Handful of Sky (20 page)

Hunt took the next jolt lying back on the horse’s hindquarters. He seemed to feed the shock wave back into the animal so that the next buck was even higher and showier. Hunt took it as casually as a kid on a bike riding over a bump in the sidewalk.

“He’s doing it,” Shallie screamed as the wild, primitive side of Hunt called out to the horse beneath him and brought forth torrents of the same untamed, savage energy. Shallie could feel the electricity running through the crowd. Even those who didn’t know enough about rodeo to appreciate what they were seeing realized that it was different and more exciting than what they were accustomed to. The buzzer blared. Hunt slacked off. As if the current had been broken, Avalanche rumbled to a sputtering finale. With one last halfhearted buck he threw the rider who had mastered him into the air. Hunt landed on his feet, his hat still firmly planted on his brow.

The crowd was stunned into silence for a fraction of a second, then the tumult erupted. The only person in the coliseum not stomping his approval was Jesse Southerland. The judges knew and appreciated what Hunt had done and their scores reflected that knowledge. One held up a chalkboard with the figure 48 scrawled on it. The other held up a 49.

“Ninety-seven points!” Slick Bridgers shouted into his microphone. “That is our highest score for the entire run in any of the riding events. Let me get verification from our rodeo secretary. Yes, it’s true, that score just put Hunt McIver in the lead, making him our unofficial winner for the bareback riding by half a point.”

Shallie shot a triumphant fist into the air in jubilation. An arm swept around, pulling her off to the sideline. The vacant look was gone from Hunt’s face. He was one hundred percent there, with her, glowing his victory.

“Hunt, you were wonderful. You rode like I knew you could.”

“Yeah, wish Jake had been here to see it. I think he would have been surprised.”

Later, behind the chutes, Hunt collected the prize that rodeo cowboys value more than any other, the understated praise of their colleagues.

“Nice ride, Hunt.” Emile Boulier’s praise was untinged by any taint of jealousy. The other compliments were just as genuine. Shallie had seen that same spirit at every rodeo she’d ever attended, in the way one contestant would tell his hottest rival everything he knew about a horse the competitor was about to ride, in the way riders helped one another rig up in the tense moments before a ride. Maybe the men and women in rodeo weren’t bigger-hearted than those in any other sport. Maybe it was just a matter of mutual survival or a ritualized show
of magnanimity, but to Shallie it felt like something more, which was why it surprised her that Jesse Southerland didn’t offer his congratulations. He stood back glowering at Hunt, Trish by his side. When the newly crowned queen stepped forward in their direction, Jesse yanked her back with a vicious jerk. As he pulled Trish away, her gaze lingered on Hunt. Shallie read the feelings behind it clearly. Jesse had been either a passing fancy or the pawn in a ploy to make Hunt jealous. Either way it was clear that Trish was finished with him. She wanted Hunt again.

“Why don’t you go on ahead and start getting ready for the banquet? I’ll help Petey run the rest of the show,” Hunt whispered. “As if there’s anything to run—you’ve organized it all so well.”

Shallie hesitated for a moment, then realized that Hunt was right. All there was left to do was to hurry the contestants and Hunt could hustle cowboys along as well as she.

“Get going,” he laughed, swatting her lightly on her bottom. “I’ll come by for you at your hotel room.”

For once, Shallie had ample time to prepare. She decided she would make the most of it by transforming dressing into a stylized ritual. She started by laying out the cloud-soft silk dress as if she were her own lady-in-waiting. Again she delighted in its rippling smoothness as she pulled it from its tissue-paper wrapping. Then she noticed that there was something else in the box. She
drew out a slinky bit of apricot fluff. A teddy, Shallie realized with delight as she identified the exquisite piece of lingerie. She remembered hearing Hunt speaking with the saleswoman while she was dressing. He must have chosen the flimsy garment as an unspoken message to her, a message that Shallie found quite exciting.

She poured several capfuls of bath oil into the flooding stream of water she turned on. Although the air was heavy with the oil’s fragrance, it was Hunt’s scent still clinging to her that Shallie inhaled as she lowered herself into the steaming water, which plunged her instantly back into the embrace of memories only a few hours old.
I’m obsessed,
Shallie thought as the image of Hunt’s naked form rippling beneath the water of the hot springs seeped into her mind. To have her every thought so dominated was unsettling for Shallie, who had for so long been a paragon of control and discipline. She hurried through the rest of her bath at a more characteristically efficient pace.

