you rate your own makeup artist?” Len Haley asked.
Tom had introduced her to the other riders, but apparently they assumed she was part of the support team.
“Jo’s not staff,” Tom said. “She got interested in bull riding at the Madison Square Garden event so I invited her for this weekend. She took pity on me when she got a look my face this morning.”
Okay, he wasn’t advertising their exact arrangement; she would play it his way.
The van dropped them back at the hotel and the other riders excused themselves with a touch to their hat brims. Jo stood in the lobby with Tom, trying not to drool at the aromas of food wafting from the dining room. Her stomach grumbled.
Tom laughed. “Sounds like I need to feed you. Now you see why I stocked up earlier—a cowboy never knows when he’ll have time for his next meal.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jo said. She followed him to the hotel dining room and halted in dismay. Although it was nearly two o’clock, every table was filled.
“We should be able to seat you in a few minutes,” the hostess said. “If you care to wait—”
“Tom!” Len Haley waved from a booth near the buffet. “Come sit with us. I called ahead for Sophie to get us a table.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if we do.” Tom ushered Jo into the booth and slid in beside her.
The young woman with Orphan Annie curls reached a slender hand across the table to Jo; her thumbnail sported a dramatic bruise. “Hi, I’m Sophie, Len’s top hand when he’s on crutches.”
Jo pegged Sophie’s accent as one of New York’s outlying boroughs, or maybe North Jersey. She introduced herself. “Sounds like you’re a long way from home,” she said.
Sophie laughed. “You’ve got that right—I’m a Hackensack cowgirl. I visit my folks when the tour hits the East Coast and then hightail it back to Texas where I should have been born in the first place.”
Len grabbed her hand. “See this? She can stick this little paw into a mama cow and turn a stuck calf like a real pro.” He kissed the blackened thumbnail. “But the squeeze chute still bites her sometimes.”
Sophie punched his arm. “You’re so romantic.”
Jo was already learning that the world of professional bull riding held many stories beyond a single athlete’s profile. “How did you come to marry a bull rider?” she asked.
Sophie giggled. “What do you think? I was a buckle bunny. We met three years ago in New York at an after-party.”
“First time I saw her twitch that cute little bunny tail, I was a goner,” Len said. “It took us a few more stops on the tour to make it official, but I knew right off I caught me a good ’un.”
A waitress appeared to take their orders; they all stuck to the buffet. Sophie and Jo made their selections and returned to their seats while the men were still loading their plates.
“So how did you meet Tom?” Sophie asked. “He doesn’t party much.”
Jo opted for a nonspecific version of the truth. “Tom was kind enough to answer some questions about bull riding after the Madison Square Garden event. He said I was welcome to come this weekend if I wanted to learn more.”
Len set his heaping plate on the table. “Okay, you gals can stop gossiping about us now.” He forked an extra shrimp onto his wife’s plate. “What’s on your schedule for this afternoon?”
“Betsy Wolf is babysitting all the kids so a bunch of us can go shopping. Sheplers is having a big sale.”
He groaned. “Sheplers is always having a sale.”
“Speaking of sales, is there somewhere nearby I could buy a pair of boots?” Jo asked. She stuck a foot out to display her plain russet ankle boots. “These are fine for New York, but they don’t fit in here very well.”
“Come with us,” Sophie said. “Unless you have other plans.”
“You should go,” Len said. “The gals can tell you a lot about bull riding. Some of it might even be true.”
“Oh, you!” Sophie slapped his arm. “Save it for the bulls tonight.”
They finished lunch and Sophie told Jo to meet her and the other wives in the lobby. “We’ll pile into Lou-Ann’s SUV and hit Sheplers like a swarm of locusts.”
“Guess I better make a money ride this evening to pay for your loot,” Len said. “At least I’ll enjoy a nice quiet afternoon without your yammering.” He countered his statement by planting a loud kiss on her cheek before they headed to their room for Sophie to grab her coat.
“What about you?” Jo asked Tom as they waited in the lobby.
“I didn’t sleep real well last night—it was kind of hard to breathe through my nose—so I’m going to laze around this afternoon.”
“Will I see you for dinner?”
He hesitated. “I don’t eat a full meal before I ride, just some protein snacks. You could graze your way around the concourse before the event—soak up the atmosphere, watch the fans. Paula will take you to your seat again.”
“So, tell me,” she said. “Do you enjoy the fan stuff?”
“Mostly I do. Sure, there’s times when I just want to sneak past and crawl up to my room without being bothered, but except for the fans, we’d be home chasing cows or maybe wildcatting on an oil rig. Once you get west of the Mississippi, a trip to a bull riding event is a real big deal for kids and their folks too. They might live out in the middle of nowhere, so a chance to meet their favorite rider means a lot to them.” He hesitated. “Like I’ll never forget how nice your dad was to Luke and me.”
THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened before Jo could respond and Sophie swept into the lobby trailed by two blondes, a brunette and another redhead. She grabbed Jo’s arm and towed her along. “All right, let’s shop! Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder to Tom. “We’ll bring her back safe.”
Sophie introduced Jo as “Tom’s friend from New York” as they rode another elevator down to the parking garage. The blondes were Susie and Barbara, Mara was the brunette, and auburn-haired Lou-Ann owned the Dodge Caravan with Oklahoma plates. Last names had come at Jo too fast to remember.
The women chattered about babies’ teething, 4-H projects and weather conditions on the northern Great Plains. “Snow up to your you-know-what,” Susie (or Barbara) said. “Being in OKC for the weekend is like a summer vacation.”
“Unless a blue norther blows in from the Panhandle,” Lou-Ann said as she whipped around an EMBARK bus. “Then you’ll wish you were back in Montana.” She pulled up with a flourish in front of the sprawling building whose sign proclaimed Sheplers—Western Stores since 1899. “Everybody out,” she said, “and shop till you drop.”
“Stick
