Rising Heat (45 page)

After wandering around the fairgrounds for a while, I heard the echoing voice of a man speaking through a loudspeaker. It was coming from the rodeo grounds. I decided to work my way over, find a spot in the bleachers and see what was happening. I had no idea how Blake would manage to find me among all these people, but I had no doubt that he would. I was beginning to learn and understand that when Blake said something, he meant it.

Of course, he could always call me — and then I realized that he didn’t have my cell phone number. I hadn’t given it to him. I shook my head wryly. Oh well. I found a spot on the end of one of the lower bleachers on the east side of the arena, away from the horse trailers and away from the often overpowering whiff of horse manure. At the moment, cowboys and rodeo clowns were busily removing barrels from the center of the arena. They must’ve just had a barrel racing competition. More memories, and pleasant ones at that.

The arena was surrounded on three sides by bleachers, slowly beginning to fill again as the minutes passed and the next event approached. Opposite me, above the bleachers, was the box for the announcers. I saw three men up there, all wearing cowboy hats.

The arena smelled wonderful. At least I thought so. A combination of dirt, horses, cows, sweat, and manure. I had never minded the smell of farm animals and realized at this moment how much I truly missed being back home. In fact, I felt a bit homesick. I resolved that as soon as I could, I would take a small vacation. Maybe the money I got from this job would enable me to buy a plane ticket and go home to visit my parents, just enjoy being back in Texas for a few days.

Eventually, the arena was cleared. The dirt in the arena was churned to a fine and soft silt that blew in little tufts of dust every time a boot disturbed it. I wasn’t sure what was scheduled because I didn’t have a program, but I would watch whatever it was while I waited for Blake to finish with his business here. The distraction was welcome as I tried to avoid thinking about the coming evening. Would Blake expect anything? Like a repeat of last night? Did I want him to? I wasn’t sure.

I wavered between thinking that there was certainly nothing wrong with a brief interlude that involved sex with one of the most desirable bachelors in the western United States, and my upbringing. Except for my one misstep, I wasn’t one for one night stands. Come to think of it, Blake had said the same thing. Even if last night was a mistake, albeit an enjoyable one, I knew the he was still dealing with the fallout from his divorce to Celine. It was a good chance that he was wary of any woman entering his life. When it came right down to it, I realized that I was being silly. A man like Blake Masters would have no long-term interest in me. It was ridiculous to even contemplate.

The sound of a bull blowing captured my attention, along with the rattle of temporary gates, chains, and the shouts of cowboys as they guided said bull into a chute. This was a PBR event, and my heart began to thump with excitement. Maybe I would see a few of my favorite riders here today; maybe Australian Lachlan Richardson, or maybe even rookie Derek Kolbaba, a native of Walla Walla, Washington. I might even get a glimpse of Shane Proctor, one of the top ten bull riders in the world.

I wasn’t sure how many days the fair and rodeo had been going on, but I hoped to see some wrangling. If I were lucky, some bareback riding by one of my favorites on the Pro Rodeo Circuit, bareback rider Steven Peebles, and perhaps even steer wrestling wonder, Hunter Cure.

If nothing else exciting happened during this trip and inspection with Blake, I knew that I would appreciate this afternoon. Nothing like a rodeo to get my blood pumping, but I figured that was just the Texan in me. I supposed I should be more open with Blake about my own background in rodeo, but supposed it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as if I still indulged in barrel racing, nor was it nearly as dangerous as bull riding or bronc busting. In fact, he might even consider it rather tame and boring.

I frowned. Did Blake think I was boring?

“Stupid,” I muttered. What was I doing comparing my life with Blake’s? Totally different environments, totally different backgrounds, totally different life goals. Besides, Blake could pretty much do anything he wanted growing up with all that money, and the same applied now. Me? With what I made now, I couldn’t even afford to buy a bale of hay for a horse, even if I did still own one.

I forced my thoughts away from Blake and enjoyed the rodeo. One after another, bulls were released into the arena, cowboys doing their best to stay atop the thrashing animals for that magical eight seconds. Most of the cowboys riding today wore special helmets with face guards, but some still clung to the old ways and wore nothing more in the way of protection than a cowboy hat.

