Chapter dedicated to chukoo786 who gave me the name Noah

Noah

Rodeo is about life lessons, and not just about belt buckles and winning. There is so much you can learn from a horse and a cow that you can't learn from football—Jim Wakefield

He'd drawn Blackout Charlie.

The bull was a tough old critter. Big and muscular with a large fat snout and white horns. Fur was the colour of mud. Hoofs large and good for stomping. The bull had a seventy-nine-point-three percent buck-off rate.

He was, Noah thought, the ugliest bull that he'd ever seen.

Noah leaned against the metal cab of his truck, watching the proceedings with careful scrutiny. His gaze was carefully disinterested but his eyes caught more than most people assumed. A few hundred feet away, he could hear the rumbling of the crowd as yet another bronc rider mounted his bucking steed. He waited, patiently, for the deafening cheer or the defeated grown that announced whether or not the rider had made the eight. This time, the rider made it. The crowd roared, successful, as the announcer called out the rider's score.

He turned away, elbows resting on the hood of the old Chevy. It was forever breaking down and was in dire need of a replacement, but there was too much to do on the ranch before he even considered hauling it in to the junkyard. It still worked, albeit barely and with more complaint than it used to, and he was lucky that his father had taught him all that he'd known about mechanics, which wasn't much, when he'd been growing up.

It had been a long day of competition at the Tishomingo Rodeo Classic, exhausting, and he hadn't even ridden yet. The jeering of the crowd and the never-ending stream of people were more wearying than most people expected. This was especially true for someone like Noah who didn't particularly enjoy the rodeo circuit, but knew that he belonged there nonetheless.

If nowhere else, he belonged on the circuit.

"Hartley!"

Noah looked up, eyes narrowing beneath the rim of his hat as he gazed into the sharp midday sun. There was someone walking towards him, someone stocky and broad-shouldered with a wide smile and bright eyes that crinkled at the corners.

Noah felt the muscles in his face expand to a grin. It'd been too long since he'd last seen Ethan Cooke. The last time he could remember was when he'd moved away from home, almost a year ago now. Noah had grown up near Wichita Falls, Texas, living on his parents' horse and cattle ranch. It'd been an idyllic childhood, one filled with laughter and daily trail rides down by the creek that separated their property with the neighbours. That neighbour happened to be Ethan and his family.

The two had been close friends growing up, training for and competing in the junior rodeo together before finally making it onto the amateur, and eventually pro, circuit. Ethan had spent as much time at Noah's house as he did at his own and Noah remembered all too clearly the feeling of coming home and already finding Ethan there, comfortably seated at his kitchen table or perched on the edge of his couch.

Ethan was only a few feet away now. Noah pushed away from the edge of the truck and stuck his hand out towards his old friend. Ethan reached for it and gave it a rough shake before pulling Noah in for a one-armed hug. It was a familiar sensation, but one that came through from another life.

"It's been way too long since I last saw that stupid face of yours, man," Ethan said, laughing as he pulled back.

"How are you doing, Ethan?" Noah asked. He took stock of his friend. Ethan was looking extremely tanned, his skin golden-brown, and joyful. His green eyes were lit with mirth and excitement, that kind of energy that emanated from a successful day of riding.

"Good, good. I didn't know you were going to be here. You haven't been answering any of my calls."

Noah's lips quirked up in a grim sort of smile. "Yeah, well. I haven't really been answering anyone's calls. Don't take it personally."

Ethan sobered. "How are you doing, Noah?"

"I'm good. Really," he added at Ethan's dubious look. "There's just been a lot going on lately, you know?"

"Your sister?"

"She's part of it, yeah."

"She still not talking?"

Noah's mouth twisted into a grimace. It was a topic he avoided steadily, even with someone like Ethan who was, for all intents and purposes, family. "Not exactly, no."

Ethan waved that off like it was normal, but his expression was grave, a rarity for him. "Well, that's to be expected, I guess. No one goes through what she did and comes out of it unscathed. I'm sure she'll be just fine. She just needs time."

"Yeah," Noah said wistfully. The word was a sigh. "Time."

Except, he knew that time was not the answer. He didn't know what was the answer, the key that would unlock his sister's solemn silence, but he knew that time wasn't it. He'd known that for a while now, longer than he cared to admit because he couldn't figure out what it was that he could do to help her. Instead, Caroline moved like a zombie through the house, eating when food was placed in front of her, doing chores when she got tired of staring at the wall, and sleeping only when she really needed to.

Noah knew that his sister had improved some since the accident. She used to just sit and stare at that wall for hours, doing nothing more than looking at it with an unnerving, empty, gaze. She'd stopped that after about four months but sometimes he still caught her staring off into space, locked into an area deep within the confines of her mind where she could seldom be reached.

