Still, Cal’s decision was none of her business even if she wished he’d trust her enough to confide his fears. She had no authority to offer an opinion. Five-week booty call indeed.
* * *
SWALLOWING HER OWN PRIDE, she marched to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Voices raised in the living room. Or maybe it was only Cal. She set her phone on the dock, turned on “Uptown Funk” and parked her butt against the beveled edge of the marble counter and sipped the Texas craft-brewed beer she’d bought at the McKinney Walmart.
The kitchen door banged open and Cal stormed in, scaring Maggie to such a degree she dropped the bottle of beer.
“Goddamned nosy ass needs to stick to minding his own affairs and not mine,” Cal said, ignoring the bottle pumping ale onto the floor and grabbing himself a fresh one out of the fridge.
Maggie didn’t say anything. Merely scooped up the bottle and covered the spill with one of the new dish towels she’d ordered from Amazon. Seemed like staying quiet would be the best move, especially since she now knew her role.
She glanced up at Cal and he said pointedly, “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask,” she said, trying to maintain a cool distance.
He stared at her for a few seconds. “Okay, fine, my surgeon said I had some scar tissue and a small tear in the rotator cuff. I can have that crap cleaned out later and the tear repaired. After I retire. If I ever retire. I might decide to ride until I’m eighty. It’s my own goddamn business if I do.” He slammed the half-empty bottle onto the new countertop.
Maggie didn’t say anything.
“I guess you agree with Gary, huh?”
“Why would I?” she asked.
“Because my balance could be off. Because I’m rushing things. Because I could go out there, draw that fucking bull again and end up in the morgue.”
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t agree with him. But I understand his concern.”
“Bullshit. He just doesn’t want to listen to my mother whine about me being stupid. He thinks I’m going to lead Wyatt into bull riding.”
“Are you?”
“No. The point of going to Hal Sawyer’s is to scare the mess out of my brother. Sawyer’ll tell Wyatt he doesn’t have a chance in hell at riding in the PBR. I’m taking care of the kid. But, me, I’m fine.”
Maggie shrugged. “Okay.”
“I’m fine,” Cal said again. As though maybe he was trying to convince himself.
At that moment, Maggie understood so much about Calhoun Lincoln. About his past, his present and his dreaded future...the thing he wanted most to avoid. It was all so understandable. He was afraid, vulnerable and refusing to see anything other than the fact he wanted to go on being the Cal he’d always been. But life didn’t always care what someone wanted. Life bucked, twisted and stomped on a person’s plans the way Rasputin had done to Cal months ago. That bull had crushed something Cal couldn’t control and that was his body. Or maybe not. Maybe Cal knew his body better than an MRI did.
But Maggie couldn’t make Cal see he could be wearing blinders...and neither could anyone else. If Cal couldn’t be the bull rider he’d been for the past fifteen years, he would have to come to terms with it. On his own.
“So let’s forget about this and finish washing the house. I’ve decided to repaint it. We saved enough on the appliances that we have room in the budget. You know what Realtors say—a fresh coat of paint does wonders for resale value.” She started toward the back door.
Cal’s hand stopped her. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to men’s temper tantrums. Bud was infamous for them.”
“Seriously,” he said, folding her into his arms. “I don’t want you to think I’m stupid. I don’t have a death wish.”
But if he couldn’t ride at the top of his game, maybe he did. She couldn’t stomach the thought of him lying crumpled. What it must have done to his mother. What it must do to every family member of every bull rider who had gone down with serious injury. Still these cowboys climbed on bulls every weekend. Every day. They strapped themselves down on dangerous animals and most of them didn’t die. Most of them had scars, but they didn’t die.
“I know you don’t,” she said.
“Thanks for not lecturing me.”
Maggie stepped back. “I have no right to lecture you.”
For a moment he looked genuinely confused. As if he wanted to say she did have the right. But then he caught himself. “Right. So let’s get busy.”
“We already did,” she joked. She needed to lighten the mood and bring her sexy, aw-shucks, let’s-fuck cowboy back. Because Maggie couldn’t handle a Cal who hid his doubts, who got angry if ever questioned about his career. She wouldn’t jump into that swimming pool, especially without floaties.
