Page 40 of The Cowboy Comes Home

When he got to the microphone, he and Jackson did that manly sort of combination hug and back slapping. It made her smile, which was odd because she’d seen it countless times before, working among mostly men.

For a moment he just stood there, scanning the sizeable crowd. She hadn’t yet heard the totals on the ticket sales this year, but the Last Stand rodeo was a draw all over the Hill Country and beyond. And she supposed Jackson’s presence drew a few more, who probably had no idea what they were in for.

She thought that Tucker’s gaze snagged for a moment, near where she was. But then she laughed at the idea that he’d somehow spotted her in this mass of people. Then he spoke, and his voice coming through the loudspeakers set up for the day, sent another kind of sensation down her spine.

Then he looked back at Jackson, who had stepped to the back of the temporary stage, but spoke loud enough for the mic to pick it up. “I see you didn’t mention you’re the only reason they kept on a broken-down rodeo rider, because you insisted on it in every contract.”

Another round of applause went up, and Emily found herself liking even more that he made sure anyone there who hadn’t read the article knew that. Or maybe he just wanted to acknowledge it in public and in person. Jackson smiled, looking a little embarrassed, but then flicked a finger toward the crowd, as if to remind his friend what he was there for.

Tucker turned back, and she saw him take a deep breath she thought was a tiny bit shaky. “Nothing smells like a rodeo, does it?” he said, to appreciative laughter. That seemed to steady him. “And I’m only here because somebody wiser than I told me you do not say no to Maggie Rafferty.”

For the first time Emily felt glad for the heat of the day, even at this early hour, because it would be an excuse for what she was certain were her pink cheeks.

He looked out over the crowd again. “It’s been a long time, but it feels good. So best of luck to all the competitors today, thanks to all the critters involved, and to all of you for showing up. Don’t want to waste any more rodeo time so I’ll just say—” he looked her way again, and his words told her he had indeed spotted her earlier “—let ’er rip!”

The roar that went up then was proof he wasn’t just a name they’d heard somewhere. They remembered Tucker Culhane. Remembered his signature phrase, just before they let the bull loose.

But all Emily could think of was that he’d found her in this crowd. That he’d used her suggestion. That he’d looked right at her when he’d done it.

And that she had no words for how that made her feel.

*

As he signeda rodeo program, Tucker wondered how Jackson stood it. While he’d been approached several times, Jackson was surrounded just about every minute. But he noticed a few times when a local took him aside and held the visitors at bay for a few minutes, giving him a break. Tucker liked how they were protecting his friend.

He wandered around the grounds, orienting himself. And when he got to the back area, the corrals, main barn, and temporary structures, he spotted Logan Fox and headed that way. The man was just finishing a check on his gear when he looked up, and smiled widely.

“Glad you’re not getting on one of those berserkers today,” he said.

“Me, too, to be honest,” Tucker said. “But I’ve missed the rest.”

“It’s a unique thing, rodeo.”

They talked about that for a while, before Logan had to see to a horse he’d promised to replace a shoe on before his calf-roping run this afternoon. Tucker moved on, breathing in those smells he’d mentioned: the horses, the cattle, the dust, the crowd, and the occasional whiff from some food stand. There was nothing quite like it, and he wondered if maybe he could stand to do this occasionally now. It had stung too much before, re-entering this world that had both saved him and nearly ended him, this world he had so loved but could no longer be a part of in the way he’d once been.

He did plan to avoid the bull riding, though, despite efforts from the organizers to get him to be there. Maybe he was a coward, but he couldn’t face that just yet. He felt an ache low on his left side, but knew it was just in his mind, that he was just remembering. He gave a rap with his knuckles to the titanium structure that now held that side of his lower rib cage together, trying not to let the memories of the stabbing agony overtake him.

He watched some of the other events. The bronc riding, thinking if he’d been smart he would have gone that way, given that trained bucking horses just wanted to be rid of you while there was always the occasional bull who seemed determined to kill you.

He soaked in the cheers of the crowd at a good ride, and the grin on the face of the cowboy who’d done it. But the cheers became a roar when an apparent local favorite made a good, solid ride and then at the buzzer dismounted just as smoothly, lifting one leg forward over the saddle and sliding to the ground, then rolling neatly up onto his feet, in what looked like a planned stunt dismount from a horse that had never bucked in its life.

“And there you have it, a slick, Tucker Culhane dismount, folks! A real ‘Tuck and roll’!”

He jerked round to stare up at the announcer’s box, as the roar continued. And those around him who recognized him from this morning seemed to be yelling the loudest. He got more claps on the back then he could count, and shook more hands in that next ten minutes than he thought he ever had in his life. He was grateful when the next event started and he could escape.

He never would have thought that dismount would become famous. He’d gotten into the first one almost accidentally, when it was just the position he was in when the buzzer went off to signal he’d made it. When he’d slid down the left side of the bull the animal twisted, enough to both send him to the dirt but also give him the momentum to continue the roll right up onto his feet. It had gotten such a reaction he tried it intentionally the next time. And before he knew it, the “Tuck and roll” was…well, a thing.

He wandered the grounds, aware but trying not to be, that he was constantly searching. He’d spotted Emily fairly easily amid the crowd from up on the stage, but he hadn’t been able to find her since. Maybe she wasn’t even here anymore. After all, it wasn’t like her job ended just because the rodeo was now on. In fact, it had to be busier for her, with all the visitors in town. He’d heard Nic mention this was the busiest day of the year for Last Stand PD because a lot of those out-of-towners, and a few of the locals, got a bit too rowdy. And that’s what was really gnawing at him. He was glad she had Lobo with her, for protection if nothing else.

He spotted Jackson over by the awning that covered the town kiosk, with all the flyers and schedules for the events that happened year-round here, from the huge Bluebonnet Festival in the spring, complete with parade, to today’s rodeo, then an Oktoberfest. And from what Nic had told him, Christmas in Last Stand was quite the wondrous experience.

He caught himself wondering as he headed that way, if he’d be around for any of those other events. He was enjoying the work he was doing here, and was glad to help Jackson out, he couldn’t help wondering if his friend really needed the assist or was just—again—helping out a friend.

Jackson was talking to a tall, powerfully built man in a gray, pearl-snap shirt and a dark gray cowboy hat. He looked familiar, although Tucker couldn’t put a name to him. But then he shifted slightly and a shaft of sunlight glinted off something metallic on his belt.

A badge.

And in that second he knew. This was Chief Highwater. Looking at him in person now, he did not disappoint. He looked every bit the hero he was. It wasn’t until it was too late, until Jackson had seen him and beckoned him over, that he remembered that other detail.

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