A Thousand Tomorrows & Just Beyond the Clouds Omnibus (6 page)

“Nothin’ but eight.”

The bull riders were lined up by then, gathered near the chute of whichever cowboy was next out. One at a time
the riders flew into the arena, half of them making the eight seconds, the other half bucked off. Cody cheered them on, because that’s what cowboys did. They pulled for one another. Bull riding never pitted a cowboy against his fellow rider. The contest was against the bull, only the bull.

But even as he cheered, his heart was back on a street corner the summer of his eighth year, watching for that yellow cab.

Cody zipped up his protective vest and spread his legs. Stretching was crucial; he’d been loosening up for an hour already. He bent at the waist, nose to his right knee, two, three, four, five. A little farther, and he switched sides, nose to his left knee, two, three, four, five. A shift to the center, straight back, palms to the ground, two, three, four… The whole time he kept his eyes on the bull.

An announcer was introducing the matchup.

“Monster Mash is a Texas Brahma bull, genetically engineered by the best in the business. Wicked horns, and a twist—about to keep a cowboy guessing.”

The other announcer broke in. “Now remember, this is a bull that hasn’t been rode ever. Not once. A killer beast with an average score of forty-eight-nine. Twenty-three cowboys on; twenty-three off.”

“And Cody Gunner wants to change all that.”

Cody tuned it out.

He felt himself slipping into the zone, the place where his little-boy disappointment, his unchecked rage and pent-up hatred, could be released. If only for eight seconds.

Finally it was his turn.

He pressed his cowboy hat onto his head, low over his brow, ran a few steps in place, and climbed the gate. One leg over the top of the chute, then the other. A push and he braced himself with his hands until he was straddled above the bull. Monster Mash was an ugly beast, mottled gray with uneven coloring and evil black eyes. His horns weren’t much threat, but the hump on his back had knocked out a cowboy or two. Cody knew this, but he didn’t think about it, didn’t think about the bull’s tendencies or any of the things most riders thought about.

All that mattered was this: The bull wanted to kill him.

Cody saw it in the way those dead eyes watched him, anxious, waiting. The bull had an innate sense, an ability to spot the cowboy, sniff out the next sacrificial victim. The animal shouldered the gates and pawed at the ground. Those awful eyes never let up, never blinked.

If there’d been a way through the bars, the bull would’ve found it.

Van Halen’s “Jump” pounded out a rhythm that grew and built and filled each of the fifteen thousand fans with a frenzied anticipation. Bull riding was the last event, the biggest draw. Rodeo fans loved it. Loved the energy and intensity and possibility of horrific wrecks, the idea of mere mortals going head-to-head with an untamable beast.

“That’s right,” Cody glared at the animal, “go ahead and try it.”

The bull jerked his head, shark-like eyes rolling back into his skull. Cody could picture it, knew what would happen the instant they opened the gate. The bull would become
two thousand pounds of snorting, sweating muscle, writhing and twisting and flying through the hot summer night driven by one desire: Kill the cowboy.

The bull rider didn’t need the announcers to tell him; he knew the score. Monster Mash couldn’t be ridden, wouldn’t let a cowboy sit on his back four seconds, let alone eight. Five guys stood on the outside of the gate, two of them holding tight to Cody’s jacket, ready to pull him out if the bull went psycho. But Cody was ready. He lowered himself a foot, not quite touching the animal, his feet still on the steel rungs.

“Yeah, you want me.” Cody gritted his teeth. The hatred was growing, filling him with a burning intensity, a seething red-hot rage. Everything but the bull faded from view, the bull and the profile of a face.

His father’s face.

How could he walk out on us?

The hatred bubbled within him, mingled with liquid intensity and spilled into his icy veins, pumped through his ready limbs.

“Let’s go, Gunner.” A cowboy on the gate grabbed his arm and slapped his back.

It was time.

He lowered himself onto the bull, just down from the animal’s shoulder blades. The beast’s muscles trembled, furious, his hide hot and sweaty and loose over his bony spine. Monster Mash was famous for his damage in the chute, and today was no exception. The animal shifted all his weight sideways and Cody bit into his mouth guard.

