Rider’s Block

22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter twenty-two

“Days Go By,” Keith Urban

T he week leading up to the Fourth of July I have an unreasonable amount of nerves. Maybe it’s the encroaching deadline, maybe it’s a bit of homesickness…or maybe it’s coping with the opposite. Normally when I’m on these kinds of trips I can’t wait to get home to my California bungalow, but for reasons I don’t want to closely examine, I find myself quite content in my little cabin. The only thing I miss is Chester, but my book collection is growing so aggressively I feel right at home.

I express these concerns to my mom over the phone, and she is no help. I think she likes that I feel comfortable in the Colorado plains. She’s never been a fan of me living in California, and I know it’s because she’s afraid I’ll get swept up in the sort of rat race that tore our family apart, but her excitement for me staying extra time here has me unnerved.

My book is coming along nicely, too. Sarah, my agent, says I’ve “one-eightied” and it’s practically a new book, and I can’t argue with her. It basically is a whole new story. After the camping trip I hunkered down and made some serious progress. The intro, funnily enough, is where I’m struggling the most right now. Now that I’m here and fully immersed in the culture I feel like I’ve picked up the vernacular, I understand and respect the way of life, and I feel perfectly confident in knowing the motives behind most people’s actions. But introducing that in a way that doesn’t let the cat out of the bag right away has proven to be rather difficult.

One of my strengths as a writer is setting a scene, so the fact that I’m trudging through this has me a bit off-kilter again. But of course, that lack of stability could also be due to the fact that Eric has successfully avoided me since the camping trip, and it’s rocking my equilibrium. The time we spent cordially existing as a natural duo was surprisingly comfortable, and I don’t want to harp on how ridiculously uncomfortable I feel now that he’s not hanging around.

I miss the occasional brush of the shoulder. I miss knowing that he’s one door down and will likely pop into my space unannounced. I miss taking on mundane tasks with him. I miss him .

Dean has been relentless this week trying to assure me that it’s because of Eric’s undying love for me that he’s distanced himself, and I have been relentless in telling Dean he can take that theory and kindly bury it.

Family dinners at the ranch have been a little stiffer than usual, but I think that’s just because I’m measuring the comfort level solely on Eric’s participation. Christine has been diligent in including me in conversations, and Nancy is always easy to talk to, but I can feel his presence missing. I just… I just miss him. If Eric wanted to build with me, I really could easily see myself falling for him. I just don’t have a desire to wait around and hear all about the build instead of getting a front row seat to it. And I certainly don’t have any desire to be the reason he hangs up his hat. I’ll never voluntarily put myself in that position.

July third finally rolls around, and everyone opts for a quick family dinner in favor of getting all of the details prepped and prepared for the morning. Apparently, the parade is a rather big deal, and if your horse’s mane has a crooked braid you might as well go home. (Trevor’s words, not mine.)

Luckily, I’m assigned to Roper to get all clean and ready for tomorrow, and minimal accessorizing is needed. His saddle will hold most of the festive elements, and the intended decorations for his mane will be added in the morning.

I can feel Eric’s stare on me all night as the whole family is in the barn getting everything ready. At first, I thought he was simply looking at Roper, but after the fourth or fifth time catching his glance in my direction, I finally made eye contact, and I swear I saw him blush and get to work on whatever project he was previously working on.

A blushing Eric is kind of cute, I just wish he wouldn’t be such a stick in the mud for the remaining time I’m here. He does, however, come to check on Roper periodically while I'm off doing something else, and I watch him mumble a few things to his horse while pretending to not be watching him mumble a few things to his favorite horse. I love their relationship; if only he were that nice to humans.

Regardless, I go to bed wildly satisfied with how Roper presents, and very eager to experience the most patriotic of all holidays deep in the heart of cowboy country. I have a feeling it’s going to be my favorite Fourth of July celebration yet.

***

Rarely do I want to recall an event I’ve experienced transcribed exactly how I’ve experienced it in a book. I normally like to tweak a few things. I normally like to adjust some element of the moment to make more sense within the context of what I’m talking about.

But after this morning I can say, with one hundred percent certainty, that I will be including every aspect of my morning in some part of my book. I look up from where I’m standing next to Roper, doing my best to catalogue every detail I can while also enjoying the moment. It’s the Americana dream.

Kids are running around squealing, chasing bubbles. Horses are decked out in their patriotic best, and families are throwing out candy from their homemade-and-festive-trailers-turned-floats. Country music is playing in a steady sequence and everywhere the eye can see is an endless flow of red, white, and blue. The entire morning, I run into people I’ve started to recognize and know; the whole Randall family stops and talks to someone new every ten yards. I don’t know if I’ve seen a jollier group of people. Eric almost smiles at one point (when I tripped and almost fell into Roper, but I’ll take anything at this point) and I’m fairly confident I saw Penny actually make eye contact with Dean.

