Handful of Sky (18 page)

“I’ll be back at the end of the week.”

“B-b-b-but—” Shallie sputtered, too full of questions to know where to begin.

“Oh yes, I almost forgot. You’re coming with me to the awards banquet the last night of the show. I’ll be in town early enough to take you shopping. I can’t wait to get you peeled out of those damned jeans.” He laughed, and the door closed just as the boot Shallie tossed in mock fury landed against it. She bounced out of bed to watch Hunt, his bag slung over his shoulder, spring jauntily across the parking lot.

Take care of yourself. I love you,
she yearned to call after him. But it was too soon, still too soon. She let the curtain drop back into place and pirouetted around the room, a demented doll in a windup music box, dancing to the crazy tune humming through her veins.

W
hen Shallie arrived, her uncle
was already in the arena, organizing the ropers into heats and breaking the calves into different groups so that each man would get the animal he’d drawn. The ropers astride their horses were either yawning or fidgeting with their lassos. Shallie stopped to take in the scene before her. Already brimming with happiness, she was further warmed by the sight of her uncle. The opportunity to run a full-scale pro rodeo had worked on him like a tonic. He hardly seemed to need his cane as he moved among the mounted ropers.

“All right, Bedichek,” Walter announced to a young roper, “you’re up.” Bedichek backed his horse into the open-ended wooden box next to the chute holding the calf he’d drawn. Both man and animal faced the center of the empty arena.

The roper nodded his head, signaling that he was ready. The barrier in front of the calf dropped and the
animal scampered out like a frightened cat. A few fractions of a second later, Bedichek’s barrier dropped and he spurred his horse after the runaway calf, whirling a loop of rope over his head. The loop sang through the air, neatly catching the calf. Bedichek swung out of the saddle, hitting the earth at a running gallop.

The superbly trained filly he rode continued to fill her end of the event by backing up, so that the rope stayed taut until her rider reached the calf and threw it to the ground. Then Bedichek ripped a leather cord from where he’d tucked it into his belt and tied three of the calf’s legs.

“Eight point seven seconds,” Walter Larkin announced. “Heck of a good run, Bedichek.”

Shallie entered. “Go on and grab a cup of coffee,” she said to her uncle, taking the clipboard from his hand. “I’ll run this for a while.” As he left, Shallie turned to the men wearing jackets emblazoned with the Circle M who were ranged along the chute railings.

“Who’s doing the untying?” she asked, motioning toward the calf bound in the center of the arena. The chute helpers gaped at her as if she’d addressed them in Swahili. Finally a grizzled cowboy spoke up.

“You must be Sallie Larkin.” She recognized his voice. He was Johnnie, the hand who had come to Hunt’s hotel room door that morning.

“That’s Shallie,” she corrected him gently, holding out her hand. “And you must be Johnnie.”

Johnnie took her hand and announced to the others, “Meet our new boss, boys. Hunt says she’s in charge now.” The invocation of Hunt’s name worked a quick magic and, with no further discussion, two of the hands hopped down from the railing and raced to untie the roped calf.

Hiding her delight that there was to be no confrontation about her authority, Shallie looked down at the clipboard. “Wilkinson, you’re up. Pierson’s on deck. James, you’re in the hole.” The ropers jockeyed their horses around to occupy the lineup Shallie had dictated.

The rest of the day speeded by, gobbled up by the thousand and one tasks required to maneuver man and animal into the right place at the right time to ensure that a rodeo would take place. Through them all, Shallie remained buoyed by the elation which had carried her since she’d shared Hunt’s bed that morning. Her ebullience bubbled through everything she did and spilled over onto everyone she spoke with. It bewitched the normally grumpy rodeo secretary who kept the records and made her amenable to Shallie’s requests. It caused the cowboy who came to her complaining that the calf he’d drawn “must have been blind or drunk” to end up laughing along with Shallie at the ridiculousness of his charges. It even helped her to charm the prima donnas of rodeo—the barrel racers—out of their accusation that the cloverleaf pattern course they ran their horses through had been a few inches off the night before.

Shallie skipped from crisis to crisis, resolving them all as easily as if she’d been producing big-time pro rodeos for years. Her workload steadily increased as the hour of the evening performance approached. As the crowds began passing under Hunt’s giant face welcoming them to the rodeo, Shallie was matching riders with the broncs they’d drawn.

