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ONE
A few seconds can determine a person’s fate. If you’re a team roper, it takes only a fraction of that.
Austin Bowman knew all too well how a few seconds could make or break his career. He wiped the sweat that beaded on his forehead with the back of his gloved hand while keeping his eyes intent on the steer mewling in the chute next to him. The dark brown steer continued to twist to his left in the narrow pen. This one would be trouble.
Austin rolled his shoulders to practice opening his stance for a more difficult left turn to prep his horse when the time came. Buckley danced under him, his long, powerful, quarter horse’s legs eager for the chase. Buckley had been his bread and butter for the last three years, and finally, they had the shot they needed.
This was the year. Austin felt it coursing through him, warming the blood racing in his veins, and settling in a deep thrumming in his chest.
He glanced over at his brother, Adam, on the opposite side of the chute, his lips thinned in determination. Adam’s slow nod told him he was set and ready for the clean catch they needed to move to the top of this competition. Austin gripped his rope, running a hand along the coils, ensuring the soft rope wouldn’t let him down when the time came to throw. Sitting deep in his seat, he laid his left hand on Buckley’s neck, took a steadying breath as his heart cantered, and gave the chute man a nod.
At that brief movement, the time started and the spring released on the chute, allowing the antsy steer to break free into the dusty arena. Before Austin released his breath, the steer reached the barrier, releasing the taut rope that had held Buckley in the box. Trained from the time he was two, Buckley knew what to do. He shot out of the box, and Austin let him have his head to give chase after the steer. This is where patience came in. It seemed weird talking about patience when a run lasted anywhere from four to eight seconds, but patience it was. Austin’s instinct was to draw the rope the instant Buckley jumped into motion, but he had to wait: one, two, three lunges.
Now. With a movement so ingrained in him it seemed more natural than breathing, Austin swung his rope looping, overhead, outside his elbow, keeping it smooth and flat, once, twice. The steer twisted left, just as Austin knew it would, and he opened his left shoulder, keeping his chest facing the back of the steer’s head.
Austin’s eyes bore down, intensely focusing on the target of the shiny buckle on the steer’s horn wrap. Three, he released the loop, letting it fly, eagerly watching as it scooped the right horn and dragged across the left.
At the motion of his open hand dropping, Buckley broke his stride down as Austin pulled the slack and dallied it on his saddle horn, the rubber keeping the rope from sliding. He turned Buckley hard left, bringing the roped steer with them, leaving the bucking animal’s hind legs open for his brother.
Adam was the best heeler Austin could ever ask for. He read his movements, knowing what Austin would do even before he did it. Today was no different. Adam was ready. His rope flew out just as Austin lifted his eyes to him. Time slowed, each millisecond seeming to last forever, until the rope slipped around the legs cleanly. Adam turned his horse to face Austin directly, and they each drew their horses back, fighting the line and stringing the steer between them.
Out of the corner of his eye, the flag waved, announcing the time had stopped and they could release the steer. Austin finally let out his breath, sweat trickling down the back of his neck as Adam dropped the steer’s hind legs quickly. Austin unwrapped his rope and, with a spin of his wrist, released the loop around the steer’s horns, freeing the animal to trot indignantly away.
He met his brother’s gleaming eyes as they followed the steer to the holding pen at the end of the arena, listening for what they hoped would be the winning time. They each had clean catches, and he hadn’t broken the barrier. No penalties.
With the steer in its holding pen, they exited the arena, turning back to listen, each too full of nerves to speak.
“Three and nine,” the announcer spoke. His voice, usually garbled over the loudspeaker, came clear, starting the crowd roaring loud enough that the stock in the holding pens bellowed and rolled their eyes.
Austin grinned, the smile coming on with the force of a tsunami. “Did he say three and nine?” Three-point-nine seconds… That was only six-tenths of a second off the world record. They had never broken the four-second mark before.
“He sure did, bro!” Adam let out a yip, his high-strung horse, Turbo, startling with the sound and dancing underneath him.
They turned their jittery mounts away from the arena, smiling at the spectators and fellow rodeoers who shouted their congratulations as they steered their horses into the cooling pens. Buckley was as amped up as Austin, and he felt like he could jump ten feet high and run a marathon.
At the side of the cooling pen, their stepfather, Pops, leaned against the top railing and pushed his hat back to show the crooked grin that always filled Austin with a warm sense of accomplishment. It took a lot to elicit that impressed grin from Pops, and whenever they did, Austin felt on top of the world—even as a full-grown adult.
Austin couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He loosened his hold on Buckley’s reins, letting him work off some of his frenzied energy before trotting him over to Pops, Adam on his tail. “Well?” he asked, knowing he sounded like a ten-year-old kid again after his first win. “What d’ya think? Three and nine!”
“Three and nine,” Pops repeated with reverence and a small shake of his head. “I knew you boys could do it.”
“Only took us twelve years,” Adam said, but his smile looked as wide as Austin’s felt. “Should we quit now?” He laughed, pushing his hat back, and Austin saw him struggling to rein in his desire to race about the pen himself.
“What, and miss winning the Nationals?” Austin laughed as well, the sound contagious and fulfilling.
“Nationals?” Pops said, bringing their attention back to him. “After a score like that, why not World Champions?”
Austin and Adam grinned at each other, pride filling them with their stepfather’s admiration. They had worked hard for this, spending hours upon hours swinging ropes, training steeds, and practicing over and over and over until each movement was second nature.
Austin had given up everything. He pushed back the momentary heartache as he thought about that. It wasn’t like he had been eager to go off to college. That had never really been his dream. Rodeo was his life, at least ever since his mama brought home Pops and told them he would become their stepfather.
Okay, maybe not that moment…it had taken Austin at least a year to open up to Pops, letting him in a little at a time only to close him off again. Until finally, he took the chance…and allowed Pops to teach him how to rope. It was that moment that had started all of it.
Pops had been a rodeoer himself. Mama said that’s why he never had kids of his own. He didn’t give up on his dream of winning Nationals until he busted his shoulder beyond repair and was forced to…just one seat shy of winning the Nationals. Pops said meeting Mama gave him the will to live again, and Austin and his brother were the icing on the cake, and the roping was the sprinkles.
Austin smiled at Pops, gratitude filling his heart. Where on earth would he and his family be if Pops had never found them? He shook his head as emotion choked him. To cover it up, he slid off Buckley and led him to the stalls to reward him with grain and a nice long rubdown.
Looking over the stall wall, Austin grinned at his brother, who rubbed down Turbo. They turned as one as Pops came to lean over the gate. He moved stiffly, like he was in pain, but Austin brushed it off. Standing around at the rodeos didn’t always feel good on Pops’ joints. Pops always said, You play hard and work hard no matter the toll...and a toll it took.
