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  The two of them stood behind the bucking chute. Crash Bar stood beneath them wearing Cooney’s bronc saddle. All three were waiting tensely for the team roping event to finish. “The only thing I wish I could tell you is how to set your rein. Most of the guys who got bucked off left it too long. Crash just holds his head back, and they flop right out of the seat. I admit I’ve tried to outguess him. I took it short and got lucky twice. But if you leave it short, and he bogs his head, it’s sayonara, baby!” counseled Straight, who’d drawn Crash Bar before.

  “Six of one or a bird in the bush,” malapropped Cooney.

  “You could try somewhere in the middle,” said Straight. “But you won’t do that. I know you. It’s all or nuthin’.” He smiled.

  When the bronc in the chute ahead of them went, Cooney straddled his horse. He eased down as Straight kept a hand hold on his vest, ready to pull Cooney out if the horse acted up. His boots found the stirrups, and he held them back like a jockey. Cooney took the soft, loosely braided rein with his right hand and pulled it straight along the neck and over the pommel. With his left hand he reached down and gripped the rein.

  Straight watched to see where Cooney took his grip. “A fist,” he observed aloud. Then Cooney measured one finger. He was leaving a short rein. All or nuthin’, thought Straight.

  Cooney glanced quickly up at Straight and said, “Gotta try it.”

  The next few seconds became a whirlwind of gate ropes being moved, the horse’s head being steadied, legs being cocked, hat being pulled down, rein being lifted, body being flexed, and head nodding!

  Bang! The gate swung wide. Crash Bar arced into the sky; the crowd cheered! At the apex of the leap, when Cooney was at his greatest distance from the Earth, he considered for a microsecond that he would know, when Crash Bar’s front feet hit the ground, whether or not he had guessed right on the length of rein.

  If the big horse held his head up, like Cooney had bet, it would be smooth sailing. He would have considered the other option, but he ran out of microseconds.

  Crash Bar came down on his front feet and stuck his head between his knees, and Cooney was catapulted into the loamy Canyon County dirt! It was not a graceful landing. He actually did a complete flip to land face down.

  CHAPTER 24

  August 19, Friday

  Caldwell Night Rodeo

  Pica’s scheduled exhibition bronc ride had raised the level of excitement for Friday night’s performance. In the days since Neville Schneer’s column had come out, she had done four radio and television interviews locally in the Treasure Valley. The first, a 6:45 a.m. on Channel 7’s Morning Show.

  Just to clear the air, women are not prohibited from competing in the U.S. PRCA, but the prohibition is widely believed because so few women participate. However, it is true that women are not allowed to compete with men in the Canadian Pro Rodeo Association.

  The night before the Morning Show the producer had read Neville Schneer’s column and had prepped the on-air hosts. A summary of the interview went something like this:

  “We understand that women are not allowed to compete in the saddle bronc . . . bronco? Am I saying it right? . . . riding contest, yet you have won prizes for riding these wild horses?”

  “That’s right, Lauree, but it . . .”

  “That must really chap . . .”

  “Great pun, Lauree!” teased the male co-host.

  “Oh, ‘chaps,’ ha, ha. That must really make you feel totally discriminated against.”

  “Well, it’s not that they aren’t allowed . . .” tried Pica.

  “Have women, cowgirl women protested? I mean they should. One of the cowboys, Cooley Beldam, was quoted as saying ‘women can’t ride.’ Pretty insensitive, if you ask me. Chauvinism is alive and well!”

  Turning to the camera Lauree struck her serious pose, which involved pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows. “What say you, girls? Let’s show up at the Caldwell Night Rodeo tonight to support Pica D’TroiT, lady bronco buster!”

  Two more radio and one television interview took up the cause. File had located a copy of Schneer’s column and the inflammatory quote for Pica to read.