Shallie wiped a circle in the mirror free of steam. The face that greeted her was a surprise. It was somehow different. Both younger and older at the same time. Her skin glowed with the luminosity only the young possess, yet her eyes had a wiser, more womanly look. Her lips were slightly swollen as if being well kissed had brought them to full flower. She patted herself dry, finding that every point on her body had become a souvenir reminding her
of Hunt’s touch. She slipped on the teddy. Its apricot color brought out the sunny tones of her skin perfectly. She looked at herself with Hunt’s eyes and happily anticipated his pleasure. She would wear nothing else under the dress.

In honor of the occasion, she brought out her rarely used supply of cosmetics. The mascara and liner intensified the color of her eyes to a rich, velvety brown. A terra-cotta blusher and lip gloss supplied a shimmering crown to her own natural luster. She dabbed touches of the bath oil behind her knees and ears and deep in the cleft between her breasts, knowing that the oil would last longer than a cologne and thinking of how sensuous it would become when combined with the body heat that Hunt invariably generated.

Hunt knocked at her door just in time to help her with the buttons at the back of the neck of her dress. His hands lingered as they forced the delicate pearl-shaped buttons through the loop of fabric. Then they slid to her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. He looked over her shoulder at their reflection in the mirror ahead.

The image in the mirror bewitched Shallie. They looked so right together. Shallie was so captivated that she dared to imagine Hunt as her husband helping her with the cozy chore of buttoning her dress.

“You look even better than I dreamed you would,” he whispered huskily in her ear. She watched, mesmerized, as his hands slid down the shimmering material to lightly
trace the outline of her breasts, her waist, her thighs. “God, you excite me. I wish we didn’t have to leave, but we’re late as it is.”

“I don’t have any plans for afterward.” Shallie caught his eye in the mirror. “Do you?”

“Why, you little wanton!” He laughed. “Have I corrupted you this thoroughly?”

“Absolutely. You’ve hooked me on your physical charms.” She shot him a playfully sultry glance, knowing even as they both laughed that she had spoken the truth. She was addicted, there was no denying it, but it went much further than mere physical attraction. She wondered how fast and in which direction Hunt McIver would run if he realized just how deeply attached to him she was. Tingles shimmied down her spine. Hunt had taken the brush from her dresser top and was running it with infinite delicacy through her hair.

“I love the way your hair feels. The color. It’s like a palomino mane woven from silk.” She melted under the caress of the brush.

“This is getting dangerous. We’d better leave now or we won’t make it.”

Hunt put down the brush. “You’re right. There will be plenty of time later on. As much time as we need.”

Shallie tried not to let herself read too much into his words, but it was hard. She could no longer imagine a future for herself that did not include Hunt McIver.

H
ow elegant,” Shallie breathed as
Hunt stepped aside and let her enter the door held by the uniformed doorman at the restaurant where the awards banquet was to be held. “A midnight supper. It’s almost like a cast party on Broadway after the last night of a long run.”

“That’s a fair analogy,” Hunt agreed. “We’re more like theater people than athletes in the fact that our workday often stops at midnight too. Then we’re so keyed up from the evening’s excitement that we don’t sleep until dawn.”

The entire restaurant had been reserved especially for the awards dinner. One glance around the room told Shallie that rodeo had come of age. She recognized the governor of New Mexico and a couple of state senators. A nationally known Indian artist from Taos was chatting with a famous diva who had flown in from New York for the annual run of the Santa Fe opera. In the corner, Shallie spotted her uncle deep in conversation with the widow
of one of the state’s largest landowners. He glanced up and waved her and Hunt over.

“Miriam,” he said, smiling from the woman at his side to Shallie, “I’d like you to meet my niece, Shallie Larkin, and I’m sure you know, or know of, Hunt McIver. Shallie, Hunt, this is Miriam Prescott.”

