Chasin' Eight (Rough Riders #11)(50)

Chase repositioned his equipment bag, trying not to smack into bystanders as he made his way to the registration table. The long line indicated he’d found the right place.
He automatically lifted his hand to adjust his cowboy hat, a nervous habit he’d had his entire life, but his fingertip connected with the curved bill of his ball cap, not his Stetson.
Everything about being here felt damn weird. He glanced around. Looked like the chutes were well maintained. The spectator stands were covered to keep out the worst of the midday heat and the occasional cloudburst. A brand new electronic scoreboard anchored one end. All in all, a nice county rodeo.
The line moved ahead a few feet. When Chase reached for his duffel bag, something struck him in the left shoulder. He glanced up sharply to see the young kid in front of him, backing away, a look of alarm on his face.
“Sorry. I lost my grip and it slid down… I didn’t m-mean to…”

Christ. The kid was barely eighteen and looked scared Chase was going to beat the crap out of him. Chase shrugged. “No big deal. I’m still standing.” He thrust out his hand. “Bill Chase.”

The kid dropped his equipment bag so quickly it missed Chase’s foot by barely an inch. “I’m Ryan, Ryan Ackerman.”

“Well, Ryan, Ryan Ackerman, what event are you competing in?”

Ryan’s face lit up like a firecracker. “Bull ridin’.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

“I’m official and everything.” Ryan fumbled for his wallet in his back pocket and whipped out a PRCA card.
Chase took it, checking the date. The card still smelled of new plastic, as it was only a week old. “Congrats are in order.”

“Thanks. I’m really excited to be here.”

No lie. The kid fairly bounced from boot to boot. Chase grinned. “You have been on a bull before, right?”

He nodded. “I was on the high school rodeo team. Ended up fourth in the county semifinals, but third place is the cutoff for finals so I didn’t get to go to state.”

“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

The line moved and Ryan kept a firmer grip on his bag even as he turned around to talk to Chase. “How long you been ridin’ bulls?”

“Officially? About eleven years. Off and on. Off, mostly lately. I decided to hit rodeos this summer to try and get back on track.”

Ryan’s gaze briefly dropped to Chase’s belt buckle, which was the fastest way to figure out if you were in the presence of a champion. But it wasn’t like Chase could wear his Man of Steel belt buckle at these events, so he’d opted for just a plain belt and buckle.
“That’s what I’m trying to do too. In between when I’m working construction for my mom’s boyfriend.”

“A man’s gotta make a livin’. So is your mom here, watching your debut?”

He shook his head. “She’s workin’ this weekend.”

Ryan was at the head of the line. He showed his PRCA pro card, and when the lady said, “That’ll be sixty-five dollars,” Ryan opened his wallet and froze.
Chase stealthily peered around the kid’s arm. He held two twenties, a five and four singles.
Ryan stammered. The woman manning the registration was sympathetic, but Chase knew she wouldn’t let the kid compete without paying the entry fee. Chase took a twenty out of his pocket and let it fall on the ground. Then he tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Is everything all right?”

When Ryan turned, Chase noticed the kid’s face was fire-engine red. “Ah, sorry, we’re just tryin’—”