  “. . . Better baking cookies and having babies! Can’t ride broncs!” she responded in disgust, then turned the hurt inward. Had he really said that about her? Was it before or after their brief encounter Wednesday night? Two-faced, conceited, and lying were her top three adjectives. She concentrated her rage into psyching up for the big ride that night.

  Pica tried to call her dad but was unable to reach him. But she knew what he would have said: “Be smart. Don’t get distracted. Keep your mind right side up. Otherwise, you’ll prove his point.”

  That night twenty-five or so redneck good-time girls protested for women’s rights to ride. The carried a few signs and a few beers and were thrilled to perform for the local TV stations that were filming the minihappening.

  Needless to say, Pica’s appearance at the OVER THE TOP ATHLETIC COSMETICS LIP LASTER booth created a mob scene.

  Pica was the only one who seemed to see no humor in the hurrah. She and the local activist director of the National Organization of Easily Offended Women.

  After the rodeo had begun, the announcer made the protesters part of his patter.

  At the conclusion of the saddle bronc riding he called for a prerecorded drum roll. “And . . . now what we’ve all been waiting for! An exhibition bronc ride by OVER THE TOP’S LIP LASTER GIRL! The one, the only, our own queen for a day, from Pincher Creek, Alberta, Canada, our neighbor to the north! Welcome Pi-Ka Deeee-Troy-Tuh!”

  As prearranged, Pica came galloping into the arena posting the OTT flag. She was wearing her buckin’ horse chaps, a long-sleeve buttercup-yellow satin shirt with light green yoke and cuffs sporting dark fringe, and a furry Larry Mahan hat that had come out of the chute with her more than once. Her strawberry-blonde tresses trailed like turbulent golden smoke.

  The horse she was riding was a magnificent palomino stallion tacked out in black and silver gear. They made a complete circle, then whirled to the center of the arena, did a 360-degree roll each way, backed ten yards, then the stallion reared up like Trigger!

  Every horseman in the crowd, from backyard owner to dressage trainer, got goose bumps.

  There was no doubt to anyone in the grandstands and behind the chutes that this girl could ride.

  As Pica gathered up the big stallion and controlled him around the arena and out the gate, the announcer primed the pump. “We have a real treat tonight. The Caldwell Night Rodeo has invited Pica D’TroiT, OTT’s LIP LASTER girl, to exhibition a saddle bronc. Pica hails from Pincher Creek, Alberta, and comes from a family of good Canadian bronc riding brothers.

  “For you ladies who have come tonight to support Pica . . .” The protesters cheered as if he was Pat Sajak. “And saw the news today . . .” Boos interrupted his attempt to inform. “We’re going to give her a chance to prove him wrong!” Wild cheering broke out.

  “Pica is going to ride Crash Bar,” intoned the announcer, “one of Cervi Rodeo Company’s best bucking horses. Matter of fact, two nights ago this horse bucked off Cooney Bedlam, national finals qualifier and presently third in the world standings.” A chorus of loud, extended booing came from those in the audience who made the connection between the insult and its author.

  “Dropping down in chute number 4. Her LIP LASTER partner, past world champion Straight Line, is helping Pica get set.”

  “You sure you don’t want the vest?” asked Straight, referring to the padded safety vest most rough stock riders wear nowadays.

  “Nope.” She bit off the word, her body tight as a spring.

  “But . . .” Straight started.

  “Don’t worry about me, Straight. I know what I’m doing.”

  She was thankful she had continued to ca
rry her bronc saddle in her camper. Because of her small size, it would have been difficult to borrow one.

  The horse fell back a little. Straight, who had his hand around her belt in the small of her back, lifted her six inches above the saddle.

  The horse settled again. Pica dropped down onto him instantly and leaned back.

  Ah, dear reader and rodeo fan, this is the funnest, not funniest, funnest part of writing rodeo novels. Does she ride Crash Bar? Does she get bucked off? Is Cooney watching? What will be his reaction? Not to mention the reaction of Turk Manniquin, her employer, and Oui Oui Reese, her nemesis. So many ramifications, so much riding on the next 8 seconds.

