Handful of Sky (25 page)

O
n day eight of the
Finals, Shallie reflected on how easy it had been to fool everyone around her. They all treated her just as if she were a normal human being. Only she was aware that her heart had stopped pumping when she willed herself to cease feeling and that ice water lay frozen in her veins. But then the only people in Las Vegas who knew her well enough to realize that an android had taken her place were too preoccupied to notice: Walter was like a lovestruck teenager. Petey was absorbed in hero worship as he trailed Hunt from one end of the arena to the other. Hunt might have noticed, but after their near encounter the first day, they had both become very careful to avoid one another. For her part, Shallie completely abdicated the bucking chutes to Hunt, retiring to Jake McIver’s private box, where he kept a continuous party running, stocked with bourbon and buckle bunnies.

“Shalimar, you sweet thing.” Jake greeted her as she
entered the private box on the night of the next-to-last performance. “You’ve been running yourself ragged. What you’ve got to learn about producing is delegating, the fine art of laying back and hiring someone else to run themselves to death.”

A cute blonde at Jake’s side giggled appreciatively, and Shallie wondered if she was a candidate for next year’s Rodeo Sweetheart. Was Trish Stephans already in Hollywood?

“In case you’ve forgotten, Jake,” Shallie said, remembering to throw in her “good old girl” laugh, “I’m the ‘someone’ you hired to run herself to death so you can sit up here and sip your bourbon and branch water.”

Jake cackled, Walter and Miriam joining in at a more subdued level. Then the announcer was welcoming the twenty thousand spectators crowding the bleachers and telling them the first event would be bareback riding. The information was superfluous because the sellout crowd was composed of rodeo’s aficionados, the die-hard fans who had flown and driven in from around the country to watch the roughest and the rankest collide.

“The bareback riding has generated more than its share of thrills over the past few days,” the announcer went on, “and we’re looking to see some more here tonight as our three leaders, Jesse Southerland, Emile Boulier, and Hunt McIver battle it out for that big golden buckle.”

The three men rode like crazed artists, trying to push
their craft to its outer limits. In his riding style, each one revealed more than he would ever know about himself: Jesse Southerland hung on, hard and clutching. His mount was his enemy. Emile flapped loose and free, a happy ragdoll enjoying the jostling. But Shallie, in her most objective moment, realized that it was Hunt who was pushing back the boundaries, while the other two merely followed. He rode with an abstracted ferocity that lifted him above physical constraints.

Shallie appreciated the performance in the way a sports fan delights in seeing records broken and art lovers thrill to radical new innovations. But her elation had a hollow core. Panic clutched at Shallie as her thoughts drifted down toward that dangerous void. She jumped up from her seat.

“I’d better go down and make sure all the dogging steers have been sorted out.” She escaped before Jake could order her to sit down and stop fidgeting. She had to get out.

Down in the labyrinth of pens, the steers she had culled out that afternoon waited patiently for their moment under the bright lights. A crew of livestock handlers, all as proficient at their jobs as any of the buckle-chasing contestants inside the arena, herded animals along a maze of metal alleyways.

“Need some help, ma’am?” a brawny cowboy she hadn’t met asked her.

“No, I . . .” She shook her head. There was nothing for her to do there. She thrust her hands deep into her pockets, tucked her head into the collar of her jacket, and plowed into the wintry night. She was grateful for the blast of icy wind that bit into her, stunning her and clearing her head of all thoughts. Her hand leaped to her head to prevent the wind from blowing her hat away. She followed her feet, not thinking about where they were taking her, and not caring. The cheers of the crowd, the eight-second buzzer, the announcer’s twang, all faded further and further away.

The sports complex was located at the University of Nevada, and as Shallie roamed the campus the stored tensions of the last several months gradually dissipated and she relaxed into an ambling gait. Just beyond the edge of the campus, Shallie spotted a diner, its neon sign blinking out a warm welcome as the winds bit into her.

Shallie picked a table by the window. The odors of frying hamburgers and yeasty doughnuts floated around her. A skinny waitress thrust a menu in front of her.

“Just coffee, please,” Shallie said, declining the chicken-fried offerings. She pulled off her hat, carefully setting it down on its crown on an empty chair.

The waitress slid a steaming mug in front of Shallie. Shallie checked the time, astonished to find that she’d been walking for more than two hours. So, the rodeo was over. She swirled a trickle of cream into her coffee and
cupped the icy twigs of her fingers around the mug. She imagined that the festivities in the hospitality suite and throughout the hotels, taken over by cowboys and their retinues of hangers-on, were probably in full swing by now. She hoisted her cup, a wry toast to the bacchanalia she’d fled. Undoubtedly Hunt would be enjoying it to the fullest without the onerous chore of avoiding her at every turn.

At the next table, the three occupants had chosen to keep their cowboy hats on. Their voices rose above the clatter of spatulas hitting the grill and coffee cups rattling against saucers.

“Can you believe that ride McIver put on that bareback?”

The other two chimed in with expressions of incredulity.

“What I can’t believe is that he came from so far behind. I mean, he was
thousands
of dollars behind Southerland and Boulier when he went in and he’s damn near closed the gap now. That big buckle is up for grabs. Either one of those three could take it away tomorrow night.”

“Yeah,” the first speaker agreed, “that McIver is really something.”

Shallie closed her eyes as if she could shut out the name. She was so weary of it, of hearing about him, of seeing Hunt’s face on billboards, newspapers, magazines, in her dreams. She opened her eyes and blinked twice,
wondering if her suppressed longings hadn’t burst forth in full hallucinatory flower. Hunt McIver was outside, his lanky strides gobbling up the city pavement. In the violet light cast by the crime lights, Shallie saw him veer toward the diner as if summoned by the force of her deepest yearnings. Shallie ducked her head as his gloved hand reached out to push open the door.

“Hey, isn’t that McIver now?” A blast of cold air and the whispered question marked his entrance. Shallie didn’t need to be told that Hunt McIver was in the same room with her. His presence bore down on her with a pressure that stole the air from her lungs. The arrow points of his boots approached, then stopped. They were aimed straight at her. She followed the impossibly long columns of blue-jeaned legs up past an extravagance of muscled shoulders to a pair of eyes filled with anger.

“Where the hell did you hide the grain mixture?” he demanded, dispensing with the frills of greeting.

“I didn’t ‘hide’ it anywhere,” Shallie blazed with a fury to match his. “It’s where it’s always been, in the back of the storage room. Walter knew that.”

“Unfortunately, Walter followed your lead and was nowhere to be found either. And since you kept the grain formula your own little secret, no one knew what to give the broncs.”

The clanging and clattering in the small diner stopped
as every ear tuned in to the fiery exchange. Shallie was ready to leap to her own defense, but Hunt cut her off.

“Because everyone else was busy,
I
was the lucky one who got to slog out in this miserable weather trying to track you down. Fortunately there aren’t many places open at night in this part of town, and since you don’t have transportation, it wasn’t too difficult to track you down. But if you hadn’t tried to turn this into a one-woman show, none of this would have happened. I’m surprised you haven’t learned by now that rodeo is a team effort. A good contractor gets to be the best by being able to work
with
people, not against them.”

Shallie thought of the nights spent worrying and the days cooped up in the rolling oven of a semi’s cab, the dust she’d eaten, the pride she’d swallowed for the Circle M. She exploded.
“You’re
talking to
me
about working with people? Precisely what do you think I’ve been doing for the past six months? Your damned contracts were filled because it was
me
out there charming cranky committeemen and disgruntled calf ropers.
I
was the one who coaxed the cowboys on the labor lists into making the extra effort in 110-degree heat that it took to ensure that
your
rodeos ran smoothly. Meanwhile, you’ve been the one in the spotlight. You’ve . . .”

Shallie heard the quaver in her voice and stood quickly, laying a handful of bills down on the formica tabletop. Tears were already collecting in her eyes, turning
the city scene outside into a rippling underwater world as she left the diner.

“Hold on.” She shook Hunt’s hand from her shoulder and willed her tears back to their source. She had shown this callous, brutish man too much of herself as it was.

“Why?” she snapped. “So that I can be treated to more of your opinions as to my worth as a contractor? No thanks. I’ve heard quite enough already.”