It was brief, but she had a small smile on her face when she quickly tried to turn the other way, so I think it’s a monumental win. Dean does as well. He saw the smile, and he proceeded to recount the entire experience with me for twenty minutes, making sure I saw everything too and making sure I’d continue to “talk him up” any time I got a chance. That boy is smitten. Once he told me about Penny, I haven’t seen him even look at another woman. They still look at him, but instead of responding to them like he usually does with a wink and sly comment, he now just nods his head and walks the other direction. I think Penny is noticing too, and it makes me unfathomably happy.

The pie contest was an ambiguous part of the day that I realize I never got any clarity on. Some people say “pie contest” in a way that insinuates taste testing with a panel of judges and hometown grudges developing for years when the winner is announced. Other pie contests are an eating competition. And in both of those scenarios, there usually isn’t a chance to sample said pies as a mere pedestrian.

I am pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong on both accounts. While the pie contest is, in fact, a tasting contest, it’s one where it’s the vote of the people. Once that element is determined, I become unequivocally invested. This is my time. Mary Berry, step aside. The voting is based on three parts: taste, originality, and presentation. I analyze these categories most reverently. There are a handful of apple pies, a few cherry options, blueberry pies are something I don’t see often so they mark high for me in originality, banana cream pies will forever have a chokehold on me, so I’m extremely pleased to give that baker high marks across the board, and then there are the chocolate pies—which fill any remaining space in my stomach. The samples are small, sure, but since apparently I can’t say no to pie, I am intent on making sure I give every sample an honest chance, and that means nearly giving myself a stomachache in the process. By the time the winner is announced I feel perfectly vindicated that that person also received my highest marks. Banana cream pie can never go wrong in my opinion, but I’m surprised to see people agree with me. After the sweetest grandma figure I’ve encountered accepts her trophy (I shed a small tear), the man with the mic prompts everyone to make their way to the rodeo and find a seat.

I quickly locate Nancy and Christine in their customary preferred location—middle row, middle height, which leads to the greatest event observation point according to Christine—when I notice George isn’t with them.

“He always ropes at this one,” Nancy says with no small amount of pride. I would have liked to witness their love story play out in person—I bet it was one for the ages.

“Who’s he roping with tonight?”

“Eric has the honor this year, but he rotates doing it with each son every year.”

“Is Eric doing both events, or just roping?”

“He’ll do both since this event is just for fun. The rules are a little less strict.”

“Did George do the PRCA? And did I use the acronym right this time?”

“You did and I’m very proud.” The pat she gives my shoulder feels like getting a gold star. “And he roped for a little while then realized that wasn’t the life for him. There was too much travel to grow the type of ranch he wanted to grow, and since his dad passed early the responsibility of the ranch fell to him a lot sooner.”

“How long has the ranch been in the family?”

“George is the fourth generation to take it on, Eric will be the fifth.”

“That’s incredible. And George expanded it the most?”

“Yep, he grew it to Wyoming, so the section you saw is fairly new.”

“Well, it was gorgeous.”

“That’s why he picked it.” She punctuates her sentence with a wink right as the event begins.

Just like last time, my heart rate immediately picks up. But now that I know a lot more of what to expect, it feels marginally more intense. By the time the team roping starts I’m on the edge of my seat. Dean and Trevor are the first ones up, and their time is unbeatable…until Eric and George go up. They look like a well-oiled machine and have the steer snagged before I can let a full breath out. Nancy is beside herself, bouncing up and down in her seat when George gets the horns roped.

Realizing the next event is Eric’s usual event, I’m surprised he’s able to participate in both, but I guess that’s the perk of a smaller-sized event. He’s the last one up, and when he gets on his horse something feels different. I couldn’t tell you what it is—maybe it was his posture, maybe it was the slight hang of his head—but my nerves spike immediately.

And with good reason.

His normally fluid ride feels choppy right out of the gate. The horse is one I don’t recognize, and it’s breaking any attempt at creating a predictable cadence… and Eric is thrown off in three seconds. I’m so used to seeing him effortlessly succeed, it seems unfathomable to watch the timer run out while he’s not on the horse. He walks out of the arena with his shoulders stiff but unwavering, and even Nancy has a puzzled look on her face. We weren’t expecting that. Especially after such a great roping run.