Jesse Southerland’s name was third on the list. He strolled in minutes later, with Trish Stephans draped over his arm. But Shallie was too busy to do more than note their arrival. By the time the final chords of the National Anthem faded away, Shallie had to have all the bronc riders and their mounts sorted out and ready to go. As a gifted vocalist sang an a cappella version of the “Star Spangled Banner,” she enjoyed her last quiet moment of the evening. From then until the end of the rodeo, Shallie would yell her throat raw.

“Let’s ride ’em,” she prodded those bronc riders who were slow to nod for their horses to be turned into the arena. Southerland was ready and waiting when it came his turn. Shallie didn’t watch his ride but knew it had been an outstanding one from the crowd’s cheers and Slick Bridgers’s feverish announcement, “Jesse Southerland has taken another giant step toward a second bronc-riding championship tonight! The judges have just awarded him a ninety-one for that spectacular ride.”

Southerland gathered up his gear and strutted out of the arena with Trish attached to his arm. While most cowboys were careful to downplay their accomplishments, Southerland allowed his to puff him up like a bantam rooster.

“Who’s ready to ride a horse?” Shallie called out, chuckling under her breath at the cocky figure the departing Southerland cut. With amazing good cheer, Shallie moved the contestants along so that they were right on schedule at the rodeo’s halfway mark.

The lights dimmed and a flatbed truck carrying a Country and Western singer dressed in a swirl of gold lamé that winked in the pale lilac spotlight rumbled into the center of the arena.

While the crowd enjoyed the halftime entertainment, Shallie lined up the team ropers so that they were ready to go the instant the singer had finished.

Finally Shallie was shouting, “Bull riders, are you ready?” to the men in the last event. Bull riding had been designated the world’s most dangerous sport by the Sportswriters of America, and the fear-whitened faces of some of the contestants showed that they fully appreciated that rating.

Shallie almost smiled at the bull riders’ characteristic limbering-up postures, which made them resemble crazed chickens pecking for food. Her smile died, however, as she remembered the two basic lessons about
bull riding. One. The rider weighed about 150 pounds. A bull could weigh up to one ton, 2,000 pounds. Two. While even the bucking horses would try to avoid a man, a bull would hunt him down and try to trample a fallen rider. They would charge a horse as well, which was why Shallie waited until her mounted pickup men had cleared the arena before she started the final event. They were replaced by a pair of clowns. Superb athletes beneath their greasepaint and fright wigs, their job was to distract the bulls from thrown riders long enough for the cowboy to have a chance to scramble over the arena fence. When the clowns were in place, she signaled for the bull riding to begin.

The first rider jolted into the arena, spinning on the back of a one-ton top that not only whirled but levitated as well. Shallie always tensed up during the bull riding. Perhaps because all that was needed was a glove, a rope, and an entry fee and any anonymous farm boy could become a bull rider. This meant that the contestants were younger, less expert, and more apt to be injured. But tonight the clowns, offering themselves and their antics to the enraged beasts, performed well, and all the riders were in one piece when they unbuckled their chaps.

Shallie breathed a sigh of relief when the last one was safely behind the chutes. Slick Bridgers again wished the crowd a good night and urged them to come back
tomorrow and to bring their friends. The smallest pang of envy pricked Shallie as she watched the crowd file out. For them the evening was over, while she and her crew had several hours of hard work ahead before they could call it a night.

Last night’s lack of sleep was catching up with her. She stifled a yawn against the back of her hand and pulled on her work gloves.

Two hours later, she was spreading hay for the horses with a pitchfork when Johnnie, the chute helper, approached her.

“ ’Scuse me, Miss Larkin.” He addressed her with a respect that made her feel eighty years old.

“Just call me Shallie,” she said with a laugh.

“You’ve got a phone call. Up in the secretary’s office.”

“Thanks,” she answered, handing him the pitchfork. She pulled off her gloves, tucked them in her back pocket, and headed for the office at a gallop.

“Hunt,” she exulted when she heard his voice.

“Damn, girl, I’ve been calling your cell all day.”

“Sorry, I left it in my jacket.”

“How did it go?”

