if he was trying to get his head in the game, but she needed to pay him back. She was no one’s charity case.
All the cowboys were watching now, no doubt waiting to see if any of the gossip might be true.
“I tell you, I’m looking forward to riding against Pocahontas,” Red was saying loud enough that all interested parties could hear. “I want to learn her moves—see what she’s really got.”
It wasn’t so much the observation that had her shivering in revulsion, but the reactions. Most of the guys laughed.
Okay, Travis, she thought as she held her head high, I won’t make you look bad if you don’t make me look bad.
His back stiffened as she approached, even though he wasn’t looking at her. He could tell she was coming. “Hey, Travis, how much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” he said without turning around.
“Are you sure? At least take back the amber. I won’t use it.”
“Give it to your dog” was the curt reply.
Fine. Be that way. “Thanks again. I appreciate it.”
Yeah, that grunt said the conversation was over. As she headed back to her bull rope, the crowd broke up and everyone went back to their own pregame rituals. That’s right. Nothing to see here, everyone move along.
“You got more out of him than I did,” Mitch said. He’d set up his bull rope next to hers.
“That’s not saying much. He won’t let me pay him back.” June dug the superblack rosin out of the bag. This was the good stuff. He might not like her, but Mitch was right. He’d respect her if she respected the sport.
Secretly, rosining up the rope was her favorite part of the preparation ritual that every cowboy had. Methodically running the sticky stuff over and over the rope with enough force to bind it to each part of the braid was akin to going under a trance. Her mind cleared. She didn’t think about papers or if she’d have enough money to get a hotel after tomorrow. She thought only about the bull she’d drawn, how her rope would sit tight around his chest and how she’d hold on until it was time to let go.
Everything else would fall into place. She had faith.
June kept her distance as the long-go rides began. Every night was set up the same. For the long go, everyone got to ride whatever bull they’d drawn. The top ten—anyone who made the eight seconds, and then the guys with the times that had come closest to the buzzer—then rode in the short go. Round two was how June thought of it. The best combined scores from both the long and the short go was the big winner. And whoever had the best score both nights was the champion of the weekend.
The individual winners varied from night to night, but the champion was almost always one of two people: Travis Younkin or Red Willis. Cracking that ceiling was going to be a lot harder than just getting to ride, but she was going to give it her best shot. Yeah, winning would be sweet and yeah, taking the whole weekend would go a hell of a long way toward proving she could ride any bull she damn well wanted, but there was more to it.
Beating Red was practically a necessity at this point. And beating Travis?
He’d learn soon enough what her father had never quite been able to grasp. No one was going to keep June Spotted Elk off a bull. Period.
She stayed clear of the platform, in case someone wanted to blame their bad ride on her existence. Instead, she guarded her rope—just in case—and braided her hair four times until it felt right while she studied the other rides. Mitch looked just as gangly up on a bull as he did walking around, all arms and legs flailing, but he made the time with an 83. The Brazilian hit the ground after 6.9 seconds. Whether or not he would make the short go was questionable.
Especially after she watched Travis ride. The difference between how he carried himself on a bull compared to all the guys around her was startling. Even compared to Mitch, who made the time, Travis looked fluid up there. June couldn’t figure out how he did it. He moved like a well-oiled machine for eight seconds, and spent the rest of the time limping around like the Tin Man.
It had to be the ride. The adrenaline that ran through his body—if it was anything like how June felt, then that rush alone was why he kept coming back for more. As nuts as it was to ride a bull, she couldn’t blame him. The adrenaline was what she lived for, too.
But more than that, when she was on the bull, she felt like she was showing everyone how wrong they were. The bulls didn’t like her, true enough—but that wasn’t because she was a woman or an Indian or poor or even all three of those things. Bulls didn’t like her because she dared to sit on them. No one was going to tell her she couldn’t.
Maybe it was the same for Travis. He shouldn’t be out there, not after his wreck. But who the hell was going to tell him not to? The only difference was that, if Travis did it even though he shouldn’t, no one said a damn thing. Yet everyone— especially Travis—seemed to think it was their God-given right to tell her what to do.
To hell with that.
Even though Travis came up limping, he scored another 90. He pumped his helmet even though it didn’t have the same oomph as throwing a hat into the ring. But his smile was short-lived. By the time he made it back to the chutes, the now-familiar scowl was back.
So far, five guys had made the time. She knew the odds were stacked against her, but she tried to focus. She would ride her bull, Twisty Tie, sooner or later. She was near the end of the long go—Mort was holding her back to build suspense, no doubt—and the wait was making her antsy.
“Spotted Elk!” The shout snapped her back to reality. “You’re up!”
Game time. She hefted her rope and climbed up onto the platform. Mitch and the Brazilian were waiting, as was the Preacher, but she was surprised to see Travis up there.
“Mount up, Girlie,” Mitch said with another smarmy wink.
She thought she saw Travis roll his eyes, but she couldn’t afford to wonder what he was doing up here if he wasn’t talking to either of them.
Twisty Tie was waiting for her. A medium bull, he wasn’t anything special. Regular brown color, regular bucking pattern. She could do this. She was a bull rider.
Once again, the Brazilian held her steady while Mitch pulled on her rope. And once again, he didn’t get it quite tight enough.
“You aren’t going to break me,” she said between clenched teeth as Twisty Tie shifted nervously.
That was apparently the sign Travis had been waiting for, because he pushed Mitch aside and took over the rope. Within seconds, she had her grip.
“Thanks,” she said. Later, she’d try to figure out why the guy who couldn’t even look at her without scowling was helping her out, but for now, she focused on the bull.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. “Presenting a first for you all here in Mesquite! We got ourselves a real sweetheart of a gal up there who says she’s going to win this thing tonight!”
The crowd roared—half with laughter, half with cheers. Well, at least the Cindy Lucas section cheered. She hated the laughter, hated being the joke. Instead of letting her anger distract her, she channeled
