“Hey, Cal, come with us,” Crank called across the parking lot. “We’re heading to the Rocking C for beer and women.”
Any other night and Cal might have joined Crank and some of the other rowdier bull riders, but he didn’t have the heart for it. He wouldn’t mind a beer but the noise and the chicks tipping drunkenly into his lap were so far off his menu at the moment, he might as well be in another restaurant. “Another time.”
“Your loss, man. These Bama chicks are smokin’,” Crank said, parking his hat on his amber locks and grinning like a fool at the two blondes walking beside him. They gave the requisite giggle.
Cal didn’t respond. Just climbed into his truck and fired the engine. Taking two pain pills from the bottle in his pocket, he popped them, swigging tepid water from the half-filled bottle in his cup holder. Then he headed back to his lonely motel room. Once there, he pulled off his boots and lay on the bed, trying not to cry.
Seriously.
Tears crept into his eyes as he tried to focus on the cheap light cover and not on the ache in his shoulder. Or the ache in his heart.
Never had he felt so alone, so resigned to a life such as this. But it had been the life he’d chosen. Every time a woman got close, he pushed her away. And this time his controlled five-week love affair had backfired like Charlie’s truck did every time he pulled out of the Triple J.
“Shit,” he said to the room. It, of course, said nothing back because rooms didn’t talk. At least not with words. This room, however, could tell the tale of a cowboy such as Cal. It would tell of wanderlust and fast-food dinners. It would share chapters on one-night stands and the hollow promise of a phone call. Chapters on cheap stolen towels, unused Bibles in the nightstand and coverlets that when hit with a blue light would reveal tales of horror.
Who lived this way?
Cowboys like him.
Cal rolled over on his good shoulder, closed his eyes and went to sleep on top of the flowered bedspread still wearing his jeans and pearl-snap Western shirt.
* * *
CAL MADE THE finals and he was only one spot out of the big money.
And he’d pulled Rasputin in the final round.
The bull who had landed him in the hospital, under the knife and nearly three months off the tours.
“You drew Razz?” Antonio asked, his husky voice over Cal’s right shoulder.
“That’s called fate,” Crank said before Cal could respond.
“That’s one thing I’d call it,” Cal said, trying to smile, trying to pretend his life was the same as it always had been. Thing was, what bothered him wasn’t his nerves. He’d ridden Sweet Baby Boy last night for an average score. Combined with his ride on Raisin’ Cane, he had enough to make the finals. Part of him felt relief at being able to strap on his chaps and jump right back into the arena, but the other half of him felt an emotional distance from the sport he’d always loved.
Maybe he didn’t have it anymore.
Not the physical ability. He’d proven that to himself whether he rode Rasputin or not. But it was the desire. Had it withered inside him or had he allowed the lazy lifestyle of eating fried chicken on Sundays at his mama’s dinner table paired with making love with Maggie as the sun came up to steal what had always burned so hot inside him?
He didn’t know.
But something was wrong with him.
Thirty minutes later he stood near the chute. Rasputin had been loaded and Cal was ready as he’d ever be. The ache in his shoulder was small in comparison to the adrenaline surging through his body. The last time he’d climbed onto Razz, he’d been defeated. Today he’d not leave the same way. Conviction sat inside him.
He climbed into the chute and slid his rope beneath the bull’s belly. Razz held still, the consummate professional. Crank helped him secure the rope and position the bells. Cal swung his leg over and settled onto the burly bull’s back, cinching the rope tight several times.
At his nod, the chute opened.
Rasputin was as wily a beast as his namesake and the bull knew how to buck a rider off first thing. He spun, bucked hard to the right, kicking up his back legs, catching air. Over and over the bull pounded the earth. Cal stopping thinking and fell into the ride, allowing his body to take over. The bull rocked, rolled and spun. Dirt kicked up, the faces of the cheering crowd nothing but a mottled blur as Cal tightened his legs, digging his spurs to lift himself and ride the monstrosity. Finally, after what seemed like forever the buzzer sounded.
