Calder Storm (Calder Saga 10)

“Blue eyes, five-seven or thereabouts.” Trey struggled to call up more specific details, only to realize that he had focused only on the deep blue of

her eyes and the ripeness of her parted lips. “Her hair was long, I think,” he added, recalling the vague impression of its darkness framing her face.

“Good-looking, was she?” The clerk smiled in understanding.

Irritation rippled, but Trey wasn’t sure whether it was directed at himself or the clerk. Again he deliberately made light of his interest in the brunette. “You know she was.”

He scooped up the key card and moved away from the desk toward the hall, again seeking to push the encounter from his mind.

Chapter Two

The rodeo grounds were a hive of activity. Few seats in the open-air grandstand were vacant, and unseated spectators—garbed in the almost-requisite boots, blue jeans, and cowboy hats—milled about the grandstand’s front apron, either doing a bit of socializing or standing in line at the concession stands. For the time being the bulk of their attention wasn’t focused on the arena. The collective sound of their voices created a steady thrum of background noise.

Over the loudspeakers the auctioneer maintained his steady singsong chant while a big gray bull trotted loose in the arena, having dispatched the rider from its back. The bull’s breeding was mostly Brahman, as evidenced by its size, the distinctive hump on its back, and the pendulous dewlap that hung from its neck. After halfheartedly hooking a horn at a rodeo clown safely ensconced in his barrel, the bull trotted for the open gates and the holding pens beyond. As if on cue, the auctioneer brought his gavel down.

“Sold!” The emphatic announcement swept through the crowd. Once again eyes swung toward the arena with the expectation for action even as the announcer declared, “You’ve bought yourself a good one, Fred.”

A fresh flurry of movement broke out around the chutes, most of it centering on the number two chute, its side rails clotted with cowboys. Teamwork was required to get the rigging looped under an animal, and a number of fellow riders were always on hand, ready to lend a hand with the task. There were the usual snortings and clash and clatter of hoof and horn slamming against the chute as the bull protested both the cowboys’ efforts and the tight quarters that trapped him.

In the crowded alleyway behind the chutes Trey listened to the commotion from chute two with only half an ear. The air had an electric feel to it. The familiar smells of dust and animal excrement were in his nostrils.

There was also the faint scent of fear, most of it coming from the fresh-faced cowboy standing before him, double-checking the fit of the padded flak jacket he wore.

“I kinda wish I had one of those helmets some of the pro riders are wearing,” Tank Willis murmured on a wistful note. Although given the name Marvin at birth, his penchant as a boy for swimming in stock tanks had long ago saddled him with the nickname of Tank.

“You don’t need it,” Johnny Taylor scoffed, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked inside his left cheek.

“Oh no? Well, get a load of the horns on that bull,” Tank countered with heat.

Unconcerned, Johnny responded with a mild shake of his head. “The weight of the helmet can throw you off if you’re not used to it. ’Sides, that bull shakes out to be an easy ride. He’ll take a couple hops out of the chute and start spinnin’ to the left. All you gotta do is stay on your hand and don’t slip into the well.”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” Tank grumbled, not for the first time. “I should’a stuck with the broncs.”

“In that case,” Trey said with a grin, “all you have to do is tell yourself that you’re straddling a bronc with horns.”

Tank found nothing remotely humorous in Trey’s remark.

The gate was opened on chute two, releasing the bull and rider it contained. With Tank due to ride next, the time for further advice—well-meaning or otherwise—was over. Spurs jangling, he climbed onto the chute rail.

“You can do it, Tank.” Trey gave him an encouraging slap on the back.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Tank muttered to Johnny, “You’re buying the beer tonight, by God.”

Trey found a vacant perch along the arena-side rail next to the chute and hauled himself onto it. He had a glimpse of the rider from chute two getting flung to the dirt.

A scattering of applause from the crowd accompanied the announcer’s call of “No time.”

Meanwhile Tank had lowered himself into the chute within inches of the white-faced bull’s back. Its horn spread was nearly as wide as the chute. As the auctioneer broke into his rhythmic call for bids, Tank took up some of the slack in the buck strap. The bull snorted and swung its big head, cracking a horn against a side rail.

“Easy. Easy,” Tank murmured uselessly and waited a beat for the animal to settle down before inching the strap tighter.

The bull lunged upward, front hooves reaching for the top of the chute. A half dozen hands, Johnny’s among them, hauled Tank out of harm’s way while a skinny photographer in a billed cap and multi-pocketed vest snapped a couple of quick shots of the action before abandoning his perch at the head of the chute.

Once all four feet were back on the ground, Tank again inched his way closer to the bull’s back, his features set in a look of grim determination. By the time the auctioneer finished the bidding on the previous bull, Tank was pounding his leather-gloved fingers over the rope to ensure a tight grip. The bull shifted, muscles bunching when it felt the rider’s weight settle on its back.

With his free hand in the air, Tank didn’t give the bull a chance to throw another fit in the chute. He gave the gateman a short, sharp nod, and the gate was thrown open.

The big Brahman cross exploded out of the chute. “Stay with him, Tank!” Trey shouted as Johnny climbed onto the rail beside him.