“Oh, slow down,” Hunt commanded. “You were foolish enough to walk here by yourself, at least I can see to it that you make it back safely. In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t Mountain View, New Mexico, where an unaccompanied woman can stroll down the street at midnight, or any other damned time the fancy strikes her.”

“Thank you for that most illuminating geography lecture.” Sarcasm flavored Shallie’s words with a bitterness uncharacteristic of her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hunt asked as Shallie set off to retrace the route she’d taken. “The arena is only a few blocks the other way.”

Shallie fell in beside him without a word. Once again he had made a fool of her.

The silent streets echoed the lonely sound of two people walking together, yet utterly apart.

When they reached the arena, Hunt stopped and asked, “Shallie, why?” His question hung, untouched, in the cold, still night.

“Why what?” Shallie asked. Alternating currents of anger, longing, humiliation, desire, hostility, and regret swept through her. The crowds had thinned, but there were still clumps of fans, cowboys, and laborers nearby.

“Why are we acting like this? Look, I’m sorry for exploding. I’ve been under tremendous pressure. Plus, it’s been so lonely these past few months.”

“Oh? I would have thought that Trish Stephans would have provided ample companionship. Or did you mean that it’s been lonely since she moved on to other interests?” Shallie’s response was chilling. It slithered out of her like a serpent she couldn’t control. But she wanted Hunt to know that she was fully aware of what the situation was.

“So, I’m still just a junior Jake McIver to you. Well, maybe you’re right. And maybe it would be better if I were. Find your own way back to the hotel, but feed the broncs before you do.”

He left her at the edge of the maze of pens. A steer lowed mournfully. Desolation washed over Shallie as the tall figure dissolved into darkness. She wanted to bite her shrewish tongue. He had been lonely. Lonely? She mocked her gullibility. Hadn’t she seen the pictures of him and Trish? Seen the ever-present platoons of female fans?

The answers to her questions were swamped by a wave of hope that rose spontaneously at her first notice
of a shuffling sound coming toward her in the darkness. It was Hunt, he was coming back to her! This time she would bite back the hurt festering within her. She would listen. She would forgive. She would apologize. She would howl her love to the pale moon. She would do anything to have Hunt McIver back again.

“Shalimar, it’s me.” Shallie plummeted from the illusory peak of her stupid dreams at the sound of Jake McIver’s voice. Her disappointment was quickly replaced by acute embarrassment, however, when she realized that Jake must have witnessed the entire exchange.

“I apologize,” Jake said, confirming her worst fears. “I certainly didn’t intend to be lurking out here spying on you and my grandson. I just thought I might know where that damn feed was everyone was looking for and I’ve gotten so tired of no one ever asking me to do anything, that I thought I’d just come down here and find it myself. I couldn’t hear what you two were saying, but it obviously wasn’t good.”

Shallie desperately wanted to flee, to be done forever with this torment. But Jake went on, “You’re wrong about Hunt. I know you don’t approve of me. Don’t think I really care too much for the women who do. Hunt doesn’t either, you know. That’s where you’re wrong.”

“Jake,” she sighed, “like everyone else who reads newspapers, I’ve seen the pictures of him and Trish together.”

Jake let a howl of laughter rip through the still night. “Trish Stephans? Hunt can’t stand the woman. They both have the same agent. It was this agent fellow that started all that ‘crown prince and princess of rodeo’ nonsense. Wait a minute. Is that why you thought I was worried about Hunt hating me?”

Shallie didn’t answer.

“It is, isn’t it? Shallie, I only told you half the story when you were down at the Circle M. I see now you deserve to know the other half.”

Jake’s words were condensing into frozen puffs in the cold air, but neither of them noticed the temperature as Jake began speaking.

“I told you about adopting Hunt. What I didn’t tell you was why. Having a wife didn’t slow my son down one whit. Hunt was just a little boy then, but he hated his father for all the nights he’d leave him alone with his mother while she cried her eyes out. Hated him even more when his mama ran off.

“After that, Hunt’s daddy really cut loose. A week or two after she left, I stopped by the house I’d had built for my son and his bride in a far corner of the ranch. Hunt was there all alone, just a little bitty boy, eating crackers out of a box. It was all he’d had for a couple of days. I finally found his father, drunk as a skunk, with the wife of one of his rodeo buddies.