The Sweet Spot (3 page)

The evening’s potential fizzed under his skin as JB whispered into the mike. “We’re
live in 3, 2, 1…” His voice boomed. “Welcome, professional bull riding fans, to the
toughest sport on earth! This is not a rodeo, this is the one, the only, Peee Beeee
Rrrr!” Two of the crew touched torches to the kerosene and the advancing flame revealed
the letters in the dirt. Pyro booms concussed the air, flashes of flames and a fountain
of sparkly fireworks shot from tubes on either side of the chutes.

The lights came up and the cheer of the crowd lifted and swept him forward in a wave.

The night had begun.

Between calling the rides, reporting stats, and quipping with Wylie during the TV
time-outs, two hours passed in a blur.

JB thumbed the mike. “The final ride of the night is the guy with a target on his
back, the points leader on the tour, Colby Marcos. He’s drawn the bull, Mighty Mouse,
from CJ Denny Bucking Bulls. And, in the spirit of full disclosure, yes, that
is
my bull.” JB eyed the small cowboy lowering himself on the bull and timed his commentary
to end with the opening of the chute.

“Mighty Mouse is a son of the legendary Yosemite Sam and has shown some promise here
lately, with a ninety percent buck-off ratio.” The rider took the taut rope from his
buddy and wrapped it around his fist, effectively tying himself to the bull by one
hand. “Colby needs a ninety-point ride to regain the lead. What do you say, Abilene,
let’s cheer that cowboy on!”

The crowd roared as the cowboy nodded his head, and
the gate swung open. The small gray-and-white-spotted bull burst from the chute, lunging
forward before settling into a dizzying left-handed spin. The rider balanced in the
middle, taking away the force of the bull’s buck by matching it, jump for jump.

If his bull bucked well and advanced to the final round, JB would earn a good bonus.
His heart fell as the cowboy started spurring with his outside leg; if he felt in
control enough to loosen up and spur, the Mouse was going down.

But at 6.5 seconds, the bull stopped stock still and, as if switching gears, spun
in the opposite direction. Colby was caught out of position, and his hand popped out
of the rope. The cowboy was ejected to fly ten feet, landing face-first in the dirt.
Three bullfighters moved in to distract the fired-up bull by making a better target
than the downed rider.

One tapped the Mouse between his formidable horns and danced away. Another shouted
and waved his hat. The third stepped up and slapped the bull’s tail. Colby scrabbled
in the dirt, trying to get up and run at the same time, but not managing much of either.
Luckily, the confused animal gave up and trotted to the exit gate.

The crowd groaned. JB looked up at the ride clock. “Seven point three seconds. Looks
like the round win goes to Travis Byrd, and Mighty Mouse advances to the short go
tomorrow.”
Thank you, Lord.
He could really use that bonus check.

After all the drama and pageantry that led up to the event, it ended simply. The quieted
crowd filed for the exits as the winner stood in front of the chutes to accept his
placard check and be interviewed. The other riders strolled around the edge of the
arena to sign autographs
and meet the fans. Wylie stood next to JB’s platform, joking and talking to a clamoring
bevy of kids waiting to meet him and get him to sign their programs.

JB smiled and turned to shut down his laptop.

“ ’Scuse me, sir?” JB ignored the voice until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned,
and his lungs seized, midbreath.
No, not Benje.
Though the boy didn’t have similar features, he somehow had the look of his son—a
seven-year-old with red hair and freckles, and the same earnest expression.

“Can I have your autograph?”

JB reached for the program with shaking fingers. “Sure, son.” Scrawling a jerky rendition
of his signature, JB thrust it back at the kid and turned to his work. He was drained.
It had been a long day.

“Hey, JB!” He turned as Mitzi bounced up, excitement shimmering off her. “Everyone’s
going to dinner, then to this great bar Angie’s sister told her about. I thought you
could squeeze probably five in your truck. What do you think?”

He thought being in a crowded bar all night was the last thing he wanted, but a night
out after the event always helped him sleep. Besides, what else did he have to do?
Sit and stare at the TV all night and catalog regrets? “Okay. Let me finish up here,
and I’ll meet you at the truck.” He knew once he got to the bar, he’d have a good
time.

“Daddy!”

Char’s father ran for the fence, moving fast but hindered by the gimp in his arthritic
knee. The bull thundered behind. He threw a look over his shoulder. Char put her hands
over her eyes and looked from between her
fingers. As the bull lowered his head to hook a foot-long horn into his back, her
father dropped low and cut left. The bull tried to follow but slipped in the damp
grass. Reaching the fence, her dad scooted between the barbed wire strands. Char’s
head pounded with adrenaline. When she jumped from the pickup bed her legs gave way,
landing her on her hands and knees in mud churned up by the cattle’s hooves. Up in
a flash, she tore open the door, hopped into the cab, and cranked the engine.

She drove to the fence, then jumped out and ducked under the wire to where her father
leaned, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Daddy, are you all right?” she said, panting, though she hadn’t run anywhere.

Her father looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Shoot, Honey, I’ve been doing that since
before you were born.” He straightened, puffing out his skeletal chest. “Ain’t a bull
alive gonna catch Benjamin Enwright, bad knee or no. I may be a bit slower now, but
it doesn’t matter; all I need to be is smarter’n him.”

Char put a hand to her chest, to hold her heart inside. Dad seemed fine, but what
if his mind hadn’t been clear in that few seconds? What if he’d forgotten that cut-and-run
move?

As she drove them back to the house, recriminations pecked at her like a roadrunner
on a stinkbug.

What if I lost him too?
The full ramifications of her edict to Jimmy bloomed in her mind as the weight of
unwanted responsibility spread over her.

She pulled up next to the house, took the truck out of gear, and pulled the parking
brake. “Daddy, I’ve got to go get my purse, then we’ll head into town and buy
feed, okay?” She opened the door and glanced over. Her father’s blank profile told
her he was gone again. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.” She cranked up the heater
for him and slid out of the truck.

The orange prescription bottle on the window ledge called to her as she entered the
kitchen. She strode to where her purse hung on a dining room chair. Glancing down
as she slung it over her shoulder, she noticed her muddy knees. No time to change,
but she could at least wash her hands.

Everything outside the house was now her responsibility, and she had no one to blame
but herself. The siren call of the pills wailed as she sidled up to the sink. Surely
after this morning she’d earned a break.

Char ground her teeth. “No. I committed to this only three hours ago.” The words echoed
hollow in her ears as the aching want rose, dwarfing every other thought.
Yeah, but that was before I almost got Daddy killed.

S
queezing the gas nozzle, Char turned her face to the sun. The cold metal stung her
bare hand, but the feed store sheltered the gas pumps from the wind, creating the
illusion of a warm summer day. Her mind meandered, content listening to the gurgle
of fuel as the tank filled.
Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
All the pills did was knock the sharp edges off life, allowing her to walk around
in it without getting bruised. And she’d only taken a half dose. She was driving,
after all.

Ignoring the crunch of gravel when another car pulled to the only other pump, she
kept her eyes closed, hoping whoever it was would respect her reverie.

The engine died, and a car door opened and closed. “Oh, Char, dear, it’s so good to
see you.”

Lately, she cursed living in a small town. She opened her eyes at a touch on her sleeve
and yet another solicitous, assessing look. “Hello, Salina. How are you?”

“The question is how are you, Hon?” Salina’s gaze flicked over Char, her delicate
brows furrowed.

Char squirmed inside, blood rushing to her cheeks. “We’re doing just fine, Sal.” She
sniffed the air, hoping mud was all that caked her jeans.
Dang it, how dressed up do you have to be for a trip to the feed store?
It figures she’d run into Salina; her obvious concern was worse for being heartfelt.

In a former life, Salina and her husband, Larry, had run in Char and Jimmy’s circle,
a part of the group of former schoolmates that played cards together, each couple
taking turns hosting. Of course, they’d invited her, after. But the thought of sitting
in the middle of all those prying eyes, alone, was part of the reason Char hadn’t
answered the phone for months. Thankfully, it didn’t ring much anymore.

Jimmy was a pariah with their old crowd now; they’d circled the wagons, and he was
Cochise. Her girlfriends had sniped about him, thinking commiseration would make her
feel better. It didn’t.

