Dances with Wolf (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

The night before Polson, Wolf pulled his trailer over to the loading zone in front of the prefab barn. He loaded Bullet, who followed, stepping gingerly on the ramp. The mare continued to put equal weight on each foot. Fantastic! He revved up the truck and peeled out of the ranch, heading west.

Abby would be so proud to see how far Bullet had come. Though they’d had two brief phone calls since she’d left over a week ago, the talk of Bullet had been minimal. Abby was full of news about Bridget and Mark’s wedding. It surprised him, since he didn’t think of her as the girly, wedding-hungry type. Bridget was her best friend, though, so it wasn’t so outrageous for her to get invested in the whole deal.

Weddings and babies, supposedly the twin obsessions of all females. Abby didn’t seem to fit the stereotype, though Bridget would be grabbing one of each soon enough. Even he could feel sentimental about that—the first grandchild in the Olsen family. Heck, if it was a boy, maybe they’d consider naming him Wolf.

What would that be like, having some little kid with your name running all over the Olsen ranch, stirring up a trailer-load of trouble everywhere he went? He smiled thinking that whenever someone yelled the name “Wolf!” both he and the kid would turn around, certain that they were getting busted for one transgression or another. But when he closed his eyes tight and tried to picture such a boy, an amalgam of Mark and Bridget, all he could come up with was the image of a little girl with olive skin, green eyes, and a shock of black hair. A girl who would walk between a horse’s legs, leap from a fencepost onto its back before anyone could stop her. A girl born to whisper horses into greatness.

Wolf rubbed under each eye. Allergy season, that must be the problem. Acacias always did that to him—damned things just bloomed overnight and caught him without eye drops and a long drive on his agenda. He spent a full minute adjusting the side mirror, banishing any remaining thoughts of an imaginary little Abby. With any luck, he’d be with the real one by tomorrow night. Plenty of time to catch up, though he’d probably keep the full extent of Bullet’s progress a secret until the night of the rodeo. Part of him wanted to tell her now; another wanted to spring a surprise on her, in the form of a satisfied horse and a big, fat trophy.

With one more glance into the trailer to check on Bullet, he backed carefully down the driveway. Next stop, the Polson Fairgrounds.

The stadium was tall and rickety, home four months a year to the local high school’s football team, a locale for random community events the other eight months. An emblem of his childhood. He could picture the two families right up front, the Olsens and the Macreadys, ready to turn the roping event, indeed the whole rodeo, into a celebration if Wolf did as well as he expected to. He imagined Abby’s relief when the mare didn’t re-injure her hock, and even better, her triumph when Wolf and Bullet finished first, ahead of that punk Kai Talvert, or Ty Calvert—whatever his name was. A triumph Abby deserved most of—well, honestly, all—the credit for.

He hoped to whip Calvert at his own game on the first try. But if he didn’t, how many more weeks on the circuit would it take to send the little bastard back to Columbia Falls, his tail between his legs? And how long would he have to wait with all the rope-a-dopes for his next chance at a championship? Wolf felt a twinge in his side, a reminder of that pesky oblique that had been feeling so fragile lately. And was it his imagination, or did his right knee feel a bit tender at the mere flexing of his foot on the truck’s accelerator? If Calvert was half the contender Roy swore he was, it might be a long wait indeed, and it wouldn’t be Bullet’s fault.

By the time Wolf got her settled in at the fairgrounds for the night, it was almost midnight. He strolled down the main street of Polson, happy to get out from behind the wheel of the truck. Polson had but one decent bar, the Flat Duck. The parking lot was full and the scene of a minor brawl by the time he arrived. He stood at the neon-bright entrance and tried to find someone he knew, but no familiar faces emerged. Since when had this crowd gotten so young? Half the people in here were underage.

He took a seat at one end of the bar and ordered one of the local microbrews, a Flathead Lake Monster, and a basket of fries. He wasn’t exactly hungry. He was too keyed up to eat. And while the decision to trailer Bullet down here had seemed so easy, now that he was here with her, he wished he’d asked Abby for more specific advice. When he rode, should he try to take weight away from Bullet’s tender side, leaning in the opposite direction (possibly tweaking his own side in the process)? Or should he ride the way he always did, centered and grounded through the center of Bullet’s long, strong spine? It was a little too late to start re-inventing the way he rode, but Wolf felt more closely aligned, closer overall, with his horse now, and he wanted to take as much pressure off her as possible.