He smacked the bull’s shoulder. Fiery pain shot through
his knee, the same knee he’d had pinned in the chutes six times this season. He couldn’t leave the chute until he had his hand wrapped; couldn’t wrap the hand until the bull let up, moved to the center, and freed his leg. Another whack and another. Fire shot up through his thigh. The deeper the pain, the more intense his hatred.

He was just a little boy, eight years old, full of laughter and love and kindness and goodness, and his little brother…

His little brother
.

The rage tripled.

He shoved the bull’s head. “Get outta there!” The animal moved three inches to the side and Cody jerked free. He shoved his right hand through the rope, palm up. Someone handed him the lead and he wrapped it hard, yanked it tight.

Cody wasn’t sure if Monster Mash would spin to the outside or buck first. Films were available on every bull, and most riders memorized that sort of detail. Not Cody. He wanted his bulls unpredictable, because fury and hatred and rage were unpredictable.

The bull rattled the chute again, jerking his head back and snorting, spraying the legs of the two closest guys, sounding like the beast he was, hating the cowboy. Cody slid forward to his tied-down hand, checked to make sure his knees weren’t trapped. He locked his eyes on the animal’s neck and gave the signal—a quick nod. A click of the latch, and the gate flew open.

“Go, Gunner!” another cowboy yelled.

He was one second into the ride when Monster Mash
threw himself into a convulsion, all four hooves off the ground, twisting and snorting, kicking up dirt and dung in all directions. One-point-five seconds… two… two-point-five. The bull crashed down on his front feet, and already the animal’s body was contorting in another direction, frantic to get the cowboy off his back. Cody kept his seat centered within a fraction of an inch, his legs tight around the bull.

Every late night wondering where his father was, why he hadn’t called. Every birthday and Christmas and summer vacation without a gift or a card or even a call. All of that hatred poured from him, releasing the rage that would otherwise strangle him.

Monster Mash was off the ground again, flying in a circle, kicking his backside up into the air, but Cody wasn’t going anywhere. He leaned back, staying with the ride, holding center. A buzzer sounded and suddenly it was over.

With a flick of his wrist to release his riding hand, he kicked his feet over the side of the bull. But something was wrong. His hand was hung up, and with the animal’s next arch of his back, Cody flopped like a rag doll alongside the bull’s belly.

This had happened before; Cody didn’t panic. No matter what the bull did to him now, he was the winner. He’d already won the battle. From both sides he felt the bullfighters rush in, one of them grabbing at the end of the rope, trying to free his hand. The other waving something to distract the bull. The men might be dressed like clowns but they were willing to sacrifice their own bodies to keep a cowboy from danger. Cody was still caught up, still trying to free his hand, his body still being jerked along the side of the bull.

That’s when he heard it.

A snap in his riding hand. At the same time, Monster Mash whipped his head back at him. The hump on his back caught Cody square in the jaw and that was all he remembered. When he woke up, he was lying on a bench with the rodeo doctor staring at him.

“Cody…” The man was in his mid-thirties, the first one on the scene of any wreck on the Pro Rodeo Tour. “Can you hear me? Cody?”

“What?” His head hurt, but his heart and soul reveled in the release. He’d stayed the course, ridden Monster Mash for eight, and nothing could change the way that felt. He massaged his fingers into the sides of his head. “What was my score?”

The doctor chuckled. “On the knockout or the ride?”

Cody gave his head a slight shake. “Forget the knockout. I’m fine.”

“You got an eighty-nine.” The doctor shone a small flashlight into his eyes. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” Cody ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Eighty-nine?”

“Yes.” The doctor frowned. “Lift your hand.”

Cody tried to move it, and that’s when he understood the doctor’s frown. He winced, and supported it with his left hand. “It’s just sprained.”

“X-rays will tell.”

Half an hour later, Cody had his bags packed for a two-week visit to his mother’s house. A small bone in his hand was fractured, and he had a mild concussion. The doctor
ordered two weeks off the bulls—minimum. Cody was given a splint for his hand and instructions to lay low.

