A Rodeo Man's Promise. Marin Thomas

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СКАЧАТЬ He sure didn’t do Fitzgerald any favors. An eighty isn’t good enough for a win. Better luck next time, cowboy.”

       “Tough draw,” Ed Parker said.

       Too pissed to speak, Riley opened his gear bag and stowed his rigging. Parker was one of the nicer competitors on the circuit and didn’t deserve Riley’s cold shoulder; but better to keep his mouth shut than spout statements that would make the morning papers and sully the Fitzgerald name.

       Riley’s great-great-grandfather Doyle Fitzpatrick had purchased the family’s first thoroughbred horse in Ireland and brought the stallion with him when he’d immigrated to America. He sold Duke of Devonshire and used the money to buy Belle Farms—the burned-out shell of a pre-civil war estate on the outskirts of Lexington. Doyle then opened a local bourbon distillery, using the profits to renovate Belle Farms and invest in the world’s finest horseflesh.

       “You headin’ over to Lil’s?” Parker asked.

       “Yeah.” Riley would drink a beer and pretend he didn’t give a rat’s ass about losing when he did. After socializing he’d phone Rosalinda to fetch him from the bar then he’d fly to his next rodeo in Payson, Arizona.

       “I’ll give you a lift after my ride,” Parker said.

       “Appreciate that.” Riley headed for the food vendors, where he purchased two hot dogs, fries and a Coke. He sat in the stands and ignored the buckle bunnies with big hair, big boobs and big rhinestone belts, batting their eyelashes at him. Riley’s wealth combined with his dark good looks garnered him more than his fair share of female interest. Most of the time, he enjoyed being fussed over but his recent losing streak put him on edge and he didn’t appreciate all the female distractions.

       He heard the announcer call Parker’s name. A few seconds after the gate opened the cowboy sailed over the bronc’s head. Parker was out of the running, too. Riley returned to the cowboy-ready area and followed Parker to his truck.

       Dirty Lil’s was a hop, skip and a jump from the rodeo grounds. They parked behind the building, near a grassy area where bikers threw horseshoes and played poker at picnic tables.

       “You ever think about hanging up your spurs?” Parker asked.

      Plenty of times. “Never.” That’s what champions were supposed to say. “Why do you ask?” Riley didn’t know much about Parker’s personal life other than his father was the foreman of a corporate-owned cattle ranch north of Albuquerque.

       “I’ve been doing this for eight years and all I’ve gotten for my time and effort is a handful of broken bones and a divorce.”

       At age twenty-five, marriage wasn’t a topic that came to Riley’s mind often. His biggest concern was figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. Until then, he didn’t dare quit rodeo or his father would demand he return to Lexington and help run Belle Farms. “You have any kids?” he asked Parker.

       “A daughter. Shelly’s four. I missed her birthday last week because I was in Texas.”

       Parker was only a few years older than Riley but already a father. Riley figured he’d have kids one day but he couldn’t picture himself as a dad anytime soon.

       “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cold one,” Parker said, hopping out of the truck.

       A wooden bust of a woman from an ancient sailing ship hung above the entrance to Dirty Lil’s. A sign dangled from her neck, reminding customers that Friday night was ladies’ mud wrestling.

       As far as roadhouses went, Lil’s was top-of-the-line and plenty big enough for the cowboy ego. A decent-size dance floor occupied the rear of the establishment, where a stage had been constructed for local bands. In the middle of the room sat a twenty-by-twenty-foot inflated kiddie pool filled with mud. A garden hose hooked up to a spigot behind the bar rested on the floor next to the man-made mud bog.

       Waitresses dressed as saloon wenches carried drink trays and flirted with the cowboys. “Hey, fellas.” Sugar smiled behind the bar. “Don’t stand there gawkin’. Sit down and have a drink.”

       “Two Coors.” Riley fished his wallet from his back pocket. “When did you start pouring drinks?”

       “Melanie’s on break.” Sugar leaned over the bar and whispered in Riley’s ear. “Heard about your ride. You’ll win next time.”

       Or the next time. Or the time after that.

       As soon as Sugar walked off, Riley chugged his beer, then spent the following hour dancing with a handful of women. He bought a round for the house then caught up with Parker and challenged him to a game of darts—and lost a hundred-buck wager.

       “You did that on purpose,” Parker accused.

       “Did what?”

       “Gave the game away.”

       “You’re nuts.” Riley swallowed a sip of warm beer. He’d been nursing his second longneck for over an hour. “What?” he asked when Parker stared at him.

       “You strut around…a big shot with the women.” Parker pointed at Riley’s waist. “Flashing your world-champion belt buckle and pilot’s license. Buying rounds of beer with hundred-dollar bills.”

       No sense refuting Parker’s charges. Riley was set for life. He was aware most rodeo cowboys shared motel rooms, slept in their trucks and skipped meals to scrape together enough cash to pay their entry fees and fill their gas tanks. A few guys even set their own broken bones because they didn’t have the money to pay for an E.R. visit.

       Riley had never experienced sacrifice—that set him apart from the other cowboys on the circuit. In return, his rivals had no idea how it felt to live with the pressure and responsibility attached to the Fitzgerald name.

       When Riley refused to debate his privileged life with Parker, the cowboy muttered, “Thanks for the gas money.”

       “You beat me fair and square.” Riley had believed Parker was one of the few cowboys who’d ignored Riley’s wealth. If he’d known otherwise, he wouldn’t have played darts with one eye closed—his good eye. He couldn’t have hit the bull’s-eye if he’d been standing five feet in front of the board. He set his beer bottle on the bar.

       “You’re not stayin’ for the mud wrestling?” Parker motioned to the pit behind Riley. Two women wearing string bikinis—pink-and-white polka dot and cherry-red—taunted each other while drooling cowpokes placed bets.

       Both blondes were pretty and not shy about flaunting their centerfold figures. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to watch the first match. Riley found a table with an unobstructed view of the pit and far enough away to avoid the spray of mud.

       The antique train whistle attached to the wall behind the bar bellowed. Sugar introduced the wrestlers. “Get ready, boys, ’cause Denise and Krista are gonna give you a fight to remember. Both gals made the finals in last year’s Royal Gorge mud wrestling competition.”

       Wolf whistles filled the air.

       The women retreated to opposite corners of the kiddie pool and made a big production out of straightening their swimsuits. When the train whistle blew again, the contestants dove into the pit, spewing mud over the edges of the СКАЧАТЬ