In the huge rectangular mirror, Wolf spotted Kai/Ty, dressed in baggy green shorts, a T-shirt with a picture of Johnny Cash giving the finger—
that’s my favorite singer, not yours, kid—
and a baseball hat worn backwards over his longish wavy brown hair. What rodeo guy worth his salt switches out his Resistol for a baseball cap at a bar? Somebody who doesn’t necessarily count on his rodeo reputation to get a little action with the ladies, Wolf supposed, taking a quick look at his reflection to make sure he still belonged in the same category. (He did, thank God.)

He watched the kid for a few minutes, the way he turned right and left to talk to the girls on either side of him, the way he poured them fresh glasses of sangria (sangria, what a wussy drink) when they’d emptied theirs. He was a college kid, all right, one who probably looked at the whole adventure as just another chapter on his way to becoming the biggest ranch broker or livestock dealer in the state. Not, Wolf thought with a trace of bitterness, a rodeo man whose very existence depended on his winnings, week in, week out. Season in, season out. Life in, life out.

Yep, this was the infamous Ty Calvert, and come Friday night, he would need a good whooping.
I know just the man to deliver it.

…

Although he’d told himself a million times not to look for Abby in the stands, he couldn’t help it. She was becoming his good luck totem, his four-leaf clover. All of the sudden, he couldn’t focus without her eyes on him, not even in the saddle bronc event, where he didn’t count on placing higher than third. But oddly, he didn’t want her to spot him until he came roaring out of the chute on whatever widow-maker the god of regional rodeos had assigned him.

Finally he spotted her two rows up from ringside as she, Bridget, and Mark found their seats. Bridget took off her coat, then flung it over the four seats in back, probably to reserve them for their parents and the Macreadys.

The arena was pulsing with excitement, an energy Wolf could feel in his bones. Little girls in pink-spangled dungarees, boys in straw cowboy hats and jeans with outsized rodeo buckles milled around the gates. The smell of popcorn and squaw bread lingered in the air. He was ready to show Abby and the rest of the family just what he was made of.

“And now we have ourselves a treat, folks.” A young rider entered the chute. He waved his hat to the crowd while handlers battened down the hatches, securing his mount’s cinch, tightening the reins. “Let me introduce you to Ty Calvert of Billings, this year’s All-Round champion at National Collegiate Rodeo. Ty, word is you’ve got your own cheering squad here in Polson.” A chorus of high-pitched voices echoed the announcer’s claim. What was the world coming to? The kid was as green as a pickle in chaps.

“Well, good luck to you, Ty!” the announcer said, like the little punk was some kind of superhero. Didn’t he realize Wolf frickin’ Olsen was on deck?

The chute opened and Ty shot out on a hefty bay gelding. From his spot fifty yards to the right of the chute, Wolf could still see the whites of the horse’s eyes
. Name of the game, Ty
. The horse shot to the center of the ring and did three consecutive 180s before the announcer could react. But Ty stuck to the saddle like he’d just signed Super-Glue as a sponsor. Two more 180s in the opposite direction and the eight-second buzzer sounded. Ty leaped dramatically over the horse’s head and landed upright, his hat over his heart. That gesture, one Wolf had seen a thousand times before in every rodeo from Calvary to Cape Stevens, annoyed the crap out of him (unless, of course, he was doing it himself, which didn’t count, since he’d practically invented it).

“And here we have eighty-five points,” the announcer said. “Mighty fine first ride, Mr. Calvert.” The audience erupted.

Wolf hoisted his gear bag over his shoulder and headed toward his assigned chute. Not a bad ride for a pseudo-cowpoke, but it was time to put that little pretender in his place.

“Wolf Olsen, local product, now of Choteau, Montana, on Wee Willy Winkle, out of Arlee,” the announcer yelled out. “You know what to do, Wolf. Show us how it’s done, boy.”

Above the gate, lashed down by two cowboys the size of Montana State fullbacks, was Wee Willie. Wolf secured his hold on the bronc and kept his head down, out of the spotlight. With one hand, he gave a final hitch to the brace he’d secured with Velcro around his chest at the last minute. A quick shot of pain rode up his calf and into his knee.
Where the hell did that come from?

