Handful of Sky (17 page)

“Like hell you are,” he sputtered. “You’ve already paid your entry fees and you’ve got another ride coming up in this rodeo. Just because you’re riding like a sissy in knee britches is no reason for you to take the first excuse that comes along for you to duck out. Who knows? You just might start riding like a McIver again if you keep at it.”

Hunt’s jaw tightened and he stepped stiffly away. Shallie was amazed again by McIver’s monumental insensitivity. With Petey and Walter helping him, he hobbled off. Shallie glanced over at Hunt, searching for a clue
to his reaction to his grandfather’s harsh words, but his eyes were an impenetrable navy blue. They grew even darker as he stated flatly, “This is the last rodeo Jake is going to ramrod.” There was no rancor in his words, only a bald statement of fact. For several long moments his face remained clouded by the shadow of deep thought and worry. It brightened abruptly.

“Shallie, I have a proposal to make.” He looked eagerly into her face while he ordered his freewheeling thoughts. “If this had happened before tonight, I would have dropped out of rodeo completely to devote my full attention to running the Circle M. But after our talk this evening and with Jake’s, ah, ‘encouragement,’ I’ve decided that I’m going to start rodeoing again, hard. But if I don’t have someone to produce the rodeos we’re already holding contracts on, I can guarantee that Jake, no matter what condition he’s in, will be out there doing it himself.” He paused to let his words sink in, hoping they would lead Shallie to the same conclusion he himself had reached.

He took a deep breath and dived in again. “So, what I’m proposing is this—you and your uncle take over all of Circle M’s contracts for the rest of the season.”

“What?” Shallie tried to make sense of his offer. Circle M was one of the top three rodeo production outfits in the country. They had close to a million dollars in stock and equipment and contracts for the biggest professional rodeos in the nation.

“Think of the advantages,” Hunt urged. “You can merge Double L stock with what we have and work it under our PRCA contract. That way you’d have a chance to give Pegasus the exposure he needs to have a shot at the Finals.”

Shallie had dreamed that the blue roan would carry Double L’s brand to the National Finals. But she’d imagined that if it happened at all, it would be a struggle of many years.

“What would your grandfather say?”

“Leave that to me. I’ll make him realize that his health is more important than a rodeo company. Besides, he’s already learned that you can operate with the best of them. What do you say? I can start calling around tonight to set everything up, if you agree.”

Shallie glanced around, wishing her uncle hadn’t left. Hunt’s offer was a bit like seeing her own future pass before her, speeded up by time-lapse photography. He was offering the prize she would have spent much of the rest of her life working toward. She tried to think of reasons not to accept it but couldn’t. The Double L had no contracts to honor and a fat handful of overdue bills to pay.

“Yes,” she burst out, as soon as her head had stopped spinning. “Of course! If your grandfather and my uncle agree, what’s to stop us?”

“Good.” For Hunt the matter was settled. “I’d better get back to the hotel to check on Jake and get in touch
with all the places where we have contracts—Fort Worth, Scottsdale, Houston, Tucson, Phoenix, Prescott, El Paso, and a few others I’ll have to look up.”

The list dazzled Shallie. Circle M had contracts for all the biggest shows in the Southwest, the ones with the biggest purses and best competitors. And Pegasus would be at every one of them. Shallie figured that the bulk of the bucking stock would come from the Circle M. Double L could fill in with much of the roping stock, but Pegasus would be an unvarying member of the troupe. The list drummed through her mind—Fort Worth, Scottsdale, Houston. Houston! The enormity of what she was presuming to undertake hit her as she considered that particular rodeo. Was she
really
planning on jumping from putting on rodeos in the dinky, slapdash wooden arenas of small ranching communities, to producing an extravaganza in the Houston Astrodome? A quiver of panic shimmied through her stomach. It was impossible!

“You can do it.” Hunt’s words were a soft counterpoint to her pessimistic thoughts. He opened his arms and she fell gladly into the warm embrace, absorbing its strength and confidence. Wrapped in his arms, she felt she
was
up to the scope of the task that had been laid before her like a gift from the gods.

