Merciless (32 page)

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.

The bull’s last attempt to toss his rider on his ass happened in slow motion. Dark
Dream went nearly vertical, throwing Dawson forward. His head connected with the bull’s
skull.

That contact immediately knocked Dawson out, but his hand was still tied into his
bull rope.

We watched, horrified, as Dawson’s limp body was flung around like a slab of meat
as the bull tried to get rid of him.

The bullfighters raced in quickly—although it seemed like an hour passed while we
stood helplessly in the stands. One bullfighter freed Dawson’s hand while the other
bullfighter distracted the bull.

Dawson hit the ground face-first and didn’t move.

The bull trotted off, tail twitching angrily.

By then both the bullfighters were on their knees, blocking any view of what was going
on.

Two guys from the medical team jogged out and crouched beside Dawson’s motionless
form.

Lex leaned into me. “Mercy? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just give them a minute to check him out.”

My hand had somehow found Lex’s shoulder, my fingers curling into it, when two more
guys brought out a stretcher.

The announcer said, “How about a hand for our bullfighters and our medical team for
their quick response time?”

When they carried Dawson out of the arena, I could tell he still wasn’t moving. That’s
when panic set in. That’s when I knew if I’d been here by myself, I would’ve jumped
the metal corrals and raced across the dirt to see what was going on. But I did nothing.

Lex’s scared voice jolted me out of my inertia. “Mercy? Where are they taking him?”

“Get your coat and let’s go find out.”

Everything in the arena seemed too bright, too loud, as we walked past the concession
stand. Past the booths selling trinkets. Past the teenagers laughing. The corridor
leading to the back of the arena seemed to lengthen to the size of two football fields
as Lex and I started down the tunnel.

When I saw the lights of an ambulance bouncing off the walls, I began to run.

The guy in charge of keeping out casual spectators didn’t give us any grief. “You
Sheriff Dawson’s family?”

I nodded because my mouth seemed stuck shut.

“The medical team is over there.”

Just as we reached the makeshift medical tent, the ambulance sped away, lights swirling.
I didn’t hear the siren kick on until they were on the street.

The man I’d seen race out after the bullfighters and call for the stretcher was talking
on his cell phone.

The gate man tapped him on the shoulder, and he faced us, holding up one finger. After
he finished his call, he ambled over.

I scrutinized his clothes, looking for signs of Mason’s blood.

“I’m Dr. Grant. You’re Sheriff Dawson’s family?”

“Yes.”

“He’s on his way to Rapid City Regional Hospital. As I’m sure you saw, he’s suffered
a serious blow to the head.”

“Did he regain consciousness?”

The doctor shook his head. “He already had swelling, so we got him out of here as
quickly as possible. I just got off the phone with a neurosurgeon. He’s headed to
the ER.” He patted my upper arm. “The sheriff will be in good hands. Dr. Jeffers is
excellent with sports-related brain trauma.”

Brain trauma.

The doctor’s eyes met mine. “Will you be all right driving to the hospital, or do
you need someone to take you and your son?”

Strange to hear Lex called my son. I realized that he and I were holding hands. “Thank
you, but I’ll be fine to drive.”

As we started to leave out the back door, I heard someone yell, “Mrs. Dawson?”

That stopped me in my tracks. I turned around. “Yes?”

A cowboy hustled toward me. “Here’s the sheriff’s equipment bag.”

“Thanks.” I reached for it, but Lex grabbed the handle before I could.

“No problem. If there’s anything any of us at the Sheriffs Association can do, please
let us know.”

“I will.”

I’d expected Lex would pepper me with questions, but we made the drive up Fifth Street
to the hospital in complete silence. In the ER parking lot, I snagged the equipment
bag and set it on the seat. I rooted around for Mason’s wallet.

Lex frowned at me, like I was picking his dad’s pockets.

“I’ll need his insurance information.”

He stuck to me like a tick as we entered the hospital through the ER doors.

I checked in with the nurse. Gave her my name and was told to have a seat.

About ten minutes later the receptionist handed me a clipboard to fill out the basics
of Mason’s information. I knew his height, his weight, his birth date. I filled out
the insurance section after finding the Blue Cross/Blue Shield card in his wallet.
But I didn’t know his blood type. Or the date of his last tetanus shot. I only realized
he was an organ and tissue donor when I looked at his driver’s license. I had no idea
who his next of kin was besides me, and technically, I wasn’t supposed to be handling
this medical shit because I had no legal rights as Mason’s domestic partner.

Frustrated and scared shitless, I handed over the paperwork and looked around for
Lex.

The kid was trying to peek in the windows of a set of double doors leading to the
actual ER.

“They’ll let us know when we can go back,” I said, lacing my fingers through his to
tug him away.

He scowled, so much like his father that I had to bite the inside of my cheek. But
he didn’t let go of my hand. “You want a soda or a snack?” I asked.

“You told me no more soda tonight,” he said sullenly. “Or candy.”

“Suit yourself.” I plunked the money in the vending machine and stared at the choices.
The brightly wrapped packages blurred as I blinked back tears.

Then Lex stood beside me, staring into the rows of candy, cookies, chips, and nuts.
He leaned his head into my arm.

I about lost it then. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer. “Wanna
split some M&M’s?”

He nodded.

“Plain or peanut?” I asked, hoping for plain.

“Peanut,” he said.

I ended up buying both kinds. I must’ve eaten mine, because when I glanced down, the
wrapper was empty.

Lex was too big to sit on my lap. When his eyes began to droop, I moved us to a bench
seat, rolled my coat up as a pillow, and set it on my lap. “Lay your head down. I’ll
wake you up as soon as anyone comes out to talk to us.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He snuggled in without another protest. I stroked his damp hair away from his face,
almost absentmindedly.

He said, “Mercy?”