Miriam Prescott met with Shallie’s immediate approval. In her midfifties, she had the ruddy vigor that can’t be purchased at any exclusive spa; it is only imparted by a lifetime of outdoor work and hard physical activity. Her light-gray eyes seemed to take in everything and filter it with a screen of irrepressible good humor. Miriam Prescott seemed to Shallie to have acquired none of the pretensions that so often accompany wealth. Shallie could easily imagine herself sitting down with Miriam and a cup of coffee and completely losing herself in a good conversation.

Glancing around the room, Shallie observed, “I had no idea rodeo was popular with so many influential and well-known people.”

“Oh my heavens, yes,” Miriam Prescott countered merrily. “You never know who you’ll meet up in those box seats. Frequently there are visitors from the East, like the diva, Merrilee Sellers, who come for a one-time novelty. Then there are real fans like myself, and I know the governor sees as many performances as he can. As a matter of fact, Hunt, he was rendered positively speechless
by your ride tonight. We’ve both seen Avalanche several times before and no one has ever come close to riding him, much less doing as superb a job of it as you did. Don’t you agree, Walter?” Miriam’s eyes, crinkled by sun and laughter, sought out Walter’s, and they laughed like two conspirators.

Shallie’s gaiety was cut cold when she noticed Trish Stephans smoldering in a far corner. Trish was so intent upon Hunt that she didn’t even notice Shallie staring at her. She reminded Shallie of the way a cat crouches in the long grass, totally motionless except for the twitching of her tail, as she stalked an unsuspecting bird. Jesse was by her side, glowering angrily at the world. A white-jacketed waiter carrying a tray of fluted champagne glasses passed. Jesse lightened his load by two. He stuck one of the glasses in front of Trish. She refused it. Jesse shrugged sullenly, then proceeded to drain both glasses in quick succession. When the waiter passed by again, Jesse swapped the empty glasses for two more full ones. He was not taking his loss well, Shallie thought. No better, certainly, than Trish was taking hers. Of course, Shallie reminded herself, neither defeat was final.

The dinner, served by a platoon of waiters, was every bit as elegant as the surroundings and the company. The diners were finishing up the raspberry glacé and starting on their after-dinner coffee and brandy when the awards
ceremony began. Shallie paid little attention, since most of the awards were honorary ones that the money men behind rodeo presented to one another. The majority of contestants had already packed up and were traveling hard to make the next rodeo. She was savoring the intoxicating smell of her brandy when she felt Hunt rise beside her.

“There must have been a mistake.” He spoke to the master of ceremonies. Heads swiveled toward him. “I didn’t produce this rodeo. That honor belongs to Shallie and Walter Larkin. They did a super job and are going to be doing a lot more.” Hunt raised his hands above his head and led the applause as the emcee called Shallie and her uncle forward. At the dais, they were presented with a plaque for, said the head committeeman, “an exceptional job of producing one of the smoothest-running rodeos we’ve had in years.”

Shallie’s pride was enhanced by seeing her uncle bear the award back to his seat, his face shining in the reflected beam from Miriam’s.
This has to be the most perfect day of my life,
Shallie was thinking again, when she caught a whiff of Old Spice cologne wafting over from the man on the other side of the banquet table.

Without any warning, she was yanked from the present and hurled back across seven years. It was the third of July. She was seventeen years old. Her riding club was having a father-and-daughter playday. She was sitting astride her horse, Toby. Her father was behind her,
his Old Spice aftershave clean in her nostrils. They were lined up beside all the other father-and-daughter teams they’d been competing against all day. She’d been so proud that this handsome man, erect in his clean, white shirt and the best horseman there, was her father. When their names had been called for the first-place team, the same sentiment had held her thoughts—
this is the most perfect day of my life.
Late that night her father and uncle had driven away into the darkness for the Fourth of July round of rodeos known as the Cowboy’s Christmas. Her father had never come home.

Shallie felt she’d had to pay for every moment of happiness with one of sadness ten times more intense. She’d learned early that the world does not sustain perfection. If it seems too good to be true, it is. The only happiness that lasts is the kind built on hard work.

Shallie clung to the brandy snifter in her hands as if it were physical proof that she was no longer a heartbroken girl,
I’m a woman now,
she screamed to the phantoms that tortured her. In answer, they reminded her of the price she’d paid for caring too much. Lessons learned young are learned well.