“I’ll help as much as I can,” Hunt promised. “And Petey will be with you. He’s practically run the Circle M for the past couple of years anyway. And Jake can still
handle all the contract bidding and negotiation. I just don’t want him wearing himself out actually running any more rodeos.” His voice was firm, and Shallie knew that if she didn’t accept his offer, he’d find someone who would. She backed away and faced him squarely.

“Tell your grandfather to relax, because between me and Walter, his worrying days are over. We’ll put on the best rodeos that Circle M ever produced.” Shallie realized that there was more than a hint of bluster in her words, but hearing them still cheered her. She knew that a bedrock of truth supported them—she
could
produce rodeos as good as any Jake McIver had ever put on.

“Okay, from here on out, things are going to start moving pretty fast,” Hunt cautioned.

“I’m ready.” Shallie had to reach below the insecurity churning through her, to a deeper level of confidence that would make her promise reality. “You’d better get over to the hotel,” she advised. “I’ll stay and help Petey sort out the stock.”

Hunt looked at her. Shallie felt he was on the verge of saying something, something she wanted very much to hear. But a curtain abruptly fell, cloaking whatever sentiments he’d been about to reveal.

“Fine.” He pronounced his judgment crisply. “I’ll book you and your uncle suites at the hotel. We’ll meet tomorrow morning. I’ll be on the phone for the rest of the night making arrangements for you to take over operations.”
Shallie tried to detect a glimmer of regret in his voice at having to be occupied during the time they might have spent together. She couldn’t find one. Hunt’s boot heels tapped out the farewell he hadn’t spoken. Shallie listened to the lonely tune until it was lost in the crashing symphony pounded out by hordes of departing rodeo fans.

“Come back again tomorrow night, folks,” Slick Bridgers invited the crowd. “And bring your friends. The rodeo will be in town for nine more action-packed nights.”

Down in the arena, Petey was flapping his arms to drive a Brahman bull into the holding pen. She joined him and spent the next few hours feeding the stock and bedding them down for the night. It was long after midnight before she had the chance to discuss Hunt’s proposal with her uncle.

He considered it in silence for a moment, nodded his head, and spoke. “If we team up with the Circle M, I might have a chance of getting away from these New Mexico mountain winters. They’re hard on the knees.”

“So, it’s all right with you?” Shallie asked breathlessly.

“Might as well give it a whirl. I don’t see where we could possibly stand to lose.”

Shallie hugged her uncle, relishing the thought of being Hunt’s partner. Technically she supposed that she and her uncle would be partners with Jake McIver, but it was Hunt she intended to consult about any problems
that arose and she already foresaw a number which would require their working together—closely.

Excitement kept sleep at bay that night. By the time sunlight seeped in through the heavy curtains of the hotel room, she was raring to start her first day as a professional rodeo contractor.

*  *  *

A crimson and orange sunrise was lighting the eastern sky as Shallie knocked on Hunt’s door.

“It’s open,” a groggy voice bellowed. Shallie turned the knob and stepped inside. Hunt poked his head out from under the barrier of covers he’d constructed around himself.

“Shallie.” The belligerence of his earlier greeting was gone, replaced by a surprised delight. “I thought you were one of the crew. You’re up awfully early.”

“Actually I never made it to sleep. I was too excited. I’ll go and wait somewhere until you’re ready to get up.”

“No you don’t.” Hunt sat up, his chest bare beneath the covers. He extended his arms toward her. “You owe me a morning of cuddling.”

For a moment, Shallie hesitated, but only for a moment before she went to Hunt’s arms. He swept her under the covers in a rollicking bear hug, tickling her and nuzzling her neck until Shallie screamed for mercy.

“I can’t breathe,” she said between gasping fits of laughter.

“Lucky for you, madam,” Hunt informed her in a somber voice, “I have been trained for just such emergencies. Only one thing can save you now, expertly administered artificial respiration.”

Shallie’s laughing fit dissolved as Hunt’s lips moved over hers. They held her captive as his hands sought out the buttons on her blouse, the zipper on her jeans. Hunt’s bed was a cozy burrow warmed by a night of heat from his body and redolent of his clean, musky smell.

The twining of their bodies was as joyously free as their playful teasing. In her jubilant mood, Shallie was unable to hold any part of herself in reserve, as she had their first time together. Hunt responded, instinctively giving of himself as generously as Shallie did. He was by turns tender, in response to Shallie’s baring more and more of her most vulnerable self, and passionate as the tenderness kindled Shallie’s desire. For the first time Shallie allowed herself to envision a future that might include Hunt McIver.

She held nothing back, giving herself to Hunt as a woman gives to the man she loves. She felt her love returned in the gentle touch of his hand along her rib cage, the softness of his kisses along the tiny curls ringing the nape of her neck. No, she told herself, these caresses cannot be counterfeited, the feelings behind them faked. Those intuitions intensified her pleasure, bringing it to a level she had never before experienced. Hunt shared
it with her. Shallie felt she’d been stripped to her bones, cleansed, and rebuilt.

“Shallie Larkin.” Hunt lay on one elbow above her, staring into her face as though seeing it for the first time. “Why didn’t we do this that first morning we were together? Why were you up and dressed and ready to run out of my life that morning?”

Shallie searched his face, doubt prodding her, making her analyze it for the proof she needed. Proof that she could entrust her most fragile sentiments to this man. She found it in his eyes. But was she fooling herself? Was she wanting a warmth, a caring, perhaps even something more, to be there simply because she wanted it so desperately? No, she couldn’t be mistaken. He
did
care, at least a little.

Her answer came out sounding like a timid little girl’s. “I was scared.”

“Scared? Darling, what could you have been scared of?”

“You?”

Hunt placed a questioning finger in the center of his chest. Shallie nodded. “You. Your reputation. Looking like a fool. Like I expected more than you were ready to give.”

Mild annoyance formed tiny lines on his forehead. “Why couldn’t you have given me a chance to decide what I was ready to give?”

“I don’t know, I guess—”

A pounding at the door interrupted Shallie’s explanation, an explanation she hadn’t completely sorted out yet, even in her own head.

“You awake, Hunt?”

“Yeah,” Hunt answered with a weary sigh. “What do you need, Johnnie?”

“Slack’s going to start in fifteen minutes,” the Circle M hand reported, referring to the overflow of contestants who had to be winnowed down during an early morning competition. “I can’t find your grandfather. Are you going to run it?”

“No. My grandfather went back to the ranch. You’ve got a new boss, Johnnie. Name’s Shallie Larkin. She’ll be arriving in a few minutes. Get down to the arena and meet her there.”

“Her?” the voice from the other side of the door asked plaintively.

“Your hearing seems to be working real fine this morning, Johnnie,” Hunt answered. When the sound of boot heels shuffling down the hall announced Johnnie’s departure, Hunt turned to Shallie and warned her, “Don’t think that this means our conversation is over. We’ve got quite a few things to straighten out before we can . . .” He stopped.

Shallie realized she’d been holding her breath, anticipating the words he might have spoken. Instead he retraced the verbal route he’d taken and ended up by
saying simply, “We’ve got a few things to straighten out, that’s all.”

Then his voice whisked into a brisk cadence. “You feel up to running a rodeo today?”

“It looks like there will be some disappointed slack ropers if I don’t.”

“That’s the spirit. I set up most everything over the phone last night. Here”—he stretched forward and pulled a long list off the writing desk next to the bed—“this is the Circle M schedule for the rest of the season. There will probably be some late additions, but this is a fairly complete list with names and numbers of all the committee people sponsoring the rodeo in each town—local media sources, contract acts, the clowns, riding groups, announcers, who to call for feed, the best vets in each city. It’s all there, and what isn’t written down you’ll find inside Petey’s head.”

An uncomfortable premonition began to take shape in Shallie’s mind. “Slow down. You’re acting like you’re going to be dumping all of this on me right now. Aren’t you going to be helping me out for the rest of the time you’re here?”

“Sure I am. But since that amounts to about another five minutes before I have to hop a plane for Red Lodge, Montana, I figured we’d better get moving.”

Shallie was too stunned to force out the words forming on her lips.

“Look,” Hunt explained, “I don’t have to ride again here until the last day of the show. That’s more than a week away. After your pep talk last night, I realized I couldn’t just vegetate here while every other bronc rider in the country was hitting three or four shows, racking up points for the Finals.” Hunt bounded out of bed and began stuffing his rigging and a few pairs of rumpled jeans into his gear bag.