The rest of the rodeo progresses like normal, and the rodeo clown at this event is particularly funny. He’s got the crowd roaring with a set of inside jokes that are specific to this county, and it’s working to his advantage. But what he does right before the final event catches everyone off guard.

He casually announces for every lady in the stands to find their way over the fence and down in the dirt for what he calls a “boot scramble.” It takes several seconds for anyone to take his request seriously, but soon enough there’s a flood of girls making their way down the arena, and Christine is dragging me by the hand to make our way down as well. Penny finds us in the center, placing our boots in the middle of the circle. Penny’s holding onto my elbow, nearly throwing me off balance as I begrudgingly set my personality boots neatly next to each other. I notice they’re the only red ones in the pile…and I don’t know what the game is, but I have a feeling that might be to my advantage.

The rodeo clown instructs all of us to touch the fence, so Penny, Christine, and I all make our way to the closest proximity location we can, keeping an eye on our boots. My red ones stick out so clearly that I see immediately when the rodeo clown goes to the center and starts separating pairs…flinging them in all directions. That sends Christine into a fit of giggles as she watches my jaw drop.

“What? It’s not like they’re not already dirty.”

“But what if I lose them? I love those things. And I’ve already lost a hat.”

“Yes,” Penny pipes in, “but I promise you I’ll find you a new pair if you lose yours. But I don’t think you will—”

The rodeo clown cuts off our conversation as he wrangles everyone’s attention and explains the rules. “Alright, listen up, everyone. First of all, I thought there’d be a lot less participants. This is gonna be a stampede, so good luck to all of you.” Penny giggles a bit, looking around at all of the girls surrounding us with their game faces on. “Here’s what you’re gonna do. As you’ve probably noticed I’ve done my best to separate your boots from the pair, so what you’ve gotta do is find your pair, put them on, and clap my hand. First one to give me a high-five with both of their boots on wins a gift card.”

Christine settles back into her starting position, and I watch her scan the pile of shoes in front of us…but I know I have the advantage. My beautiful red boots have no competition. For reasons that are entirely irrational, I’m determined to win this thing.

The rodeo clown makes his way over to the pens, where I briefly see all of the Randall men and the other rodeo participants leaning against the fence, huge smiles on their faces as they predict the chaos that’s about to happen.

I used to be an athlete. I still run. I know my legs will be true to me. Sure, it’s been a while since I’ve hit an all-out sprint, but that’s not going to stop me. The rodeo clown counts down his ready-set-go and I take off.

My legs stay strong as I break away from Penny and Christine. They’re moving at a respectable speed, but I’m too competitive to take this at a friendly pace. I leap over the first bundle of boots with my eyes on my beautiful, dusty red targets. Even though they’re a decent spread apart, it takes me a blink of an eye to locate them and get both of them on.

In the back of my mind, I hear whooping and hollering over by the fence cheering my name, cheering Penny’s and Christine’s names too. I hear a particularly enthusiastic Dean split his cheering between the three of us…getting marginally louder for Penny. I’ll allow it. Because I’m going to win.

Even with my heavy boots on, my sprint is still faster than anyone else. And I will most definitely let the pride of that get to my head later. For now, I have my sights set on the clown.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone I’ve never met before start to creep in on my victory, but I’ll have none of that. I kick up my speed, and in what I’ll refer to as record time when I tell the story later, I clap that freaking clown’s hand…and the whole arena erupts.

Christine and Penny are quick behind me and practically tackle me to the ground in celebration that I won, and I hear the whole Randall crew bellowing their cheers and jeers from behind me. I look over my shoulder and see the smallest smile on Eric’s face as he whistles his celebration.

Of all my victories, this one makes me the proudest…not just that I won, but that I won with people around me who cheered on my victory. That’s rare. That’s something I’m really going to miss.

I accept my gift card to—funny enough—Penny’s store, and we all climb back up to our seats. I’m so out of breath I don’t have much of a reply when Nancy tells me she knew I’d win all along, and I barely have enough time to steady my breathing before the bull riding event starts up.

The bull riding itself is entertaining enough this round, but because this arena is outdoors and pretty bare bones, the pomp and circumstance isn’t as present. And after the adrenaline rush I personally just experienced? No offense to the riders this round, but it pales in comparison. There’s no light show or chest-pumping bass music, so it doesn’t have the same shock and awe as it did the last times I’ve watched the event, and it again confirms for me that George knows what he’s talking about.

“Now’s the fun part!” Christine says as she pulls my hand and leads me toward the stairs.

“What’s the fun part?” I just caught my breath from how much fun I’ve been having.

She looks back before taking the first step, and with a look that can only be described as pure trouble, she says with a wink, “You’ll see.”