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Chapter 1: Eating Dust
“If you’re not makin’ dust, you’re eatin’ it.” ~ Buck Antelerone
“Gol-Dang-it!”
White rage blanked Daisy Antelerone’s brain as she cut the engine. The thermostat needle swung into the red and steam began billowing from the cracks of the ‘92 Chevy pickup’s dented hood.
Uttering a string of oaths, she opened the rusty blue door, climbed out and swung her booted foot back, kicking an almost bald tire, hard. Fury didn’t erase the thud her big toe took inside a newly re-soled Tony Lama.
Jumping around one-legged on the dusty yellow road, Daisy hissed hotter and angrier than the plumes that vaporized in the bright springtime sky of an early Texas afternoon. This is no way to begin a winning rodeo season.
Her saddle was in a bag on the seat; sleeping bag, hay and grain stowed in back. She’d just loaded up at the spit of house and barn Buck Antelerone had left behind, three miles down the valley. Hobble Creek cut the huge McGreer spread to the south from the endless lands of Gallagher Ranch to the west and north, carving out the tiny spot where the Antelerone’s had eked a meager existence for as long as anyone could remember.
From the back of her dinky two-horse trailer, Gypsy Girl snorted. Scrimping and saving, Daisy had figured a way she and Gypsy could just squeak into finals, but there was no spare cash, no squeak room for injury or mishap.
“Give me a minute, Girl. I gotta figure how to get us out of this pickled mess.”
Gypsy was a lightning-flash trigger in the ring, common sense as they came on the ground. The last of Daddy’s savings had gone to buy the coppery red, thick-chested Quarter Horse. “It’s only money, baby girl. No sense holdin’ on to it,” Buck had said, right after his diagnosis. He bought Daphne a sporty little convertible, too.
Last season, she and Gypsy had made Buck proud, finishing eighth overall their first year in competition. And then he’d gotten sick. Real sick. Laid flat out in the hospital bed in his bedroom after Christmas, some of his last thoughts had been of her coming rodeo season: “Make it a good one, Daisy Mae,” he’d whispered, gasping for the next breath. “Make it a real good one, for your old man.”
They’d buried him in on the fifth of January.
Hot wind ruffled the brim of Daisy’s battered Stetson. Mid-day sun beat her arms. The season opener kicked off in less than six hours. She had a cell phone, but Daphne was already at work and Gypsy couldn’t stay trailered in the hot sun. She’d have to ride the mare home, then walk back to sort out the chaos under the Chevy’s hood. A no-show at Willow Springs meant lost fees and no points.
Lordy, if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck.It’ll take some kind of miracle to get back on the road tonight. In the back of the trailer, Gypsy Girl shifted. I might as well scratch for the season! C’mon, Daddy!
Half-mourning, half-fuming, Daisy snatched her water bottle and wallet from the cab. The salt of bitter tears stung her eyes as she dropped the ramp and backed Gypsy Girl off the trailer. Arranging a blanket and saddle on the mare’s back, she cinched up, readying for her ride.
Then she heard the growl of a diesel engine coming from behind the ridge. Looking up, she watched a white extra-cab dually crest the knoll. Flickery bright in the heat, steel cattle guard blazing, its wheels threw puffs of sand from the road. And sure enough, the big white truck towed a newly-washed five-horse gooseneck trailer.
Recognizing the broad-shouldered outline behind the tinted windshield, she groaned. So on top of a lost season, I get a nice dose of humiliation, too? Hobble Creek ranchers always pitched in to help each other out of bad spots, but Hank Gallagher was a different matter altogether, as far as Daisy was concerned.
Hank pulled up alongside her rig, his big engine humming. The driver’s window dropped, and he raised his stupid, techie-boy mirrored shades. Steely blue eyes darted to the steam still puffing from the ancient Chevy’s hood before they settled on her, cool as the air-conditioning blowing from the vents of his brand-new truck.
He arranged his lips, not hiding his grin too well.
“Truck broke down, Daisy? You ridin’ to Willow Springs? Barrels start at ten tomorrow morning. Take you awhile to get there, huh?”
Daisy swallowed, sand gritting her tongue. Dusty and messy and already beat, she bit off her words. “Radiator or water pump’s busted, Hank. Won’t know which ‘til it cools. This sun’s too hot for Gypsy Girl. We’re headin’ back.”
“Aw, you tell Gypsy Girl I’ve got room in my trailer for her. Cuervo won’t mind the company, and it’s nice and cool back there.” His eyes skittered over her. “There’s a spot up here next to me, if you want it, Daisy Mae.”
Daisy stood there, hating the tight spot she was in and hating Hank even worse. How dare he call me “Daisy Mae”! He knows that was Daddy’s name for me!
Her head started to spin. She chewed the inside of her mouth. