A Cowboy's Heart (8 page)

“Thanks.” Clint rubbed the back of his head.

“You okay?” One of the sports medicine team had joined them.

Clint nodded, and it hurt. All over.

“I think he hit his head on the gate and scattered his chickens.” The bull-fighter pounded Clint on the back, chuckled and walked away.

Clint cringed because it had done more than scatter his chickens. He could almost imagine the questions people would ask, about why a cowboy kept trying to ride the bull. He didn't have an answer, but he knew that it was about competing with something wild. Man against beast, a battle as old as time.

Some men chased tornadoes, others jumped from planes. He rode bulls, sometimes for eight seconds, and sometimes not.

He stood and tipped his hat to the cheering crowd as the medics followed him out of the arena and through the building to their temporary examining room—heavy curtains hung on bars to give the riders a little privacy.

“Have a seat, Clint.” The physician, a man in his sixties, pointed to a table covered with sheets of white paper.

“Do I have to? I'm sure it's fine.” Sore, but fine. He had to be fine.

“How about if you let me be the doctor, and you be the bull rider. We'll both be better off for it.” Doc Clemens smiled as he lifted Clint's arm at an angle that didn't feel too good. “Hmm.”

“What's ‘hmmm' mean?”

“It means that I don't think you should ride, but I also don't think you're going to listen to me. It means that I can't be sure until further examination, but I think you're finally going to need surgery.”

“Hmmm.” Clint smiled and then grimaced when one of the medics placed a bag of ice on his shoulder. “That's cold.”

“I think you should call it a weekend.”

“I can't. If I can win…”

“Yes,
if
you can win. There's always that elusive
if.
” The older doctor was a little less than pleasant when it came to bedside manner. “If you want, we can try tying it down. Sometimes it works.”

His elbow tied to his waist to keep him from moving his arm straight up. He'd be able to move it just enough to keep it in the air, away from the bull and the automatic disqualification if he touched the animal. He shook his head, not sure if he liked the idea.

A commotion outside and men clearing a path interrupted the conversation. Willow kept her gaze on him as she walked through the room.

“Don't be stupid, Clint.” She smiled at the doctor, who went a little red in the face. “If you can't ride, you can't ride.”

“I can ride. It's my free arm.”

“Which you need for balance.”

He shot a look over her shoulder in time to see a few of the guys laugh and shake their heads. This he didn't need. And if she'd been thinking, she would know she didn't need it, either. She had just added to the rumor that had been started by the magazine article. Not that she had any way of knowing about the magazine.

But after the interview she'd made it pretty clear she didn't want her name linked with his.

“Willow, I'm going to make the right decision for me.”

And for his family. The weekend had a big purse at stake, and that money would go a long way in building his dream. It was money that would put up fences and buy cattle.

“What about the boys?” She looked around a little nervously, as if she had just realized where she was and who all was watching. Calm, cool and detached crumbled across her face, and she bit down on her bottom lip, suddenly vulnerable.

He wanted to pull her close and tell her it would all work out. But he couldn't make those promises to her.

“Everything I do is for my family.” He spoke a little softer and started to reach for her hand. Instead he winked as if he didn't feel a need to convince her he was okay. “Don't worry, I've been hurt a lot worse than this.”

“Okay, well then, I guess I'm going back out there. Janie has the boys already tucked in, so you can crash and not worry about them.”

She nodded and walked away, not giving him time to respond, to argue, or to even ask her how her bulls had done. And since Doc Clemens was about to stick a huge needle in his shoulder, it didn't seem to matter.

W
illow left Clint and walked down the hall, back to the crowds gathered behind the chutes. Several stock contractors smiled, a few riders nodded in her direction. They all seemed to be whispering. And she seemed to be the center of attention.

The center of attention was exactly where she didn't want to be. She avoided that place, the place where people stared and whispered.

It could be about anything. It could be that they were already discussing the fact that she stomped into the examining room and confronted Clint as if she had a right.

She tried to tell herself that she was used to people staring and talking about her in quiet whispers. Not here, though, in this sport where she'd been accepted. One of the contractors left his group of friends and headed in her direction.

“How ya doin', Willow?” Dan slapped a rolled-up magazine against his thigh and sighed.

“I thought I was fine, Dan. But from the look on your face, maybe I'm not?”

“Willow, I'm not going to beat around the bush. There's a pretty nasty article in this magazine. I have a feeling you haven't seen it.”

She shook her head. No, she hadn't seen it. He handed it to her, and she unrolled it. Willow glanced at the cover, and then she understood the whispers, the curious glances. She flipped to the page of the article.

“I'm sorry, Willow.”