Cal seemed to understand, because he gave her what she wanted—a lopsided cowboy grin. “I could be talked into Water Hose Hijinks Part Deux.”
“Oh, is that the name of the movie?” Maggie joked, giving him a pinch. “Because I’m no longer wearing a bikini.”
“You don’t need a bikini,” he said, following her out the door into the sunshine. Into the pretend world they’d created, a world where hurt couldn’t possibly touch them. Because they said it couldn’t.
14
HAL SAWYER HAD been a bullfighter before his knees gave out. Not wanting to leave the rodeo life he loved so well, he bought some bull semen from the owners of Disastrous D, two-time Bull of the Year and one of the rankest, meanest sumbitches ever ridden. Hal impregnated fifty cows on the ranch he bought from his father-in-law and ended up with a crop of bulls that frequently made appearances in the finals. His place was fifty miles southeast of Coyote Creek, which was handy for Cal’s purposes. He wanted Wyatt to get started on a young bull before taking a ride himself on one of Sawyer’s best up-and-comer bulls.
“Here,” he said, handing Wyatt one of his safety vests. He’d been teaching Wyatt the proper way to spur the bull, how to make sure the chaps were on correctly and the technique for braiding his rope. He’d drilled the kid on chute safety and how to dismount effectively. They’d watched countless YouTube videos, slowing rides down to point out mistakes. Cal still didn’t think Wyatt was ready, but he knew he had to let the kid try it all in real time.
“Thanks. I ordered one myself, but it hasn’t come in,” the kid said, swiping the sweat from his brow and squinting at the chute where a dappled bull waited.
“Get yourself set quickly. Some of these young bulls aren’t as accustomed to the chute so they can get impatient. Make sure the rope isn’t too close to the front legs. Don’t want to cut off oxygen. Hampers the ride and is dangerous for the bull.”
“You talking about soaking?”
Cal nodded. “I always play fair with the bulls. I owe them that. And they don’t owe me a damn thing but a hard ride. A healthy bull brings a better score if you do your job right.”
Wyatt pulled on the helmet and stepped onto the lower slat of the chute.
Hal Sawyer moseyed over. “You ready, kid?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sawyer. I was born ready, born to do this like Cal was.” Wyatt grinned, looking somehow younger in the bull rider protective gear. His borrowed chaps flapped around his thin legs the same way they had when he was a kid playing cowboy in the front yard.
Cal didn’t miss the flicker of doubt in his old friend’s eyes. “Let’s see it, then.”
Wyatt scrambled up and hoisted himself over the fence. Cal couldn’t see an ounce of fear in the kid, which was both admirable and scary. Cal leaned over and helped get the rope adjusted around the girth of the bull, double-checking the position, shaking the bell down.
Cal’s stomach contracted with nerves as his brother stepped over the back of the bull that bumped against the chute. Wyatt slid the loop down under the belly just as Cal had showed him, cinching the rope tight so the rosined part sat in the correct spot. Then the kid tied the rope off like a pro. The bull didn’t like the tightening and twisted its head. Cal wanted to reach over and pluck the kid out, refusing to let him ever climb back in the chute again. But he knew that wouldn’t work.
He helped Wyatt position his hand, pressing at his abs. “Get the posture right, Wy. Chest up. When he dips low, use your legs.”
Sawyer nodded to the ranch hand standing in the small dirt arena, making sure he was ready to swoop in and distract the bull when the rider came off.
“You call it, kid,” Sawyer said, tugging his stained ball cap down and signaling the ranch hand managing the gate.
Wyatt looked at Cal, his brown eyes filled with excitement, with something Cal recognized—determination. The kid nodded. “Cal taught me good. I’m ready.”
The ranch hand released the gate and the bull did what it was supposed to do—exploded into the arena, jerking Wyatt. The kid’s hand went up but came quickly back down as the bull kicked its back legs. The bull arched into the air, clearing a good foot of air beneath him. Roaring back to earth, the bull spun 180 degrees. Wyatt bounced around like a crash-test dummy, arm flailing, legs flying. A second later his brother went flying over the head of the two-year-old beast. Wyatt hit the ground and then scrambled to get out of the way as the bull turned, head down, coming for him.