She'd been better since the move. Not much. To people on the outside, it probably appeared like nothing. But to him, he who looked after her every day, he who was her only real companion, the change was a palpable entity. She liked to be outside now. Caroline spent hours outside, sometimes so long that he forgot where she'd gone and would have to go looking for her. He'd found her on the property that neighboured his numerous times, wandering around their paddock at near-dusk, but, to the best of his knowledge, she'd never approached anyone on the ranch. She just watched from afar.

Watched, like she did with everything else.

Noah wasn't sure what had exactly prompted her unending silence. He hadn't been there when the accident had happened. He'd been at Ethan's, helping with the delivery of a foal, and, while he told himself that he didn't blame his friend for the delay, he also knew that this wasn't exactly true. If he'd just left earlier, if the veterinarian had arrived on time like he was supposed to, if that mare had gone into labour just a little bit earlier, well, maybe the whole thing could have been prevented.

Noah had cursed everyone in those early days after the accident. He'd cursed Ethan and he'd cursed the vet, and he'd even cursed that damn horse. But, most of all, he cursed himself for not being able to take care of his family the way he was supposed to.

"So," Ethan was saying in an attempt to change the conversation, "are you competing today?"

"Yeah," Noah said. "I drew Blackout Charlie an hour ago. I guess they'll probably get started soon."

"You still doing that bull riding? I thought you were giving that up. Going to the broncs or team roping or something. That bull riding shit is damn suicidal, man."

Noah grinned. Ethan, for as much bravado as he had, always recoiled from the idea of getting on the back of a rampant bull with nothing but a braided manila rope for security. "It is. But I'm not hitting the circuit hard this year. Gotta stay home and look after Caroline so I've only entered in a few local ones. The broncs are too tame. Might as well go big or go home with the bulls, right?"

This, more than anything, was to goad Ethan, who had never been able to bring himself to ride the bulls—instead sticking to horses his entire life. Noah had ridden the broncs before, in his earlier days on the rodeo circuit, and he knew that it wasn't easy. While it was probably a little safer than bull riding - at least they didn't have to watch out for sharp horns - it was still a difficult sport. In Noah's opinion, both were still suicidal.

"Shit, man."

This time, Noah laughed and clapped Ethan on the shoulder. It felt good to laugh. Felt good to do something besides worry. "What about you? Still doing bareback bronc riding?"

Ethan nodded. "Yes. Still a crazy ride but not as stupid as the one that you do. I also entered team roping with Drew Perry. Remember him?"

Noah did. "Mm. How's he doing? I heard he broke his arm a few weeks after I left. Got stepped on by a wayward longhorn or something?"

"That's right. He's good. Our timing's off, though. He's not as consistent as you were when we rode together."

"That's because we rode together since we were seven. Your mama used to say that we were closer than twins. How're your folks doing, by the way?"

"Good, man, good. Mom's working on some new jam recipe and dad's still working those cattle so, they're good. Everyone's good. Everyone misses you, though. Still haven't gotten used to not seeing your ugly mug all over the place."

"I miss you too, Ethan."

Ethan pushed off the truck. "You gotta come visit soon, Noah. Don't become a stranger. Now, come on. We're going to go watch the end of the saddle bronc riding and then I'm going to watch you get bucked from a pissed-off demon bull."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Laughing, Ethan clapped Noah on the back as they started walking towards the events. The areas were blocked off so that no spectators were able to wander into an area containing a raging bull or an angry bronc. As they walked, Noah breathed in the air, smelling of manure and horses and cattle. He saw rows of bleachers packed with a large crowd that seemed to behaviour in sync, booing and cheering at the same time. He watched as some of his competitors, easily identifiable from the bull rope that they carried, wandered around, keyed up and waiting for their event to start.

The rodeo was chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

The two men walked right up to the metal fence. Noah hopped up, standing on the first rung and leaning over the edge of the pen. Ethan followed suit though to be the same height as Noah, he was forced to clamber up onto the second rung. They hung there, comfortable in the heat, as they watched a young bronc rider get into the chute.

The rider was little more than a boy, probably not much older than fifteen, and that was pushing it. He was as thin as a rail, no hard muscle to him yet. Even his face was narrow and pointed. He looked as if one buck from the bronc would break him in half. Noah was surprised that they were even letting this kid ride. Apparently, he wasn't the only one.

"Shit," Ethan said. "What are they doing? Robbing the junior circuit? There's no way a kid like that should be on that bronc."

