Page 2 of Roping the Rodeo Queen
With a firm grip, I hoist the saddle onto Thunder's back, ensuring the straps are tightened to perfection.Can't have any slip-ups now, not with so much at stake.
"Alrighty, time for one last check," I say, more to myself than to Thunder, who seems to understand the assignment without being told.With s thorough check, a twist here, a tug there, we're golden---or at least, as golden as a man can be when he's about to jump into a team roping event.
"Hey there, Clay!"someone shouts from behind, but I don't bother turning.If they've got legs, they can come find me on their own.
"Kinda busy, pal," I call out, not unkindly but with the tone of a man who's got bigger fish to fry---or rather, bigger animals to wrangle.I can't deny, there's a certain poetry to roping, a rhythm that gets my blood pumping just right.
I glance across the arena one more time, where Jo is now adjusting her gloves, a focused furrow etched between her brows.She's all business, for sure.But I reckon there's a fire inside her, the kind that could make a cowboy want to know what ignites her.
"Knock it off, McKendrick," I chide myself, shaking my head.There's no room for musing over barrel racers, no matter how intriguing or, well, fetching they might be.
I pat Thunder's neck."Let's show 'em how it's done, hey?"
He snorts, and I swear he's agreeing with me.Or maybe I've just spent too much time around horses.
No, that's impossible.
I step into the stirrup and hoist myself up and onto the saddle.The leather softly creaks beneath my thighs, a sure sign I'm ready to go.This is where I belong, where all the chatter and gossip fades away, leaving only the timeless dance of man and beast, the roar of the crowd, and the sweet, sweet scent of competition in the air.I love the poetry of the rodeo.
"Alrighty, let's do this," I tell Thunder, who grunts his approval and shakes his head once.
Suddenly, the distinctive voice of Buck "Silver Tongue" Hawkins crackles over the PA system, announcing the next event.I'd know that gravelly drawl anywhere, even if I were deaf in one ear.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the arena for our next event.Team roping is about to begin, and we've got some of the finest cowboys in the PRCA ready to show you what real coordination looks like!"
Yee-haw!Now the fun really starts.
Chapter Two
A Cowboy's Dream
Ten minutes ago
The first sign that today might be my lucky day had come when my truck didn't die on the final stretch to Tampa, Florida.The second bit of good luck occurred when Buck Hawkins greeted me.He was the first person I saw when I pulled into the parking lot.
"Well, I'll be damned.If it isn't Clay McKendrick in the flesh."Buck's voice booms across the parking area.His wide grin makes me smile too as I ease my weathered Ford F-150 into a spot.The horse trailer rattles along behind me."Thought you might've changed your mind, son."
I kill the engine and hop out, boots hitting the dusty ground with a familiar thud."Takes more than a busted radiator and three flat tires to keep me away from Tampa."
Buck's laughter is contagious, infecting me too as he strides over to me.His signature silver belt buckle catches the waning sunlight.At fifty-five, the man still commands attention like he was born for it.Well, he is the most recognizable voice in rodeo.
"Kid, you look like you've been drug through hell backwards."Buck claps his hand on my shoulder, and I catch the faint scent of bourbon on his breath.Not unusual for Buck, especially when the pressure of a big event has him wound tight."But you made it, Clay, and that's what counts."
"Barely made it."I pull off my hat and run a hand through my hair, still damp with sweat from the nerve-racking drive."Lost two days waiting for parts in Tallahassee, then had to sweet-talk a mechanic into working Sunday just to get the trailer hitch fixed."
"All that matters is you're here now."Buck studies my face, his eyes as sharp as ever despite the years."You still set on this PRCA dream of yours?"
The question catches me off guard.I've been chasing that dream for three years now, ever since Dad's medical bills started piling up and the bank started making noises about foreclosure.The McKendrick Ranch has been in our family for four generations, and I'll be damned if I'll be the one to lose it.
"More than ever," I tell Buck, settling my hat back on my head."The ranch won't save itself, and the amateur circuit won't pay the bills."
Buck nods."You know I'd help if I could."
"Of course you would, and I appreciate that."That man has known my family since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, and he watched me grow up riding everything that moved on four legs.I even tried to rope a deer once.
"The PRCA's a tough nut to crack, son.You sure you're ready for that kind of pressure?"
Before I can answer, the crunch of expensive boots on gravel makes us both turn.Brock Sterling swaggers past me, his pristine black hat tilting at just the right angle to catch the light.His hand-tooled boots probably cost more than I could make in three months.His shiny belt buckle gleams like it's never seen a day of honest work.
