let you keep that in the dorm?”
“Mitch. Don’t think coyote. Think mutt. A well-trained mutt.” To illustrate her point, she dropped the leash and snapped her fingers. Within seconds, Jeff was seated at her side. Another snap, and he was back in the car, patiently waiting in the front seat. “And they didn’t let me keep him in the dorm. He lived in the bushes around campus for a year until I got my own place.”
The Brazilian grinned, his normal reserve completely gone. Maybe it wasn’t too hard to understand a man who never spoke, because his eyes seemed to be saying, Can I pet your dog again?
June let out a low whistle and Jeff came bounding back out of the car. “Go on,” she said. He didn’t need another invitation. He and the Brazilian hopped up onto the Bronco’s tailgate and began to play-wrestle like they were childhood buds.
“He, uh, he ever bite anyone?” Mitch asked, cautiously moving in to pat Jeff.
“No one who didn’t have it coming.”
She imagined they made quite a sight, the Indian woman, the Brazilian and the Heartbreak Kid, all standing around a dog who looked like a wild animal and acted like a puppy in a coffee shop parking lot. Good people-watching, June noted with a smile.
“We’re getting dinner,” Mitch said as Jeff licked his hand. “You want to come?”
Dinner sounded good, in an expensive kind of way. She needed to keep her cash to get her through the rest of the weekend. “Nah. I’ve got dinner waiting for me.” She hoped. Still no messages on her phone. “You guys go on.”
“You going to be here tomorrow?”
“Probably. But I might swing by the True West store down in Dallas.” Mitch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I want to get a better shirt for the Real Men Wear Pink thing—every Friday night, right? You want to come?”
Mitch’s mouth flopped open with the “yes” on the tip of his tongue, but the Brazilian shook his head no as he slapped Mitch on the shoulder. At the sudden movement, Jeff let out a low growl.
“That’s all right, Girlie. But if you find anything good, you tell me.”
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?”
Paulo stuck out one hand, even as the other one was getting in a last rub on Jeff’s ears. They were all still friends.
Which Mitch confirmed when he said, “Super 8, Girlie. If you need anything.”
“YOU CAN DO THIS,” Travis said for the fortieth time since he’d dragged his butt out of bed that morning. “Just doing your job.”
A job he despised more every day. Once upon a time, personal appearances at True West Western Wear were ego trips that paid well. Now, showing up at the store nearest to wherever he was riding that weekend and doing his time felt more like a prison sentence.
Travis Youngkin In Person 1-5, the True West sign announced to passers-by.
Youngkin. He’d been doing appearances at this store in Dallas for five years, and they still couldn’t spell his name.
“Tough biscuits,” he scolded himself. A job was a job. And he was lucky enough to have a job that allowed him to follow the circuit. All he had to do was show up at the nearest True West store and press the flesh. And for that, they gave him five thousand dollars a year with the option of a minimum-wage desk job during the off-season. And they put him on the company health plan.
Before the wreck, when he’d been at the top of his game, he’d been pulling down twenty times that in sponsorship deals. But those days were long gone. He was in no position to be picky.
If he could get back up to the bigs, things would be different. Oh, he knew he wouldn’t get the deals—or the women—he’d gotten back in the day. But he wouldn’t be scraping by, basically living in his truck. He’d be comfortable again, and when a man was as shattered as he’d once been, comfort was worth a lot. Almost as much as a health plan.
Travis parked in the back row and put his game face on. The Dallas store was one of the biggest True Wests around. Most were crammed into strip malls, but this one was the size of a big-box store. It had everything the average cowboy could ever need—including bull-riding supplies.
This would be four hours of smiling and signing and posing. He could do this.
The walk in wasn’t too bad. His joints were feeling good today, which was a positive sign for tonight. His shoulder had recovered from the abuses of a week ago, and his hip was quiet.
The store seemed empty. Finally, he located a guy wearing the True West store vest. “Hi, I’m Travis Younkin.”
“And...? Did you need help with a size or something, mister?”
“No, I’m Travis Younkin.” All he got was a blank look from under pierced eyebrows. “I’m the bull rider who’s doing a personal appearance here today.”
“Here? Are you sure?”
Had the guy not seen the billboard outside? It was going to be a long day. “Ask Todd about it. He knows who I am.”
If only it were that simple. First, the clerk asked another clerk, and then those two geniuses asked a third guy, all while shooting suspicious glances over to where Travis stood. He tried to keep the friendly smile on his face, like he enjoyed mistrust and doubt. Finally, the third guy came over. At least he was wearing real cowboy boots.
“Mr. Younkin? Todd’s out today, but we’ll get a table set up for you, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, forcing a smile so big that he felt the wire mesh in his jaw pull. “I’ll be looking at the boots. Let me know when you guys are ready.”
The boot section was like coming home to Travis. Sure, most riders coveted the famous bull-riding buckles—and the bunnies that went with them—but for Travis, a well-made pair of boots in an exotic animal skin were the ultimate sign of success. He could stand here and admire the ostrich-skin boots for hours.
Four hours, if it came to that.
Once, he’d had several nice pairs of ostrich-skin boots, but those had been sold off to help cover his medical bills, along with most everything else he’d owned, including his buckles and what was left of the family farm in Nebraska. All he had left from before the wreck was his truck and his beat-to-hell camper.
They had the Lucchese boots. He picked up the cognac-brown boot, his hands tracing over the stitching on the shaft with appreciation. If only the stitches that held him together had been done with this much care.
“Say, those are nice,” a voice said behind him.
Travis turned to see a Johnny-come-lately cowboy. The stuff on his back was all good—Travis recognized the Stetson hat and the alligator-skin boots—but on this guy, it all seemed a bit off, like an SUV that had never seen a dirt road. “They are. Top-of-the-line. Full quill on the foot here, and that’s lemonwood construction. These