Every time a bull was released, the crowd erupted into cheers, shouts of encouragement, and groans of disappointment depending on the duration of the ride. More than one cowboy was thrown, resulting in the scurry of rodeo clowns rushing to the rescue and distracting the animal while the cowboy gathered himself and limped away.

I always held my breath when one of the riders was thrown, fearing his injury. I had seen more than my fair share of cowboys get stomped on, dragged, or who landed so hard they lay unmoving until a stretcher came in and carted them away. Thank God no one from any of the rodeo’s I’d attended had ever died, but injuries could be catastrophic and career-ending. While I appreciated the skill, the grit, and the guts it took to do what they did, it just didn’t seem to me as if the money was worth it.

The top rookie of the year so far had earned just under sixty thousand dollars. Not really enough to risk a broken neck, a broken back, or even their life. A drop in the bucket for someone like Blake. And these guys had to arrange their own transportation to the events, unless they were fortunate enough to be sponsored, but even then, they often paid a bulk of their own way.

In just under an hour, six bull riders had come out of the chute. In between each ride, I searched the crowd, the grounds around the arena, and even up in the announcer’s box for any glimpse of Blake. If he was in a meeting, it was definitely behind the scenes.

I didn’t care. I was perfectly content to watch the goings-on. After the bull riding, I heard some of the bystanders commenting that bareback riding was next on the schedule, after a brief interlude of some mutton-busting.

I loved to watch mutton-busting and had even done a little bit of that myself when I was in kindergarten and first grade. Little kids wearing helmets and elbow pads, riding the back of a sheep as it raced around the arena was such fun to watch, and even more fun to do. I would never forget the first time I—

“What are you grinning about?”

I started and glanced up, shielding my eyes from the sun as I recognized the figure hovering beside me. “How in the world did you find me?” I asked Blake.

“I told you I would.”

“We have to go now?”

“No, not yet. I still have a few things to do. You’re doing all right?”

I nodded and smiled, gesturing toward the arena. “It’s just about time for some mutton- busting. You gonna watch?”

He glanced at the arena, smiled, then shook his head. “Can’t.” He glanced down at me. “You having fun?”

I laughed. “More than you can imagine. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a county fair, let alone a rodeo. Don’t worry about me. I’ll keep myself busy.”

He stared down at me for several moments, then nodded. “Enjoy yourself. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

I watched him go, following his tall figure until he disappeared into the crowd, once again making his way toward the cluster of horse trailers at the far side of the arena. The moment he disappeared, I returned my attention to the arena, where the first sheep was racing out of the chute.

The little girl riding looked absolutely adorable, her thighs tightly clutching the sides of the sheep, her body hunched low over its neck, but not so close that it would be able to rear up and butt her. She wore a helmet and facemask, but she was obviously experienced enough to keep her head well away from the animal’s. She was game, I had to give her that. She hung on for several seconds even though she began to tilt precariously. I laughed along with others in the crowd, and then
oohed
when the little girl let go and landed with a soft plop onto the dirt. The girl quickly got up, swiped the dirt from the bottom of her pants as the crowd erupted into appreciative applause, and then laughter as she gave a cute little curtsy.

Eight mutton-busters competed. After the last ride, the little tykes lined up in a row, little miniature cowboys and cowgirls wearing boots, jeans, and cowboy hats, all standing proudly in front of the stands. When the first-place ribbon was handed out the bystanders once again erupted into applause. Second and third place ribbons were offered and then, as a united group, with not one of the other children seeming to mind that they didn’t win, place, or show, the children raced off toward the gate leading out of the arena toward proud parents and friends.

I thoroughly enjoyed myself but also struggled with nostalgia. The atmosphere, the smells, the memories, all assailed my senses. When was the last time I had laughed with such carefree abandon? Stimulated my senses to such a degree? It was during that moment in time that I wondered
for the first time ever
if I had chosen my career wisely. Did I really want to be working for, when it came right down to it, a magazine that relied more heavily on salacious gossip than serious journalism?