She nodded as she skimmed the article, a story about a woman with a disability, and bulls being mistreated. She glanced at the bull in the chute and the cowboy sliding onto his back. The judge was there, making sure it didn't take too long for the cowboy to get settled and out the gate. That rule was meant to protect the animals and keep them safe from stress or injury.

And her own bulls, drinking bottled water and eating the best hay and grain available. She skimmed the article, stopping when she saw Clint's name. She groaned and shook her head.

“Great.”

“It isn't the end of the world.” Dan chuckled. “Shoot, Willow, there are plenty of couples around here that met at a bull ride. And Clint's a good guy.”

“But it isn't true.”

“Of course it isn't. But you're okay. You have good bulls, and nothing to be ashamed of. This isn't the first article written about bull riding, won't be the last. This guy took his story to a personal level that wasn't really necessary.”

She thanked Dan, smiling and shaking her head when he tried to give words of encouragement. As she walked away his words were indiscernible, but she caught something about it not being a big deal.

For her, it was a big deal. This was about her reputation. It was about people respecting her as a professional, not thinking of her as someone weak, someone who needed sympathy or help.

Ignoring Bailey, who waved from the sidelines, wanting to talk, Willow walked back to the area where temporary pens had been set up for the bulls. Her bulls were there, fed, cared for and healthy.

She ripped the pages out of the magazine and dropped them in a nearby trash barrel. The article was trash. And it felt good to watch the pages flutter down, finding a resting place with soda cans, wrappers from burgers, and popcorn.

“What are you doing?” Clint stood next to her, glancing into the trash barrel. She hadn't heard him walk up.

She shrugged and ripped more pages, feeling better already. “I'm not a victim. I'm not disabled. I'm a woman of faith. I'm strong. I take care of my animals.”

“Okay.”

She glanced up at him, smiling when he smiled, because she knew that she wasn't making sense. “Did you know about the magazine?”

“I did, and I was going to tell you.”

“Were you working up the courage?”

He pointed to the bag of ice under his shirt. It had been taped to his shoulder with duct tape. “No, I was getting a shot in the arm.”

“Do I really act like this person he portrayed me to be?” She hoped not.

She didn't want to discuss the money that had been the consolation prize at the end of a marriage. Or the husband who had used her father's name to build his own career in Washington.

Worse, what he'd said about her relationship with Clint. She had traded a privileged life in Washington for a cowboy with a fading dream of being a pro bull rider.

The article hadn't been kind to him, either.

Clint smiled, reassuring, calm. “You're not the person in that article. The divorce is behind you. It's a part of your past.”

Heat crawled up her cheeks. “I was dumped for someone I thought was my best friend.”

“I know.” He shrugged his right shoulder. “And I have fading dreams of making it big.”

“Your dreams aren't fading.”

“No, they're not fading, just changing. I'm getting too old for this sport. But I'm going to rebuild that farm that's seen better days. And I could think of worse things than having my name connected to yours. Even if it is just a rumor.”

She looked down, glancing at the few pages of the magazine still intact, including a recipe for some midwestern-style casserole.

“Oh, wow, I want this recipe.” She folded it up and put it in the pocket of her jeans.

“Changing the subject?”

“Maybe. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to talk about what this says about us, or about my bulls or how I lucked into success.”

Clint leaned close. He didn't touch her, and she wanted to be touched. “You didn't luck into it. You did this on your own. You're incredible.”

She nodded, and then she backed away, because they were in a public place and they didn't need to feed the gossip that had already started.

“Thank you. I'm sorry for what the article says about you. It isn't true.”

“I know.”

She took a few more steps back. “I have to go.”

Because there had to be lines, somewhere between them, lines they didn't cross. Because if they crossed the lines, and he became someone she counted on, how could she go back to not having him in her life?

She would handle it, because that's what she did. She had learned to handle things as a kid, moving from place to place, trying to make new friends, and losing good ones along the way. She handled life, and being alone. She handled men walking away.

She smiled, and he smiled back. “See you in the morning.”

He reached for her hand. “Let's grab a cup of coffee and unwind. I won this round, and I'd like to celebrate.”

A cup of coffee. Friendship. A man who understood that she was strong and she could survive. But he was also a rescuer. So was the coffee a lifeline, or friendship?

“Not tonight.”

Tonight was a good night not to be rescued. Tonight she needed to keep her distance because there was a soft, vulnerable spot in her heart, and an ache to be held. She said goodbye and walked away. But behind her Clint was still standing by her bulls, and her heart was remembering how it felt to have lines crossed with a kiss.

