Page 3 of Roping the Rodeo Queen
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in."Brock's voice drips with both practiced charm and snide intentions.Somehow, that makes sponsors want to throw money at him.He rakes his gaze over my dusty jeans and scuffed boots with barely concealed disdain."Clay McKendrick, right?Still riding with that old saddle of your Granddaddy?"
My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice level."You know damn well I got a new one three years ago."
"Sure you do, cowboy."He flashes that million-dollar smile that graces magazine covers."Just remember, this ain't the county fair circuit anymore.Wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself out there."
Buck steps forward, his presence commanding enough to make even Brock Sterling pause."You worry about your own riding, Sterling.I've seen Clay here bring the heat with times that'd make your fancy sponsors sweat."
Brock's smile doesn't falter, but something cold flickers behind his eyes."Just making conversation, Buck.No need to get all defensive on the kid's behalf."He turns his attention back to me."Looking forward to seeing what you've got, McKendrick.May the best man win."
The way he says it makes it clear who he thinks that is.Brock has an ego the size of North America.
As the jackass struts away toward a gleaming truck and trailer combo that probably cost more than my entire ranch, Buck spits on the ground."Don't let that peacock get in your head.Sterling's got the backing and the gear, but I've seen him choke when the pressure's on."
"Doesn't matter."I watch Brock's retreating figure."I didn't come here to worry about him.I came here to ride and win the cash prize."
But even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel that familiar knot of doubt twisting in my gut.Sterling's right about one thing---this isn't the county fair circuit.The PRCA is where careers are made and broken, where the difference between glory and going home empty-handed can come down to fractions of a second.
"That's the spirit."Buck's voice pulls me back from my spiraling thoughts."Now, let's get your horse settled and go register you for the events."
I amble toward the trailer, grateful for something to do with my hands.The familiar routine of checking on my gelding helps to steady my nerves.Thunder pokes his head out as I approach, and I can't help but smile at his eager expression.At least one of us is excited to be here.
"Easy, boy," I murmur, running my hand along his neck.Thunder's been my partner for the better part of five years, and he knows the drill as well as I do.Maybe better."We're gonna show these fancy jerks what real riding looks like."
Buck peers into the trailer, his experienced eye assessing my horse with the same intensity he brings to calling events."He's looking good, Clay.Filled out since I saw him last spring."
"I've been working him hard for this competition."I unlatch the trailer door and back Thunder out slowly.The gelding's hooves ring against the metal ramp, and his ears prick as he takes in the sights and sounds of the rodeo grounds."Figure if I'm gonna make my move, might as well do it right."
The late afternoon sun beats down on my neck as I lead Thunder across the dusty parking area.The smell of hay, manure, and fried food fills the air---the unmistakable scent of rodeo that's been in my blood since before I could walk.
"Registration closes in forty minutes," Buck reminds me, checking his watch."Let's get this boy settled, and you signed up before Marlene at the desk goes on her dinner break.Woman's stricter than a drill sergeant about those deadlines."
I nod, adjusting my grip on Thunder's lead rope."Stalls in the same place as last year?"
"Yep.East side, near the practice arena."Buck falls into step beside me, his slight limp barely noticeable unless you know to look for it.The old bronc riding injury from '98 ended his competitive career but launched him into announcing."Got you one reserved, Clay.Pulled some strings with the event coordinator.You're welcome, by the way."
"Appreciate it."I glance at him sideways."What'd that cost you?"
Buck waves a hand dismissively."Just promised I'd mention her nephew's feed store during the broadcast.Kid's trying to compete with those big-box places.Could use the publicity."
That's Buck all over---always working some angle, trading favors like poker chips.But unlike most people in this business, he uses his connections to help others as often as himself.
We pass a row of gleaming trailers sporting sponsor logos and custom paint job that make my rusted rig look like it belongs in a junkyard.But I push the thought aside.Money doesn't ride the horse.Only skill can do that.
"I hear Sterling's got a new sponsor," Buck says, lowering his voice though there's nobody close enough to hear."Some energy-drink company throwing cash at him like it's confetti.Word is they're paying him more than most cowboys make in five years just to wear their logo on his vest."
I shake my head, leading Thunder around a puddle of muddy water."Must be nice to have cash thrown at you for looking pretty."
"Pretty don't stay on a bronc for eight seconds," Buck asserts, but there's something in his tone that tells me he's seen plenty of pretty boys with deep pockets outlast scrappy kids with heart."Still, having that kind of backing takes the pressure off.A man doesn't have to worry about entry fees or truck payments when he's got corporate money rolling in."
The knot in my stomach tightens another notch.I've got exactly enough cash for my entry fees and maybe two meals that don't come from a vending machine.If I can't place this weekend, the drive home's gonna be a long one.
Thunder snorts and tosses his head, sensing my tension.I pat his neck, my gaze fixed on a group of riders gathered around the practice pen.They're all decked out in matching gear, laughing and slapping each other on the back like they belong to some exclusive club.Sponsor patches cover their vests like badges of honor.
"Well, would you look at that," Buck mutters."Whole damn Energy Drink posse is here."
A lanky blonde guy spots us and nudges his buddy.They both stare for a second before turning back to their conversation, snickering.I've seen that look before---the quick assessment and dismissal.The unspoken judgment: Not one of us.
"Good luck tomorrow, Clay," Buck says, clapping me on the shoulder before heading off to meet with the event organizers.