“Terrifically. Not a hitch. Well, actually, I can’t say that. There were a few minor ones, but we ironed them out.”

“Wouldn’t be a rodeo without problems and you wouldn’t be a producer if you couldn’t solve them.”

“Tell me about you. How did it go in Red Lodge?”

“Well, I didn’t embarrass myself.” Hunt glossed over the question. “How did Southerland do tonight?”

Shallie hesitated, not wanting to tell him about his rival’s stellar performance that night. “Scored a ninety-one,” she said, abbreviating her answer.

Hunt didn’t respond immediately, then, “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do before I give that son of a buck a run for the big buckle. Look, I’m up in Cody, Wyoming, tomorrow night. Then I’ll be headed for Greeley, Colorado, and make it back to Albuquerque for the last day of the run. Have we still got a date for that awards banquet?”

“We most definitely do.”

“Good. Keep doing whatever you were doing, I’m sure it was right. I’ll see you.”

Shallie clung to the phone receiver for a moment. She held on to it just as she wanted to cling to this one perfect moment in her life. She prayed it would last and was beginning to believe that it just might.

*  *  *

She floated through the next eight days on a cloud of exhilarated energy, held aloft by Hunt’s nightly phone calls. The only moments of unpleasantness were her daily confrontations with Trish. The newly crowned Rodeo Sweetheart seemed to have been born to play the part of queen and actually bloomed even more lushly in the role
like some complex flower which can only blossom in the overheated environment of the hothouse.

“I just heard from Jesse,” Trish cooed to Shallie on the ninth day of the Albuquerque rodeo’s ten-day run. “He won the bronc riding up in Cody, Wyoming. Isn’t that wonderful?” Trish narrowed her glittering eyes, studying Shallie for a reaction.

Shallie tried to figure out what game the woman was playing. She must know that Hunt had ridden in the Cody rodeo. Was Trish sizing her up as a threat, trying to gauge the depth of her emotion for Hunt? Why did she care? Maybe Jesse wasn’t enough for her. Perhaps she wanted to keep Hunt on hold while she frolicked with the current champion. Whatever the explanation, Trish Stephans was clearly accustomed to having it all and having it her way.

“But Hunt did come in second,” Trish added, digging deeper for Shallie’s feelings. “He’s really doing pretty well for someone with his handicaps. The torn tendons, I mean.”

“Trish, I have a hard time figuring out just what you
do
mean.” Shallie had no desire to fuel the rivalry Trish was trying to create between them. Always at the back of Shallie’s mind was the fear that Trish could reel Hunt back in whenever she chose, whenever her fancy turned back to him. “How is Jake doing?” Shallie asked.

“How would I know?” Trish said without the slightest hint of concern.

“I just thought you might have called to find out after all that he did for you.”

“Did for me!” Trish echoed her words with outraged disbelief. “All he did was introduce me to a few friends. I did the rest for myself. Do you think an introduction would have been worth two hoots if I hadn’t had something to back it up with? No one can
do
anything for you, Shallie. You’d better learn that. You’ve got to be ready to do it all for yourself.”

The spiteful look curdling Trish’s face revealed more than Shallie cared to see about the ruthless person behind the glamorous facade. Then it was gone, wiped away as quickly as a picture on a television screen can be switched off, when a group of giggling girls came over to ask Trish to autograph their programs. Once again she was the serenely lovely rodeo queen catering to her adoring subjects.

The transformation chilled Shallie. Had Hunt seen beneath her mask of beauty? Shallie left Trish to her fans. Hunt would be back tomorrow, and tonight she had a rodeo to produce.

L
ord, woman,” Hunt muttered hoarsely,
“I knew you’d look good if I could ever get you peeled out of those damned jeans, but I never counted on you looking quite
this
good.” He sank back into a chair provided for the male auxiliaries of the patrons of the exclusive shop he had taken Shallie to. Shallie stood before him, modeling the third creation he had insisted she try on.

Shallie laughed, enjoying every second of the shopping trip she had been shanghaied into. She sucked in her cheeks, pasted a haughty expression on her face, and pirouetted in front of him like a haute couture model. She whirled, paused, and threw a wicked look over her shoulder. “Does zee dress please monsieur?” she asked in the most sultry French accent she could achieve.