Page 21 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Keep him under control, or next time it’s not words.”

I smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it. “You ever want to settle up, Bill, you know where to find us.”

He spat at the ground. “This isn’t over, Maddox.”

I waited until they got in their truck and left. Eli was still vibrating, barely keeping his feet under him.

“You want to tell me what that was?” I asked.

“They were talking shit,” Eli said. “About you, about the ranch. I’m not letting them get away with it.”

“You let them get to you,” I said, cold. “That’s what they wanted.”

He glared, but the heat was gone as his shoulders slumped. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be smarter.”

He nodded without looking at me. “Never ends, does it?” Eli said.

“Not in this town,” I replied.

He didn’t answer, but the message was clear, there would be another round.

Chapter 8: Jennie

I'd been at the ranch two weeks and still didn't know if I was more guest or hostage. I could argue for either, and both had perks, the eggs were always perfect, and the surveillance was predictable. I sat with my mug, waiting for the opportunity to escape when Cordelia cleared her throat. “I do hope you’ll join us at the rodeo today, Jennie.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth. “It’s the social event of the season out here. The whole town attends. It would be a shame for you to miss it, seeing as you’re part of our household. For now.” She said it smoothly, calculation running beneath her words. A public Fourth of July celebration, a big crowd, a place where every move was watched by fifty pairs of eyes. If I refused, it would be a snub. If I went, I’d be another ornament on the Coleman float. Plus, they probably all planned to go and didn’t want to leave me here alone.

I recognized the order wrapped in the suggestion, but smiled and said, “I’d love that. Thank you.”

Levi snorted into his coffee, a slow-motion spill that earned him a napkin thrown from the other end of the table. “She’d love that,” he echoed in a mocking voice, and wiped his mouth.

Cordelia ignored him, turning her attention to her phone, thumb moving in a series of crisp, deliberate taps. “We’ll leave at noon. Dress appropriately. It’s already eighty-seven degrees and the bleachers are not air-conditioned.” She said it like I hadn’t grown up in Texas and attended a rodeo more times than I could count.

I finished my eggs and went to get dressed. Rodeo wear wasn’t exactly riding the range wear. I chose a sleeveless cotton shirt I’d thrifted in Austin, and dark jeans that would mask the inevitable stains. My boots were already stained, but whatever. Only rhinestone cowboys wore pristine boots.

By 11:59, the Coleman trucks were idling in the drive, already loaded with coolers, sunscreen, and a bag of promotional hats. Wyatt sat at the wheel of the lead truck, his jaw set and eyes covered by a pair of mirrored aviators that failed to hide his distaste.

We arrived at the fairgrounds fifteen minutes after the posted start, which put us right on schedule to snag the best seats. The place was a living diorama of rural Texas, dirt lot packed with trucks and livestock trailers, an outer perimeter of food stalls slinging funnel cakes and tacos, a kids’ area strung with faded bunting and sun-wilted prizes. The air was a cocktail of corn dogs, manure, and sunblock.

The Colemans moved through it, everyone nodding or at least pretending not to stare. Cordelia kept a two-finger wave going the whole time, a queen's acknowledgment of her subjects, while Levi shadowed the group with his hands in his pockets, scanning the horizon for anything that might pass for excitement.

The bleachers were already filling up. Bill Hargrove was there, leaning against the arena fence. He wore the same battered hat I’d seen him in at the post office, and he clocked every person who stepped within thirty feet. He nodded at the Colemans, but when he got to me, something sharpened, then moved on.

I was, technically, working. This was all fieldwork. The corn dog I was already eyeing was a professional necessity.

We claimed our seats, Cordelia, then Wyatt, then Levi, with me at the end of the row. I didn’t mind. I wanted to be able to slip out. Plus, from here, I had a clear view of the whole ring, the livestock chutes, and the clots of people orbiting the main event. The first round was mutton busting, kids in helmets clutching terrified sheep as they careered down a lane of churned earth and applause.

It was in the lull between events that I spotted the Maddox group. They weren’t in the stands, but at the edge of the staging area near the practice pens, an arrangement that said they came to every rodeo. I recognized three of the hands from the general store, the kid with the uneven tan, and the big guy with the broken nose. At the center was Calder Maddox, hat pushed low and arms crossed, flanked by a younger man, Eli, if I remembered correctly. If the family resemblance wasn’t enough, the posture was, even from a distance, I could see they shared the same take-no-shit silhouette.

The older Maddox hand was there, too, the one I'd seen at the feed store. He wore a shirt painfully bright, and a belt buckle the size of a hamburger patty. He moved with a limp, but carried himself with the ease of a man who knew who he was. I watched as he tipped his hat to every kid who walked by, then immediately turned and pretended to spit for distance, aiming for a line only he could see.

I scanned the group, feeling a vague itch at the back of my neck, and there he was. Reid, sitting on the top rail of the practice pen, hands hooked over the bar. He was talking to one of the hands, but I watched his eyes dart back to the bleachers every few minutes, never long enough to be obvious, but enough that I caught it twice. I’d told myself I wouldn’t look for him. I’d told myself this was work, or at least reconnaissance, and that anything else was just residual curiosity. But the memory of yesterday morning’s kiss had a way of interrupting every thought. I could still feel the heat of his hand on my shoulder, the way his his lips had felt against mine. I had planned to ignore him for the day.

He was not ignoring me.

The announcer called for the tie-down roping, and the crowd surged in, all elbows and sunburned knees. The Maddox hands moved as a unit to the fence, Eli at the front. Cordelia leaned in and said, “They let the children compete here,” and I heard the sneer behind the words. Wyatt, on his phone, didn’t look up. She was talking about Eli. He had to be in his early twenties. Hardly a child. Cordelia was just a bitch.

I watched the prep. The calf bucked and jerked at the end of the rope, eyes white with fear. Eli mounted up, swung the lasso twice, and waited for the starter’s flag. At the signal, he bolted. The rope caught on the first try. He was off the horse and had the calf down, legs knotted, and the rope thrown in a blur. The time was a second off the leader, but it was still a clean run.