I hadn’t taken in a rodeo since I’d gotten out of the army. Stepping through the arena doors, the unique smells of sawdust, dirt, manure, livestock, and cotton candy blasted me in the face, the scents carried on the hot air blowing from the heaters. I glanced over at Lex, who was wrinkling his nose.
The seats in the Pennington County Events Center weren’t even half full. A horse trailer display took up a good chunk of the entryway. We skirted the high-end rigs and paused between the concessions and the ramp leading to the stands.
People milled about. Friends greeted one another with handshakes and heartfelt slaps on the back. Cowboys and cowgirls of all ages stood in groups, drinking beer and laughing. Kids dressed in jeans, boots, and hats raced by at full throttle. The loudspeaker boomed with announcements. A 4-H Club sold raffle tickets for a quilt. A small western tack store, pegboard walls laden with ropes of every color, material, and length had cropped up between a real estate broker’s table and a FFA booth.
Despite the number of years that’d passed since I’d been around rodeo culture, nothing had changed. An odd sense of comfort filled me, and I felt silly for it. I’d merely been an observer in this world-a role that was the norm for me.
Dawson stopped in front of a corridor of metal fencing that led to the area marked for contestants. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“But… why can’t I come back and help pull your rope?” Lex asked.
The kid had studied up on bull riding, I’d give him that much.
“Thanks for the offer, son, but they’re pretty strict about who goes behind the chutes. I’ll meet you at the contestant’s gate as soon as I’m finished, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dawson sidestepped his son and loomed over me. “Need money for snacks? The kid eats like a horse.”
“Nah, I’ve got it covered.” I stood on tiptoe and pressed my mouth to his. “Promise me you’ll be careful, old man.”
“I will.” He draped his equipment bag over his shoulder and headed to the back of the arena.
Neither Lex nor I moved until Dawson was out of sight.
“What you hungry for first? Popcorn or nachos?”
“Nachos.”
After we loaded up on junk food, we found seats in the middle section and settled in to watch the show.
This was a charity event put on by the South Dakota Sheriffs Association, but rodeo standards never changed. A young girl belted out “The Star Spangled Banner,” and all the men and women in the place removed their hats without being reminded. That was followed by recognition of all the veterans in the arena. We were asked to remain standing while the crowd gave us a resounding round of applause for our service to this country. On the outside, I might’ve looked like a stoic combat survivor, but on the inside, I wept for what war had taken from all of us and felt immeasurable pride that my years of service meant something. Having these strangers acknowledge our collective dedication always moved me; it never seemed staged, just sincere. And these days, no one did a double take at seeing a woman standing with the men.
Lex started shoveling in nachos, but that didn’t keep him from talking with a mouthful of food. “I’m gonna join the marines when I get outta school, just like my dad did.”
I shot him a glance. Last week the kid wanted to be a cop. This week he wanted to be a soldier. Next week he’d probably want to be a bull rider. I tried to remember if I’d changed my mind about my future occupation every week when I was his age. Had I ever dreamed of following in my father’s footsteps? Maybe. But the one thing that’d stayed constant was the resolve that my career would involve guns.
“Why does the guy ridin’ saddle bronc have that thing behind his head?” Lex asked, with a cheese-covered chip pointing at the rider. “If they’re worried he’s gonna hurt the horse, then how come they make the riders wear spurs?”
“It’s rider safety gear, and it’s meant to protect the rider’s neck and head from injury, not the horse. And the spurs they wear are designed not to cut into a horse or a bull.”
“Oh.” Crunch-crunch. “Did you ever do rodeo stuff?”
“Nope. Only in the stands as a fan.”
Lex finished the nachos, a big bag of popcorn, a large Diet Dr Pepper, and a package of licorice. He left to go to the bathroom twice, which entitled me to tease him upon his return. “Are there cute cowgirls by the concession area?”
He scowled. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’ve been popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.”
Another scowl. “Anyone you know from school here tonight?”
“No. Jeez, why are you acting like you care? My dad’s not here.”
Ouch. I hadn’t wanted to horn in on Dawson’s time with his son, so I’d hung back, which evidently made the kid think I didn’t like him. I needed to change that, but I wasn’t sure how to do it.
We watched the calf roping. And the team roping. When the bull-dogging started, Lex stood. “I’m thirsty. Can I have money for pop?”
I shook my head. “There’s a drinking fountain by the bathrooms.”
“But my dad-”
“Said nothing about allowing you to drink unlimited quantities of caffeine. He’d say no, and you know it. Take your cup and get some water if you’re so thirsty.” I looked at him. “And think about the fact you’re only nice to me when you want something.”
Lex’s cheeks colored. He snatched up the cup and stomped off.
Yeah, it appeared they’d removed the mothering genes when they’d taken my uterus.
The pouty preteen plopped beside me and heaved a world-weary sigh. “How long before bull ridin’ starts?”
“It’s next.”
Like the other events, the entrants were a mix of current pros, old pros, and amateurs. The “places” were largely symbolic; the sponsors were donating the prize money to the association’s charity, a summer boot camp for kids on the cusp of juvenile delinquency.
Finally, the speeches ended, and the bull riding began. The first six guys got thrown off. The next two rode. Not prettily. They hadn’t skimped on the rough stock for this charity event.
“Next up in the Conrad Electric bucking chute, Eagle River County sheriff Mason Dawson. Sheriff Dawson hails from Minnesota, and in his younger years, competed in bulldogging and bull riding on the Midwest Circuit. He consistently placed in the top ten, but chose to trade in his bull rope and piggin’ string for an M16 in the marines. Sheriff Dawson has drawn the bull Dark Dream, from Jackson Stock Contracting.”
I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, surprisingly nervous. Not much of Dawson was visible except the top of his hat.
“How long does it take for him to get ready?” Lex asked.
“Depends on if the bull fights in the chute. Depends on how long it takes to wrap his hand and get a good seat. Meaning, where he feels he can hold on for eight seconds. Have you ever watched bull riding on TV?”
“A couple times, after Dad told me he was a bull rider.”
I smiled, happy to see that Lex’s worship of his father appeared to be genuine. “When your dad nods his head, the guy standing outside the gate will open it.”
“Then he’s out in the dirt, staying on for eight seconds.”
“Let’s hope.”
When Dawson and the bull left the chute, Lex and I both clapped and shouted encouragement. Dawson looked awful stiff on the bull, almost as if he held on by sheer will. But when it comes to a two-hundred-pound man versus a fifteen-hundred-pound bull… in a battle of wills, the spinning, kicking, jerking bull tended to win.
And Dark Dream was a kicker. The hind legs came up on every hop. He’d spin and jerk his back end, sending Dawson sliding sideways. Dawson didn’t have much chance to spur; he was too busy hanging on.
He stayed with the bull jump for jump, but when the bull went into a spin, that’s when I knew Dawson was about to eat dirt.