He was on his way out of the training room when he spotted Ali Daniels.

Every other time they’d passed each other—for two years straight—they barely looked up. Today, though, Ali paused.

“Want some advice?” She took another step toward him, a bridle flung over one shoulder.

Too stunned to answer, Cody stopped and sized her up. She was five-foot-six, maybe five-seven, and up close her eyes shone like summer lake water. He leaned against the nearest wall and grinned at her. “Okay.”

“If you can stay on eight, stay on nine.” She smiled and started walking again. “At least until your hand’s free.”

She was gone before he could recover, before even a single comeback formed on his tongue. Was she kidding? Did she think she had information that might help Cody Gunner ride bulls better? And why did she talk to him now, after so many events where they had never connected?

Cody had no answers. Maybe it was a delusion; concussions could do that to a person. He watched her leave and let the comment pass. He didn’t have time for Ali Daniels or any of the other girls who would be waiting for him outside the arena. He had something far bigger ahead of him—two weeks to talk sense into his mother. That way, the next time his father called she could do what she should’ve done the day before.

Hang up on him.

Chapter Five

M
ary Gunner loved having her older son home.

Out on the road, riding a slate of bulls every weekend, meant that bad news was always just around the corner. Mary knew the sport well enough to know the possibilities, and they terrified her. So when Cody showed up with his hand in a splint needing two weeks of rest, she was grateful.

Quietly grateful.

Cody wouldn’t have it any other way. His anger at her hadn’t dimmed from the days after Mike left. Never mind that his blaming her made no sense. The moment he entered the house he looked around, his expression tense.

“Where is he?”

Mary held his eyes for a moment, then she turned toward the stairs and cupped her mouth. “Carl Joseph! Your brother’s home.”

The sound of pounding footsteps came in response. “Brother!” the voice bellowed from an upper room.

“I’m down here, buddy!” Cody went to the foot of the stairs and looked up.

“Coming, brother!” Carl Joseph was fifteen now, still attending a special-education program where they were teaching him menial tasks. Most days Mary was grateful for Carl Joseph’s Down syndrome. It meant that at least one son would always love her. One son would keep her company the way Cody never did.

Carl Joseph barreled down the stairs and gave Cody a long bear hug. When he pulled back, his eyes danced. “How’s the bulls, brother?”

“Well…” Cody held up the hand that bore the cast. “Not so good this weekend.”

“Ooooh!” He touched Cody’s cast and shook his head. “You be careful, brother. You be careful.”

Cody chuckled. “I will.” He put his arm around Carl Joseph’s neck and led his brother into the next room.

For two weeks straight the two were inseparable. They played checkers and backgammon and watched videotapes of bull riding on TV. The morning after Cody left, Carl Joseph found Mary reading a book in the living room.

“Mom, I have a question.” He came a few steps closer.

Mary held her hand out to him. “What, honey?”

“How come Cody doesn’t like you?” Carl Joseph cocked his head, his mouth open. “How come, Mom?”

The question tore at Mary’s heart, but it was an honest one, proof that Cody’s bad attitude wasn’t only her imagination. She cleared her throat, searching for a way to explain the situation. She couldn’t mention Mike. Carl Joseph didn’t
remember his father, and if Mike wanted back into their lives—the way he said he did—she didn’t want to taint Carl Joseph’s image of him.

“Cody loves me.” Mary bit her lip, fighting tears. “But sometimes his heart doesn’t work the same as yours.”

“Brother’s heart doesn’t work right?” Carl Joseph thought about that for a minute. “You know what I hope?”

Mary slid to the edge of her seat, her eyes damp. The compassion in Carl Joseph was every bit as intense as the hatred in Cody. “What, honey?”

“I hope that Cody’s heart will get better, just like his hand.”

Mary hugged her younger son. “So do I, honey.” He couldn’t know that’s what she’d hoped and prayed for years, what she prayed for even now—that one day Cody would meet someone who would teach him more than horses and rodeos and bull riding. Someone who might teach Cody the most important lesson of all.

How to love.