 

Sunday morning, Willow walked down the steps to the small area of the stadium where church was being held. It was quiet—no bulls bellowed from the chutes and cowboys didn't line the platform, waiting to ride. Maybe a hundred people had gathered to worship. There were bull riders, stock contractors, family, and even a few spectators.

One of the guys played the guitar, signaling a start to the service. Willow sat at the back, not wanting to be a part of conversation or greetings. Today she wanted to be alone, to think about the future and why she was suddenly dreaming about a cowboy.

Janie had taken the boys to a local church, and then they were going to the zoo. They would make a real day of it, and the twins needed that. Clint had planned to sleep in, because pain meds did that to him, he'd explained.

Willow didn't feel abandoned. She needed time with God, to worship and to feel His presence. She had work to do on her heart that morning, and it had to do with anger toward the reporter. She'd lain in bed last night reliving the interview and what she should have said. And then moving on to what she'd say if she ever saw that guy again.

Real anger, real emotion, the kind that if it wasn't controlled could get a person in real trouble. She smiled at the thought but
then reminded herself again how wrong it would be to say the things she wanted to say.

The song service started. Willow stood, closing her eyes to listen because the guitar was soft and the voices were strong. She sang along, enjoying that moment when the world slipped away and she was alone with God. And since God was the only one close enough to hear, she didn't mind singing out loud.

Alone with God, and then a soft breeze and mountain pine cologne. A shoulder touched hers. She opened her eyes, and Clint smiled down at her. She closed her eyes again, not wanting to be distracted, and knowing how easily it could happen.

The music ended, and they sat down together. The speaker for the day was one of the bull riders. He opened his Bible and announced a passage of scripture. Willow flipped through her Bible, looking, but missing the chapters. She had sat too far back to read lips, and too far to catch everything he said.

And it was her own fault, for being stubborn, for wanting to be alone. Two months ago it wouldn't have been an issue. Now, now everything was different.

Clint reached for her Bible and pointed to the correct passage.
And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

She read the verses above and the ones that came after, and then she lingered again on
peace. Not
as the world gives it, but peace that is real. Not found in things, not found in circumstances, or in perfect moments, but peace found in God.

The speaker's hushed tones didn't quite reach, but Willow didn't care, God had already spoken to her heart in those verses.

Clint touched her arm as she strained to hear, and then his hands moved, signing the sermon, deftly, quietly, just for her. And he didn't know what the doctor had told her, or the uncertainty of the future. She blinked against the sting of tears, and her eyes blurred as she watched his hands.

Hands that rode bulls, hugged little boys, fixed fences, and now, spoke the words of God for her.

When the sermon ended, Willow signed
THANK YOU
, just for him, between the two of them. And then she reached for his hand and pulled it to her lips. A brief kiss, something to let him know how his kindness touched her.

“I have to go now.” She slid past him, not wanting to wait, to explain, or to have him tell her he understood. He wouldn't be able to understand what she couldn't begin to fathom about herself, her life or her feelings.

He reached for her hand as she started up the steps, and she stopped.

“Willow, we both have to eat lunch.”

Simple, nonintrusive lunch.

She had a list of reasons why she had to walk away, and for a moment they seemed meaningless. To be honest, she couldn't remember a single one of those reasons.

“Okay, lunch is good.”

He stood up, grinning, and then he winked. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I mean it.” And suddenly she did, because his hand reached for hers, warm, calloused and strong, and he was a friend.

“I'm buying.”

“I can buy my own lunch.”

“I know you can, but I'm not going to let you.”

And that made it feel too much like a date, too much like a line crossed. But a strong person could let a man buy her lunch and not be frightened by tomorrow, or next week, or even next year.

I
T'S JUST LUNCH
, W
ILLOW
. He had pulled his hand free and signed the words, keeping it between them and not the people walking up behind them.

“I know.”

“Tell me one really embarrassing thing about yourself. Something really private.”

Willow pulled away, ready to think up an excuse, a reason she needed out of this lunch date, and then she saw his smile. He winked and pulled her close again.

“Kidding, Willow. Nothing embarrassing or private, not today.”

“No, I like that idea. But today, you have to tell me something about yourself, too.”

They were walking down a hallway lit by fluorescent lights, toward the exit at the back of the building, and somehow they had lost the others from the church service. Or maybe they'd gone a different way. Willow hadn't really been paying attention. Instead she felt a little lost in the lighthearted moment between herself and a cowboy in new jeans and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose blond hair on suntanned arms.

He was the kind of cowboy a girl could lose her heart to. The kind dreams were made of.

He pushed the doors open and motioned for her to go through. They walked across the parking lot, not talking. It reminded her of the day at the doctor's office when he hadn't pushed for her secrets.