  And what was Crash Bar’s part in the drama? Just to do his best, friends. He wins either way as long as he does what he is fed to do: buck off the rider or help her get a good score. It is a simple and honorable occupation, that of bucking horse. It is on a par with mailman or a prisoner on the highway litter patrol.

  Pica knew the book on Crash Bar. She had to make the same decision as Cooney had the night before, that is, how much rein to give the horse. Straight had warned her about Cooney’s gamble—that he had gripped too short and had been pulled out over the top. Pica’s resentment told her to do the opposite, but she had a secret. She always took a booth break during the saddle bronc riding to watch. Cooney was her favorite bronc rider. He took chances and “rode the fire out of them,” as critics were wont to say. That was her preferred style as well.

  At the last second she slid her grip a full fist width up the rein, shortening it. She lifted her arm and nodded her head. Straight started to say, “You sure?” But it was lost in the cacophony of the audio man’s explosion and the crescendo of the crowd.

  Crash Bar did her a dirty. He raced two steps into the arena before he broke in two! But he was going too fast to get his head very low. Pica rang the rowels along his side. He rose as she swung her legs forward to reset the spurs on the side of his neck.

  Two good bucks, and he wobbled on the downbeat toward his left. Pica got off center of her saddle. She held to him a fraction of a second longer with her left spur. It was enough to regain her balance. The last four seconds she rode him like a wildcat trying to open a Christmas gift.

  At the whistle she did a flying dismount in the style of Neatsfoot Hawkins, former world champion saddle bronc rider.

  Which looks easy to a spectator, but try it yourself off the fender of your car at 20 mph next time you go to town.

  The crowd’s reaction was as expected. Pica’s collateral had squared itself, algebraically speaking.

  She took bows for a full minute, pointed to the booth, blew everyone a sumptuous kiss, and left the arena the new rodeo “It Girl.”

  Cooney and Straight had watched her exhibition ride from the catwalk behind the chutes.

  “Man, she pulled that one outta the fire!” said Cooney.

  “Yes.” Straight agreed. “Not too high on style points, but ya gotta give her credit.”

  “She took a short rein, didn’t she?” asked Cooney. “Did you tell her to do that?”

  “No,” answered Straight, “it was her idea. Oh,” Straight said. “I told her I’d get her saddle. I better go grab it. I’ll be back to put you down on your bull.”

  Pica was headed toward the arena exit when she looked up to see Straight’s backside climbing down and Cooney watching her. He gave her a big smile and a thumbs-up. She returned him a slit-eyed glare, did an eyes-front, and disappeared.

  A cowboy standing near Cooney saw it all. “I guess that will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Cooney, puzzled.

  “Only that girls can’t ride buckin’ horses. That’s all. Just insulted half the human race. Probably will get you blackballed from the Buckle Bunny Hop and hung in effigy on Oprah.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” asked Cooney.

  The cowboy explained.

  Cooney shrank inside.

  CHAPTER 25

  Last Ten Days of August

  Pica’s Story

  Over the next two weeks Pica did not make a single rodeo booth appearance. She was too busy. She had her picture in Sports Illustrated, USA Today, and the High River Regional. She appeared on The View, Ellen DeGeneres Show, Larry King, Tonight Show, and ESPN. Cooney rode four bulls and four saddle broncs and placed in the money five times. Straight worked the OTT booth next to cardboard likenesses of Pica, answered questions about her, and gave away her autographed posters. He was beginning to show definite symptoms of anxiety and depression. He dropped to sixteenth in the world standings.

  At 7:30 a.m. on the day after Pica’s famous ride, Lick Davis had been sitting on the south-facing veranda watching the monsoon clouds jostle around in the sky. When the family and friends phone line rang, Lick answered, “Yes?”

  “Lick, it’s Cooney Bedlam.”

  “Cooney! Are ya callin’ to invite me to the wedding?”