But there was no time to think it through. Wolf and Wee Willie shot out onto the center of the arena. For the moment, Wolf felt secure. Then Willie bucked his way across the far side and brushed hard against a metal gate. Wolf winced as the little bronc pinned his knee for a long second; he gunned Willie with his spurs. The horse bolted from the ring to spin in three concentric circles. Wolf’s free hand traced the same shape well above his head, as required. He was back in charge, outriding the pain, but the clock seemed to wind down in slow-motion. Finally, the bell rang. Eight seconds. Eight agonizing seconds. The audience cheered.

Wolf flew bowlegged off the horse’s left side, a move he’d made a thousand times. But this time, his knee hyper-extended for a split-second, and he stumbled. Just for a millisecond, sure, but damned embarrassing if anybody’d caught sight of it. In an instant, though, he was balanced and on point again, reclaiming the Resistol that lay a few feet away before saluting the crowd. Thank the good Lord they didn’t score riders on their dismounts.

“Eighty-seven points!” screamed the announcer, drawing out each syllable for maximum effect. “Highest score of the season so far.” The crowd cheered again. Wolf scanned the crowd quickly. Bridget gave him a huge thumbs up, but no sign of Abby, not yet.

A cascade of perspiration ran from his forehead. He hunched over for a few seconds, riding the wave of pain from his old injury. Had Abby seen it, from some hidden corner of the stadium? Had Bridget or his mom? It was hard enough to persuade Roy that he could keep competing. He didn’t need the ladies in his life watching his every move in the ring. He’d never hear the end of it.

He straightened up and willed the pain to subside as he took a more thorough look into the stands. Suddenly, there was Abby at last, jogging down the stairs toward him. Bridget and Mark were standing, too, waving at him until he saluted with his hat. And in front of them, his mom and dad, Abby’s parents, too. Doc had both hands raised above his head and even Marcie looked a little less sternly at him.

He waited for Abby just behind a wooden pillar. His shirt was rumpled, pockmarked with dirt. The brace had slipped and was digging into his side, but he raised his chin triumphantly.

“That was some show.” She stood a foot from him, inspecting him from head to toe. “And this isn’t even your event!”

“You didn’t have to come down here, you know.” He felt suddenly shy. She smelled of sunshine, a meadow full of it, as far from this ring of bloodied sawdust as a person could get. “I’ve still got a couple more of these to go.”

“I know. I just thought you could use an encouraging word.” She waved toward the stands. “Your fan club’s all here. You saw us, right?”

He nodded. He wanted to bury his face in her hair. He held onto the pillar instead and tried to look casual about it.

“That was a really great ride,” she said. “I never gave it a second thought, the saddle bronc event. You could have been hurt, big-time, before you ever got a chance to show what you can do with Bullet.”

“Right. She’s ready, though, wait till you see.” He was going to take every opportunity he could to steer the conversation away from his own physique, and toward Bullet’s. “You’re gonna be proud of what you’ve done with her.”

Abby drew back and scanned his face.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Is it your knee?”

How did she even know about his knee? He’d stumbled, but just barely. He was
sure
he’d hidden the pain. She was a cowboy whisperer now? “Nope. Knee’s fine. I’m not the first rider Wee Willie’s tried to leave a souvenir of in the ring.”

“You sure?” She looked up at him, never blinking, her eyes like two perfect ovals of mica.

“Hey, if I was injured, would I be able to do this?” He stepped toward her, lifted her a few inches off the ground, then set her down gently. No pain whatsoever. “Anyway, high score or not, it ain’t over ’til it’s over. I’ve still got that kid Calvert to beat in my best event. Which rumor has it, is also his. Did you see the way he held his hat over his heart? Arrogant little punk, isn’t he?” He glanced at his watch.

“Forget about him. Just take care of yourself and Bullet. Remember, she’s still working her way back. Be careful.”

“We’re good, believe me. I think you’re going to be pretty pleased.” He grabbed her hands and squeezed them.

“I’ll meet you here after the roping’s over?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right here. Then we’ll go celebrate.” He let go of her hands and swiveled her toward the stands. She looked back at him with a final, concerned look. Had he convinced her he was okay, or not?

Time was closing in on him. Thirty minutes max and he’d be called for the roping event. The pain in his obliques returned with a sharp twang. He reached inside his shirt to tighten the Velcro’s grip.