"Who's he riding?" Noah didn't keep up with the bronc stats. Didn't really care for them. All he ever looked to were the bulls. He always wanted to know what the worst possibility could be when he signed up for a rodeo.

"War Paint. Nasty animal. He was bronc of the year two years ago. I had him about a month ago. Bucked me off in six seconds."

Noah shook his head in disdain at the kid. Ethan was a strong rider. If he'd gotten bucked then the boy had no chance. "He's gonna get his ass whooped."

And sure enough, one minute later, that was exactly what happened.

The rider, Carson Benoit according to the announcer, lowered himself onto War Paint in the chute. His feet tucked into the stirrups and he held onto the braided rope that swung from the bronc's halter. The crowd held its breath, eerily silent, as Benoit nodded once, a tight action, and the chute wrenched open.

Then, it was madness. The crowd started screaming, cheering, as if this was the first event of the day and things were just getting started. The kid started off strong, Noah had to give him that. He put in two good long seconds. And then War Paint kicked it up a notch. The bronc went crazy, throwing his hind legs out and landing back hard on the ground, jostling Benoit around in the saddle. That was when, at three-point-seven-two seconds, his left foot came loose from the stirrup and he was disqualified.

He jumped off the horse, landing nimbly on the balls of his feet—the most incredible part of his ride, actually—and made for the exit of the pen as War Paint was rounded up by a few handlers.

Ethan was shaking his head. "Knew that was coming. The kid should really go back down to the juniors. He's got potential but he can't cut it here."

Noah hummed in agreement but his gaze had wavered. The commentator called out the next rider, Scott McKenzie, but Noah barely heard the announcement. Instead, he watched as a fellow bull rider sauntered over towards him, face twisted in an angry scowl. Noah recognized the man immediately and he felt his hands clench into fists unconsciously at his sides. He bumped Ethan's arm and, when his friend glanced over at him questioningly, nodded towards the approaching figure. Ethan hopped down from the rail and came to stand beside Noah. He crossed his muscled arms over his solid chest and stood tall.

The man stopped a foot away from them and regarded the pair with a cool expression. "So," he said to Noah, "you're back."

"That's right." Noah spoke with a crisp, cool tone. "What do you want Peters?"

Cody Peters was the reigning Professional Bull Riding champion, having won the title in the world finals the season before. The meet had taken place in Las Vegas and had featured bull riders from all over the globe. It was a prestigious event, one that took only the top forty riders in the world. During the five days of competition, the riders each rode six different bulls to determine who was the PBR World Champion.

Last season, Noah had been one of those forty riders. Until, of course, he withdrew from the competition and another rider had taken his position. That rider, that stupid rider who'd gotten in only because he had withdrawn, was Cody Peters.

Cody smiled at Noah, a sinister sort of grin that set Noah's nerves on end. He'd never liked Cody but he'd liked him even less since he'd given up his spot at the World Championship and Cody had gone on to win. Noah didn't particularly mind the fact that he'd withdrawn. Didn't mind the fact that, had he not withdrawn, he most likely would have won the entire thing. What he minded was the fact that it was Cody who'd won.

"I just wanted to wish you luck, Noah. That's all."

"Mmhm."

Ethan looked over sharply at Noah, wary of his friend's tone. "Why don't you go get ready for your ride and stop harassing us?" he said. Noah barely heard him, too intent upon Cody's dark stare. "You're riding first, right?"

Now, Cody turned his gaze on Ethan who stood strong, refusing to recoil. "That's right. Like I said, just wanted to wish your pal good luck. Break a leg, Noah," he said with a wink and then, chuckling under his breath, he sauntered away.

Ethan glanced over at Noah. "Dick. He probably meant that literally."

"Wouldn't surprise me if he had," Noah replied acerbically, glaring at Cody's retreating figure. He looked to Ethan. "You were right though. It's almost time for the bulls. I think they've only got a few more riders to go here with the broncs. I should go get ready."

"Yeah. We don't want to miss an opportunity to show up that bastard just because you couldn't get your shit together." Ethan grinned now, trying to loosen up Noah's tense mood.

It wasn't working. "Look, I'll see you later. Alright? We'll grab a drink or something."

Ethan nodded. "I'm going to hold you to that."

Noah clapped his friend on the back and then walked back towards the parking lot and his truck. Once there, he pulled out his equipment for riding. First, he fastened his safety vest, which would absorb shock and dissipate any blows the bull delivered to his torso, and then slung on his chaps. The chaps went over his jeans and, while part of their purpose was to be decorative and flashy, they would also serve to provide another layer of protection against wayward horns and hooves. Then, Noah put on his riding pair of cowboy boots, the ones that had a special spur ridge on the heel that allowed the spurs to stay in place and keep Noah from falling off the bucking animal as easily.

