Back in the Saddle (Jessica Brodie Diaries #1)(22)

Candace had her worry mask on as we stopped in a beer line. “Geez girl, you look like your cat got run over.”

“My cat.... no, I’m fine. Just hate being told people are better than me.”

Instead of laughing at my hilarious, and true, joke, she said, “Look, we’ll get you a beer, and me a beer, and meet up with everyone else. They’re really nice guys, but they can get to be too much.”

“Yes. Yes, they can.”

She sighed. “Well, they’ll loosen up. Say ‘no’ a few more times and they’ll move on to the next girl.”

Awesome, huge confidence boost, that. I thought sarcastically.

All she had to do now was throw some dirt in my face and rub ketchup on my white shirt and I'd be all set.

We got our drinks and hit the stands to meet the rest of the crew. I quickly stuffed Candace between me and Dave. I didn't need his hands following his roaming eyes.

My neighbor on the other side was an older man with a large, handle-bar mustache. I gawked in amazement—I couldn’t help it. Black, long, expertly manicured, it was a masterpiece. You didn’t see that shit often.

I had my phone out, incognito, and was just about to snap off a picture when he looked down at me.

Ah!

Those shockingly pretty green eyes rooted me to the stands. He stood with a scowl, glaring.

I slipped my phone back into my purse, trying to smile through my grimace.

“Stand up, Jessica!” Candace whispered frantically.

Yeah, right, and have this guy belt me for trying to steal his soul with my smartphone? That’d be the day!

“Oh-oh say can you see—“

I jumped up as if sitting on springs and slapped my hand to my chest. Now I understood the scowl. Only someone with a death wish didn't worship America while in Texas.

Lesson learned.

As the decent signer was ending her montage of national pride, a collection of fine horses with sparkly young women erupted from the opened gates to either side of the structure in the middle of the stadium.

“These are the teen something-or-other,” Candace explained “helpfully.”

Three pairs of brown horses with their uniformed riders did a lap around the arena with a giant American and Texas flag. Their outfits, made with some cheap, heavy material, and fastened with so many rhinestones Elvis would be jealous, sparkled and threw the light, blinding anyone paying attention—which were all the old men.

“What’s up first?” Sara, a girl that hated me and loved Phil, asked after the girls had done a few laps and smiled their way out.

“Tie-Down, I think,” Dave answered.

After a long pause and some tongue waving by the announcer, a different gate, directly under the constructed booth—which was a two-story structure—spit out a little calf running like hell.

“Oh! How cute!” I exclaimed, leaning forward.

A cowboy on a horse erupted through a gate on the far left, in hot pursuit, swinging a lasso over his head. He was fast and practiced, controlling the rope as if he'd been doing this all his life.

When the rider was a couple horse lengths away from the fleeing calf, he gave a mighty lob, the rope flinging in front of him like a web from his wrist. The loop circled the calf’s two back legs, tangled, and snapped taught as the cowboy gave a jerk.

The horse stopped. Dead stopped. As in, running really fast one second, then standing still the next. It was a great trick for everyone but the poor calf, who was ripped backward. Its front feet, unable to hold, gave out, scraping its face along the ground.

Handle-Bar-Man was scowling down at me again. Apparently that weird squeal I’d just heard came from me…

As the poor little calf was flailing, trying to get back up, its back legs tied and held in the air as the horse continued to yank on the rope, the cowboy jumped to the ground and sprinted forward. Once to the struggling calf, he jammed his knee into its neck to keep it put, grabbed its legs, and started tying its feet together. His hands moved at super-sonic speeds, round and round the two caught feet, and then to one of the front feet. Round and round, some sort of knot, and the cowboy was up, his hands in the air like he just perfectly landed a gymnastics vault.

“Oh yeah, good for you, dude. You just got one over on a tiny calf!” I seethed.

I shot Handle-Bar a warning glance, promising death if he dared interrupt my bovine crusade.

It didn’t turn away his glance.

The announcer gave the time and praised the cowboy for his great work at S&M. A ten gallon smile to match his hat, the cowboy got back on the horse, released the rope, and went on his way, waving to the crowd as he left.

“Stop snorting, you’re making a scene,” Candace whispered.

Chapter Five

I ignored Candace. You can’t let a little rain ruin your half-hearted protest.

The calf, seeing its tormentor leaving, tried to get up and walk out. Hard to do when all but one of your legs is tied together. The poor thing struggled until two young boys ran in to mess with the rope. It was enough for me. I wasn’t all that into this “sport.” I decided to get a beer and look at smelly animals. Or smelly people. Or maybe even ride the Ferris Wheel. Anything but watch the poor calves chased around and tied up.

JP interrupted my attempt at standing.

“What’s up JP?”

“Just thought I’d come and explain things about this event so you get the full gist of it.”