I was brought back to the present when the loudspeakers squeaked and then the announcer was speaking again, introducing a notorious horse named The Black Devil. And then, accompanied by a variety of squeals and shuddering gasps that raced through the stands, I gaped in dismay as the announcer introduced the lucky rider who had drawn such a challenging horse.

“Hang on to your hats, folks, because you’re in for a special treat this afternoon. Making an appearance for the first time on this year’s pro rodeo circuit, I have the pleasure to announce one of the most popular bareback riders on our circuit… Bla-a-a-ke Masters!”

Blake’s name was drawn out into a multi-syllabic introduction. I was surprised when the crowd nearly went wild. Whistles, hoots, shouts, and squeals of women, mainly teenagers, rippled through the crowd. And then the buzzer went off, the gate swung open, and my gaze was immediately riveted to the midnight black stallion plunging sideways out of the chute, back hunched, legs straight, head down.

After the first teeth-shattering and stiff-legged jolt, the horse took several running steps, then began to kick his heels, throwing his head to the ground, trying to get rid of its rider. Blake, now wearing chaps, a vest, and a cowboy hat, no helmet, swayed gracefully atop the bucking bronc. His left hand was tightly wrapped into a rawhide piece of leather attached to a surcingle, a leather strap fastened around the horse’s girth behind the withers.

The horse was gorgeous, as was its rider. I knew the broncs were specially bred for not only their bucking ability but for their strength and agility. Like the bull riding, the rider had to stay on the horse for eight seconds and wasn’t allowed to touch any part of the horse with their free hand. I watched as Blake marked the horse out, meaning that the heels of his boots had to make contact with an area above the shoulders before the horse’s front legs landed on the ground. Scoring was rated on a scale of zero to fifty, as was the horse. Someone who scored in the eighties was considered pretty darn good, while anyone who scored in the nineties was rated exceptional. One of the standards of such exceptional bronc horses was that they didn’t merely buck in a straight line, but one that often changed directions, often with alarming results for the rider.

I held my breath as I watched Blake’s skill. His ability and the strength it took to lean back and make the spurring motions at each jump, matching the rhythm as well as the motions of the horse struggling to throw him off. While I was more than aware that some people considered bronc busting a form of animal cruelty, I knew that most bronc owners loved their horses.

The horses weren’t raised feral; most were specially bred for rodeo use. Most were about six or seven years old before they even officially entered the rodeo circuit. Until then and in between competitions, the majority of the horses grew up in semi-wild and natural open range conditions. Nevertheless, they were somewhat tamed and gentle so they could be vaccinated, managed by their owners, as well as loaded into trailers and chutes safely.

I also knew that these bucking horses were well cared for because they were costly to purchase and maintain, with investments for one animal reaching as high, and sometimes more than ten thousand dollars apiece. Owners had to follow health regulations and guidelines in regard to vaccinations and blood tests before they could even cross state lines. Sick horses were never ridden in a rodeo because not only would they not score well, but the risk of injury was too great. Due to my prior experience, I also knew that a number of veterinarians were always available at rodeos; not only at today’s events, but through every day of a sanctioned rodeo.

The horse that Blake rode did not wear any flank strap, more commonly known as the bucking strap, which had fallen out of favor a while back. It was designed to make a horse kick higher and straighter. It was no longer legal to use a flank strap in the United States, which I, along with other rodeo goers, appreciated.

I couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement as I watched Blake ride. Up there on that horse, he looked like a true cowboy, transplanted from a distant past. Down to earth, simple, and uncomplicated. Beside me in the stands, I heard a number of comments about him.

“Oh, I wish he would ride me like he rides a horse!”

“Isn’t he just a dream?”

“I’d jump his bones in a second flat.”

I smiled, filling an odd sense of pride and satisfaction that Blake and I had indulged in our sexual interlude last night. If only those women knew that I, Misty Rankin, had been the recipient of Blake’s focused attention, they would probably drool with envy. Then again, I realized that my feelings were now totally opposite of what they were when I was first given this assignment.