  “Oooo, no,” moaned Cooney. “I think I have brought down the wrath of Amazon dot Estrogen on my sorry self.”

  “Tell me about it, Son,” said Lick, relishing the opportunity to manipulate young minds.

  By the end of the sad tale Cooney had tears in his eyes. So did Lick, but his were tears of hilarity. Lick had actually covered the speaking end of the receiver with his scarf to avoid disruption of the narrative.

  “So by the time I showed up at the club where the dance was, a bunch of irate girls chased me back out the door, throwing beer on me and calling me names.”

  “Like what?” Lick managed to choke out.

  “Common bred, second string, no dice, diaper bag, bad draw, goat colon . . .”

  “Goat co . . .” Lick was gasping. Finally he gained some semblance of control. “First off, I’d say in her eyes you are lower than whale scat in the Marianas Trench. Is there anything else you could possibly do to make her opinion of you worse?”

  “Maybe shoot some baby seals,” offered Cooney, “or call for a tax increase on orphanages.”

  “Cooney, do you ever get the feeling that this romance isn’t meant to be?”

  “I don’t give it that kind of thought,” said Cooney in love. “I’ve just got it in my mind that we could . . . be friends, I guess. I wrote this last night after I got tarred and feathered in the bar. If she only knew how I feel, get to know the real me.

  She’s the passion that I ride for, she’s my clarity of mind.

  She’s the breath of open spaces all my life I’ve tried to find.

  I’ve been captured by her tiger, I’m enraptured by her lamb.

  She defines my whole existence and revealed the Who, I am.

  Lick let that eloquent statement hang in the atmosphere for a respectful moment, then spoke. “Cooney, there are men doing life in prison on less evidence than we have showing you are guilty of screwing up royally. It is apparent that you are in felony denial.

  “There can be two approaches: One, wait patiently ’til hell freezes over and hope she forgets your transgressions, or, two, exacerbate the wound and hope that a new wave of inflammation will overcome the chronic revulsion she obviously feels for you.”

  “Maybe you could explain,” said Cooney.

  “If you wait you won’t make it any worse than it is. And if you chase her you might could miraculously break right through to her heart,” explained Lick.

  “Sounds risky to me,” said Cooney.

  “Dang right,” said Lick, “but so is ridin’ bulls, fallin’ in love, and tryin’ to peel a grape with an electric sander.”

  They talked a long time and eventually got around to Straight’s riding slump. Lick gave Cooney some ideas that might help both him and his friend. In particular, Lick referred them to a witch doctor.

  Meanwhile Pica has a case
of Cooney. It feels like a chronic dry cough or maybe a blackberry seed stuck in your teeth. To make matters worse, she has no one to whom she can vent her spleen because she’s been whisked away on a two-week media blitz. It is exhausting. She has called her dad several times, but her Cooney affliction is not a good subject for a father-daughter conference.

  Ten days into the tour, at the Atlanta Marriott Hilton, she finally cracked.

  Nova Skosha, the OTT publicity director, had been sharing escort duties with KroAsha LaTourre. KroAsha was Turk Manniquin’s older half-sister from Baton Rouge who was occasionally hired to help OTT in special situations. She had a knack for dealing with sensitive, high-care celebrities and had spent the last four days with Pica. This particular night they were staying in a suite with two adjoining bedrooms. They were dreading a 4:00 a.m. wakeup call to do Atlanta Public Radio. At 11:30 KroAsha heard Pica crying.

  “What’s the matter, Baby?” said KroAsha as she sat down on the edge of Pica’s king-size bed.

  Pica was curled up in the fetal position, weeping, her back to KroAsha. KroAsha laid a hand on Pica’s hip, then hefted herself onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard. She continued to gently massage Pica. Then she began to sing in her husky Satchmo voice:

  “I hear birds singin’, wind in da trees, crickets are clickin’, da hummin’ of bees, and I say to myself, God’s in Heaven today . . .” lullabying Pica, chasing discontent and worry from her mind.