The Cowboy Way

“It’s not just that they have the…um…bucking technique down pat,” Roxy was saying as Jo Beth carefully folded herself back down between the coffee table and sofa. “Or how great their hands and butts are. It’s their incredible stamina. That’s what’s really impressive.”

Melissa’s gulp was audible. She licked her lips. “They have incredible stamina?”

“Oh, yeah.” Roxy nodded sagely. “In-cred-i-ble. And it’s not just bull riders. It’s bronc riders, too. Think about it. They’re in the saddle, on top of those bulls and broncs, day after day. Sometimes two and three times a day during the summer season. And night after night, too. Isn’t that right, Cassie?”

Cassie nodded so hard she nearly toppled over.

“For a bull or bronc rider the job is all about holding tight and staying on till the ride’s over. That’s the cowboy way. And they tend to keep right on doing it that way.” Roxy flashed a wickedly smug little smile. After all, her husband had been a champion bronc rider. “Even after they retire.”

Jo Beth snorted derisively, deciding it was time to inject a little reality into the conversation. They could all use a dose of common sense to counter the braggadocio. And she could certainly do with a change of subject. All this talk of cowboys and sex was getting her hot. Okay, hotter.

“Cowboys may stay on till the ride’s over,” she said, “but in rodeo, remember, the ride’s over in eight seconds.”

“Yeah, but it’s a wild ride,” Cassie said. “And they’re always ready for a second and third go-round to better their score.”

Roxy hoisted her empty glass. “To the cowboy way!”

The other women whooped and hollered.

Jo Beth pressed the cold soda can to the pulsing vein in her neck to cool herself down. It didn’t help.

“WELL, BOYS, I think I’ll call it a night.” Hector rose stiffly from his seat, mindful of the arthritis that stiffened his joints when he sat in one position for too long. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and sunup seems to come earlier every day.”

“I think I’ll chuck it in, too,” Joel said. “I promised Margie I wouldn’t stay out too late.”

“Since when is ten o’clock late?” Tiny asked.

“Since Joel Jr. started teething and Margie started having her morning sickness at night.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all.” Tiny shook his head in disbelief. “Breakin’ up a perfectly good poker game because of a cranky baby and a woman who can’t keep her supper down.” He leveled a half-humorous, half-serious glance at Rooster. “That’s what happens when you get married, you know. You sure you wanna go through with it?”

“Sure as death and taxes.”

“Well, don’t say nobody warned you.” Tiny pushed to his feet. “See y’all tomorrow at the church.” He cuffed Rooster on the shoulder as he rose. “’Less you come to your senses before then, that is.”

“Hey, the game don’t have to break up just because Hector and Joel are out,” Rooster protested. “Five players is more than plenty to keep it interestin’.”

“Naw, I think I’ll head back to the motel and hit the sack. I’m kinda tired now that I think on it.” Tiny yawned hugely. “And my luck ain’t been all that good tonight, anyway.” He nudged Bob Evers with the toe of his boot. “You ’bout ready to roll?”

“Yeah, sure.” Bob lumbered to his feet. “You own the keys to the truck.”

“They ain’t goin’ to the motel no how, no way,” said Rooster as the door to the bunkhouse swung closed behind his two escaping groomsmen. “Tiny O’Leary ain’t never hit the sack before midnight for as long as I’ve known him, unless he had a woman in it with him. They’re headin’ over to that honky-tonk out on 81. They got strippers there.”

“I thought about getting strippers for tonight,” Clay said. “Bachelor party tradition an’ all, you know? But, then, I decided against it because, well, hell.” He shrugged. “I figured Cassie and the rest of the ladies wouldn’t like it if they found out we’d had strippers.” It was the truth, as far as it went, just not the whole truth. The whole truth was that he’d kind of lost his taste for that sort of thing even before the run-in with ol’Boomer had put a crimp in his love life. But that wasn’t the kind of thing one man admitted to another—especially when that man had a reputation to protect. “We could head over to the honky-tonk if you want to, though. It’s your bachelor party.”

Rooster thought about it for a second or two. “Naw.” He shook his head. “You’re right. The ladies wouldn’t like it none.”

“OH. MY. GOD.” Cassie shrieked and hid her face in a fringed throw pillow as the male stripper yanked off his tear-away pants and started gyrating in front of her wearing only a black satin jockstrap, fringed chaps and cowboy boots.

