A Cowboy Comes A Courting

The bull riders were announced.

Skye cursed the grainy screen of her ancient television. After last night, seeing the action firsthand, the fuzzy picture seemed sadly lacking in comparison. Dropping the remote control on the coffee table, she leaned forward in her seat and squinted at the tube.

Tyler was fourth in the lineup. The first rider touched a gloved hand to the bronco’s back and was disqualified. The second rider had a decent ride, not perfect, but good enough to put him in the running. By the third rider, Skye shot a nervous glance at the telephone and toyed with the idea of calling Ralph. She dismissed the idea out of hand. Ralph had called late last night He’d been vague and distant, his mind obviously on the dusty tomes he was researching, not on her. She’d ended the conversation with a curt goodbye, telling him when he was really interested in what she had to say to call her back.

Only, he hadn’t.

The thought of calling him now grated on her conscience. It would be tantamount to surrendering her feminine pride. Once and for all, Ralph Breedlow had to learn to appreciate her.

She refused to play second fiddle in any man’s life.

“Our fourth rider of the night is veteran bull rider, three-time World Champion, Tyler Bradshaw.” A cheer arose from the arena at the announcement.

Riveted to the TV screen, Skye bit her lip as she waited for the bull to burst out of the chute.

“He’ll be riding Tornado this evening,” the announcer continued. “Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. This bull likes to dance to the twist.”

The gate swung open and the bull carrying Tyler hopped out. It was a thick-bodied, short-legged, mottled Brangus, a bull that was half Brahma, half Angus. Its horns had been lopped off to protect the rider, but its long, square head looked menacing enough to cause damage.

She couldn’t see Tyler’s face beneath the wide brim of his black cowboy hat. But she recognized the confident set of his wide shoulders, the narrow breadth of his jean-clad hips, and his long, sinewy legs covered in leather chaps. He exuded confidence wrought of experience. He almost made her believe bull riding was as easy as a stroll down the street.

Silently, Skye counted off the seconds in unison with the clock at the bottom of the television screen. Tyler held on with perfect form for the first two seconds. By the third, she knew he was in trouble.

The bull rounded into a sharp circle, looking like a dog chasing his tail. Round and round he spun Tyler, flopping him against his back like a rag doll. Then, he reversed his direction, snapping Tyler off his back and sending him sailing into the air.

Only, Tyler’s hand was hooked in the rope’s handhold. Unable to react fast enough, he was dragged across the pen by a bull who looked determined to kill him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it looks as though Bradshaw’s in trouble now,” the announcer’s voice whined.

“No kidding,” Skye hollered at the television.

Rodeo clowns hopped into the ring, trying their best to corner the runaway bull.

Tornado lived up to his name by lurching in the opposite direction, spinning around on his back hooves, his front hooves landing directly on the center of Tyler’s stomach.

Her heart thumping, Skye shot to her feet, gasping at the scene being played out on the television.

Another set of rodeo clowns jumped into the arena, rushing headlong into the bull’s path. For the next few minutes, she watched in horror as the men worked to subdue the out-of-control bull.

In a blink of an eye, she’d relived her worst childhood nightmare, a cowboy trampled by a bull. Of course, as a child, it had been her father who’d suffered the damage. Knowing it was Tyler, her father’s protégé, didn’t make it any easier.

After what seemed like an eternity. Tyler was released from his deadly bond with the bull. He lay limp in the sawdust and dirt, before the emergency paramedics whisked him out of the arena.

Skye paced the floor of the living room, half listening to the announcer’s account of the incident, cringing when they insisted on replaying each and every gory moment, not once, but twice. No word on Tyler’s condition, however.

Releasing a growl of frustration, she strode into the kitchen and snatched up the wall phone. Thanking the advances of modern-day technology, she punched in the number for her father’s cell phone.

Gus picked up on the fourth ring. “Gus Whitman,” he barked into the phone, skipping the usual polite greeting. He sounded as tense as she felt.

“Gus,” she said, unable to stop the quaver in her voice. “I was just watching Tyler’s ride.”

“Aw, honey.” Gus sighed, his tone softening. “I wish you hadn’t.”

“Is he okay? Have you seen him?”

“Just for a second, before they hauled him away.” Gus paused. “He didn’t look too good..But what do you expect from somebody who’s just been tossed around by a bull?”

Skye twisted the cord of the phone around her fingers, trying to swallow the lump of emotion in her throat. “He got more than tossed, Gus. The bull landed on top of him. Got him dead to rights in the middle of his stomach.”

Gus didn’t reply right away.

“Talk to me, Gus. How is he?”

“He’s awake. But he ain’t cussin’ like he ought to be.” Gus sighed deeply. “I just don’t know what to tell ya, honey.”

For once, she believed he was telling her the truth. “Where are they taking him?”

“Dallas Memorial. I’m on my way there, as we speak. I’ll give you a holler just as soon as I hear anything new. I promise.”

He was trying to change his ways, Skye told herself. He really was trying.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, barely noticing the traditional address. She’d called her father Gus for so many years, she had no idea why she felt the sudden need to address him differently. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

Slowly, she unwrapped the cocoon of phone wire that she’d woven around her fingers, then returned the receiver to its cradle. Gus was looking after Tyler, she told herself. He wouldn’t be alone. That was all that mattered.

A picture of Tyler last night, leaning against the arena fence, looking healthy and flushed with the thrill of victory, flashed through her mind. She recalled the devilish grin on his lips when he’d said, “I guess I couldn’t talk you into coming tomorrow night, could I? I sure could use a lucky charm.”

She closed her eyes against the memory. Tyler’s accident wasn’t her responsibility, she told herself. Lucky charms, superstitions and cowboy traditions were all a bunch of bull, no pun intended. Her refusal to attend tonight’s performance did not cause Tyler’s accident. It was his own stupid fault for riding that crazy bull.

His own stupid fault...

Slowly, she opened her eyes. If the accident wasn’t her responsibility, then why did her gut feel as though it had been stomped on right along with Tyler’s?

She made her decision quickly, not giving herself a chance to change her mind. Turning off the television, she gathered up her purse and car keys and headed out the door for Dallas Memorial.

“He has a concussion, cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, multiple bruises and lacerations,” the doctor said, reading his notes from an open hospital chart. He addressed his comments to Gus, as though Tyler weren’t even in the hospital room. “But that isn’t the worst of his injuries. At the moment, I’m more concerned about his back.”

Tyler closed his eyes, the only movement that didn’t hurt, wishing he could make the two hovering men disappear from his mind as easily as from sight.

“As you know, he’s been through this before. I’ve warned him the spinal cord is delicate. It isn’t designed to take this type of repeated abuse. But obviously Mr. Bradshaw didn’t hear my advice.”

“I heard you. I simply ignored you,” Tyler said, opening his eyes. “And would you two mind not talking about me like I’m not here. I’m not dead, am I?”

“No, not yet.” the doctor said, shooting him a stern look. “But another stunt like this one and that might be the csse.”

Tyler drew in a slow breath, wincing as the movement jarred his injured ribs. He didn’t need to be told the ride had been a bust from the start; he already knew it. Unable to get a firm seat on the bull from the moment they’d shot out of the chute, he’d spent most of the ride sliding around on Tornado’s back. By the time the bull had started his spinning routine, Tyler knew he was a goner.

“I’ll be keeping him overnight for observation,” the doctor said, glancing at Gus, before turning his attention to Tyler. “We’ll discuss your back in the morning. For now, get some rest, Mr. Bradshaw. You’re going to need it.”