Cal executed an awkward dismount, scrabbling for the nearest fence because he knew the bull had a nasty temper. And sure enough, Rasputin came after him, head low. Cal made it to the fence and pulled himself toward the top. But his shoulder popped and sharp pain shot up his arm. He faltered, his legs churning against the advertisements of sponsors. He felt the bull and heard the bull fighters. One wicked horn grazed his waist, but the fighters were able to distract the bull and guide him toward the exit.
Cal dropped down, breathing hard, clutching his shoulder. No sense in pretending like he didn’t hurt. No doubt his small tear was a large tear now. And it had nothing to do with the ride. He’d done it pulling himself out of harm’s way.
He spit out his mouthpiece and waited for the score.
His score flashed on the big screen: 89.7.
The crowd erupted into cheers, and Cal waved his cowboy hat, acknowledging them. The score was enough to move into first. With three other riders left, he could drop to second or third, but it was a solid score that might move him up in the overall rankings once the weekend was done.
Cal didn’t bother going to see Tubby and have him look at the shoulder. He knew he’d injured it again. Knew there was little to be done for it. He’d pop the pain pills and see how it felt in the morning. Once he reached the locker room, he thumbed the lid off his pills, popped a few and spent some time unwrapping his ankle and icing an old knee injury. He longed for a shower, but didn’t want to go back to the motel room alone. And he still had a contractual obligation to sign autographs after the event.
An hour later with a check in his pocket, a sense of accomplishment at having moved up to third in the overall standings, and a manageable ache in his shoulder, Cal walked into the Rocking C Bar and Grill.
The joint was rowdy with a jubilant crowd and two-for-one drink specials for anyone with a PBR ticket. Cal made his way through the crush to the bar, nodding at the people who called out “welcome back” and “nice ride.” Finally he pushed in beside Crank who was already two beers up on him.
“Nice job out there, old man,” Crank said, with a gleam in his eye. He slapped the bar and a girl in a tight halter top came running. “A Bud Light for my man here, sexy.”
The bartender whose name tag read Holly smiled. “Whatever you want, Crank.”
“That’s music to my ears,” Crank said to Cal with a laugh.
“I may be old, but I went three for three, snot-nosed brat,” Cal said, taking the ice-cold beer bottle from Holly who wore stars in her eyes for the cocky Crank.
Crank clinked his bottle against Cal’s. “Touché.”
Cal took a long draw, wishing he’d begged off. He’d wanted to get his mojo back, but all he could think about was what Maggie was doing at the moment. Was she popping corn and settling in to watch Netflix? Or was she watching over the barn cat due to give birth any day now? Or maybe she’d already gone back east.
He wished he was in Coyote Creek with her...or even New Jersey or wherever else she planned to go once she ditched the Triple J.
“You know what you need?” Crank said, interrupting his thoughts.
Cal eyed the younger cowboy.
“A cowgirl.”
Shaking his head, Cal took another swig. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“No, no. Me? I got tossed. You, however, need to celebrate your comeback. Like right down there is a pretty gal. Long dark hair, kick-ass rack, and she’s been watching you since you walked in.”
“No, thanks,” Cal said.
“But you ain’t even looked at her. And she’s prime real estate, my friend. I’m going to send her a drink.”
“Don’t,” Cal said.
“You don’t want her? Fine. I’ll take a crack.”
Cal focused on peeling the label from his beer and wondered why he’d agreed to come meet the guys for a drink. He knew what went down after each event. If a guy didn’t get in a brawl, he spent all night weeding out which chick he’d take back to his hotel room. That a roommate might be in the next bed didn’t matter. Sometimes the after-rodeo party became a Roman orgy.
Not his scene.
Which is why he should take his ass back to the motel, load his truck and head back to Maggie. He missed the hell out of her and maybe this wasn’t love...or maybe it was. But either way, he couldn’t live like this anymore. He’d kiss her feet, lick her boots or whatever else she deemed appropriate for an idiot like him. He set his half-empty beer on the bar and prepared to leave Mobile and head home.
Home.
He’d called Coyote Creek home before but he’d never felt as if it was truly where he belonged. But now? Yeah. It felt like where he wanted to be.
Please, God, let her still be there.
“Thanks for the drink,” someone said behind him. Cal stiffened because her voice sounded so sweet and familiar.