But what Jimmy hadn’t destroyed of her good name, Char’d done herself.

Salina took a step to the driver’s door, glancing into the dim interior. “Oh, hey,
Mr. Enwright. How you gettin’ on?” Char knew from her father’s owlish stare that he
didn’t remember the girl who had practically lived at his house during Char’s high
school years.

Salina turned from the window. “You’re going to need some help here soon, Sweetie.
I know, from what my mother went through with my grandma.” Her stage whisper could
have been heard from the road. “I have the name of a good facility. You just let me
know.”

The pump clicked off, releasing Char. She hung the nozzle with jerky movements and
stepped to the cab. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Sal. I’ve really got to get moving.”
Opening the door, she scooted inside before her friend could give her a hug. She started
the engine and pulled out, not looking back at what she knew would be a hurt look.

Char pulled to the front of the store, hands shaking on the wheel. Maybe Salina could
put her grandma in a facility, but if they came to take
her
daddy from his home, they’d better come with a gun. She parked, shut down the engine,
and turned to her father. “Daddy, will you go in with me?” She patted his cold hand.
“You can drink coffee with your buddies while I order feed, okay?” He nodded and fumbled
with the seat belt.

They walked to the blond, brick-fronted building. The cowbell on the glass door clanked
when she pushed it open. A blast of heat and the familiar smell of grain, cigarette
smoke, and dust would have told her where she was with her eyes closed. Her father
removed his cowboy hat as he stepped onto the dirty linoleum of the showroom. Sacks
of goat chow, cartons of sheep dip, and bales of chicken wire lined the walls. Bulletin
board flyers ruffled in the breeze from the open door.

“Well, look what the wind kicked up!” Ben was hailed by the gaggle of old men who
lounged around a scarred linoleum-and-chrome table from the 1960s, smoking cigarettes
and drinking coffee.

“Hey, Ben,” the feed store owner, an obese, grizzled old-timer in overalls, called
out. “Get yourself over here. I can’t be the only voice of reason in this group of
jackasses.”

Her father broke into a huge grin. “Well, Junior, you should know not to socialize
with polecats and Democrats.” He ambled to the table and dropped into a rickety chair.

“I’ll be in the back, okay, Daddy?” Her father waved her off, already sucked into
the spirited argument of local politics. Funny how some faces clicked for him and
others didn’t. The doctors had warned her the disease would progress, in spite of
the medicine.

She pushed open the swinging doors to the business side of the store, a cavernous
pole barn. Pallets of feed for every domestic animal in East Texas towered in racks;
parts and tools nestled along the walls. A fake wood-paneled counter faced her, covered
in seed flyers and John Deere parts catalogs.

At the end stood a woman perusing a dog-eared catalog—a woman Char had never met but
recognized from the gossip. This was that Yankee who’d moved in a few months back.
Just where do you go to get an outfit like that?
Red shortie cowgirl boots, a lacy black square-dance miniskirt puffed with petticoats,
a white bustier cut down to
there
, and a black lace bolero jacket. Char swallowed, attempting to focus on the woman’s
features. A nimbus of black curls overwhelmed her deathly pale, sharp-boned foxy face.
Huge dream-catcher earrings bobbed with her every move.
She looks like Dolly Parton gone Goth.

Clannggg!
Char jumped at a horrific crash from the back of the barn. It sounded like someone
had dropped something heavy against a metal wall, and the tall ceiling amplified the
sound. The woman looked up, glaring at the pallet racks. “Damn it, Travis!” The shrill
New York
accent echoed. “Will you quit fiddle-fucking around? You tear down the place, your
uncle Junior’s gonna eat your bony ass for lunch!”

She must have heard Char’s sharp intake of breath, because she turned and leveled
a stony look at her sole customer. “Nepotism is not a good idea when your family tree
doesn’t branch.” She took a loose-hipped stroll behind the counter.

Char stood, open-mouthed. When the woman’s eyes narrowed, Char scrabbled for something
to say before she could get started on her. “I need food.”

A raven eyebrow arched. “You may not have noticed; this isn’t a restaurant.”