“Don’t you pay her no mind, darlin’,” LaWanda hollered encouragingly when Cassie refused to take his hand and join him on the floor. “You just swivel them hips right on over here to me. I’ll dance with you.” She grabbed Jo Beth by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “We’ll both dance with you.”

Jo Beth considered refusing for about two seconds. “Oh, what the hell,” she said, throwing caution to the wind. She’d had just enough alcohol not to be appalled at the up-close-and-personal sight of the bare buttocks of a complete stranger. “Why not?”

It was, after all, the closest she’d been to a nearly naked male body in some time. Given the way things were going, it might be the closest she’d get for some time to come. She put her hands on his hips, just above the low-slung waistband of his chaps and plastered herself to his back. LaWanda came at him from the front. Thus sandwiched together, they began to bump and grind their way around Cassie’s living room to vintage Hank Williams Jr. belting out “Honky Tonk Women” at full volume.

It wasn’t long before every woman in the room, including the blushing bride-to-be, had joined the love train.

“THIS IS DOWNRIGHT PITIFUL. Y’all know that don’t you?” Tom sat with his chair tilted back on two legs. His booted feet, crossed at the ankles, rested on the edge of the game table. A can of beer was balanced on his upraised knee. “Three grown men who can’t think of anything better to do at a bachelor party than sit around drinking beer and watching rodeo on ESPN.”

His comment brought no response from the other two men. Their attention was focused squarely on the bull-riding action taking place on the big-screen TV.

“See there?” Clay gestured at the screen with his beer. “See how that Taylor kid uses his spurs on the downswing?”

“Yep, I see.” Rooster nodded in acknowledgment. “Reminds me of another young bull rider I know once.”

“It damned well should,” Clay said, trying not to sound as disgruntled as he felt. “The kid told me right out loud that he copied that move by watching slow-motion tapes of me in action.”

“There ain’t no disgrace in that. You did the same yourself, once upon a time. So’d I. So’d Tom. So’d every professional cowboy out there who’s worth his salt. It’s the best way to learn aside from doin’ it.”

“Yeah, well.” Clay took a sip of his beer to avoid saying any more. Rooster was right. There was no disgrace in watching and learning from a competitor’s tapes; it was standard practice for professional athletes in every sport. But, hell, there was just something about the young bull rider currently strutting his stuff on the TV screen that rubbed Clay the wrong way. The kid was too cocky by half, for one thing. And he wasn’t near as good as he thought he was—a fact that would be amply illustrated when Clay was healed up enough to return to the circuit.

“Judgin’ by the way he’s movin’ up in the rankings, he appears to be learnin’ right well,” Rooster said.

“That’ll slow down some when he gets some real competition.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Meaning the two top contenders for the last four years running aren’t competing this year due to injuries and—”

“That’d be you and Marty Bates.”

“That’s right. Me and Marty Bates. Plus Bud Taggart’s been slowed down considerably by his bad back, so his scores aren’t near as high as they should be. It’s probably his last year on the circuit, if his wife doesn’t nag him into quitting before the season’s over.” He could feel the tension ratchet up inside him as he spoke, all out of proportion to the subject at hand, and had to make a concerted effort to keep his tone even. “But Marty will be out of his cast in another couple of weeks, and I’ll be back on the circuit next year. Then we’ll see how fast that Taylor kid moves up the rankings.”

“I thought the doctors told you not to plan on goin’ back on the circuit,” Rooster said.

The sudden wave of anger and anxiety that washed over Clay at his friend’s words took him by complete surprise. He had to clamp down hard—physically and emotionally—to keep from showing it.

“What the hell do doctors know?” he said, waving a hand dismissively. Casually. He had to be casual. “They told me I wouldn’t be back after that wreck in Abilene six years ago when I cracked those two bones in my back, either. Or the time I got kicked in the head and was unconscious for three days. They were wrong then. They’re wrong now.”

But Rooster wouldn’t let it go. “You were a lot younger then. Broken bones and broken heads heal faster when you’re young.”

“All that means is it’ll just take me a little longer to heal this time. It doesn’t mean I won’t go back.”

“It means you shouldn’t, though.”

“Leave it alone, Rooster.”

“I’m only just sayin’—”

“Leave it alone,” Clay said, more sharply than he had intended.

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