Dressed, Noah grabbed his glove—cowboys only wore a glove on their riding hand which held onto the bull rope—as well as the rope itself. It was a simple thing, a flat nylon braided rope that would serve as his only tether to the animal for the duration of his ride.

While he was ready to go in the sense that he was dressed and had his equipment prepared, Noah didn't go back to the events, instead leaning against the truck with his rope in his hands. He could still hear the crowd roaring and cheering which meant that he still had a little time to decompress before he had to climb atop a raging bull and hope that he wouldn't get thrown off.

Like it was that easy.

Noah was all-too-familiar with the consequences of a wayward ride. He'd been on the receiving end of many bone-breaking blows. He'd broken his left arm three times and had dislocated his right shoulder more than once. One time, he'd even had his shin shattered when a bull—Code Red—had kicked him as he'd flown off.

But that was nothing compared to some of the other guys.

Noah had seen men come out of the corral looking as if they'd walked fresh out of a war. Covered in blood, carried out on stretchers with braces around their necks and backs, screaming in pain, Noah had seen it all. Some of those guys got lucky, their injuries looking worse than they actually were in the long run. And then there were guys like Tommy Harris.

Harris had died four years earlier at a rodeo in Reno. The bull event had been his fourth of the rodeo—he'd competed in team roping, steer wrestling, and calf roping before climbing atop Big Kahuna. The bull was a big son-of-a-bitch. All white and packed with muscle. Not necessarily as tall and big as some of the other bulls on the circuit, but he was strong and fast and tended to act like a little firecracker whenever someone climbed onto his back.

Harris had only gone four-point-four-seven seconds when he was bucked off. He'd fallen hard on the ground, unable to land on his feet when he'd gotten thrown. That was when Big Kahuna's front left foot came down and crashed right through Harris' skull. He'd made it to the hospital alive but had fallen into a coma. Only a few hours later, he'd been pronounced brain dead.

Noah hadn't known him well. They'd seldom hung out on the circuit, each running with their own group, but they'd been civil. His death had been a wake-up-call and Noah had been shaken to the core. He'd almost quit.

Sometimes, he wondered why he didn't.

A little blue car turned into the rodeo parking lot. Noah watched it with disinterest. It was the middle of the day, an odd time for a car to be arriving now. Most people got here early in the morning and stayed all day, rarely straying from the rodeo grounds.

The car parked, a few spaces down from him, and he noted that the vehicle was little more than a rust bucket, much like his truck. It looked about a hundred years old and evidently well-loved. There were some funny noises coming from the engine beneath the hood and Noah glanced over warily, waiting for the thing to explode and wondering if he'd need to pull anybody out of the wreckage.

His truck was bad. But that car...Somehow, it was worse.

That was when the car turned off—mercifully—and a young woman stepped out of the driver's seat. She was pretty enough, not the kind of girl who stopped your heart dead in your chest, but the kind that would warrant a second look. Her hair was a light strawberry blonde and curly beneath the rim of her black cowboy hat. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts, a red buttoned-up shirt with white detailing that she wore open, exposing a white tank top beneath, and a pair of cowboy boots.

The girl slammed the door shut to the car, wincing when a splattering of rust sparks flew out towards her. She locked the doors and then started walking—a walk that soon turned into a run when she heard the roar of the crowd. She looked in Noah's direction. He thought he saw her eyes, hidden beneath her hat, widen for a brief second, before she called out, "Do you know if the saddle broncs are still riding?"

Great, Noah thought. Another buckle-bunny.

"Yeah," he said instead, voice low and rumbling. "They are."

She smiled at him, a smile that looked to be relieved and so he wondered briefly if maybe he'd been wrong about the buckle-bunny thing. And now that he looked at her, really looked at her, she didn't seem to fit that mold. She wore no makeup and her clothes were wrinkled. She looked, he thought, positively exhausted.

"Thanks," she called out to him over her shoulder. She was jogging past him now, heading towards the roaring crowd that lined the sides of the bronc riding event. "And good luck with the bulls!"

Noah stared after her with a raised eyebrow, surprised. He almost replied. By the time he'd even thought of a word to say, she was gone, disappearing through the entrance to the rodeo. He saw a few people turn to let her by and then they moved back into place and she was obscured completely from his view.

He let out a deep breath and shook his head. His eyes shifted back over to where the main event was taking place, back over to where he needed to be in just a few short minutes. Noah sighed and, with the weariness of a man who'd been doing something far too long, began to walk towards the stadium.

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Music suggestion: Like I Loved You by Brett Young