one aside unread. The instant she left her thoughts unoccupied, however, they returned with a maddening persistence to the moment when Hunt’s lips had pressed against her own. Then, as if she could outrun those troubling memories and the disturbing effect they had on her, Shallie would begin to pace. She followed a monotonous circuit that always took her back to the window that faced down on the arena.

As she marched past the window, her resolution crumbled and she glanced out. A cowboy with a video camera clung to the fence. As each rider emerged, the
cameraman carefully taped his performance. Hunt hovered over it all, gesticulating wildly as he coached his students.

The long, slow hours speeded up as Shallie’s thoughts were drawn to the forceful man. She knew that on one level he evoked in her a very basic, uncomplicated response. He was a potently sensual man and obviously used to women reacting to him. But Shallie sensed another, deeper level and suspected that her attraction to Hunt emanated from it.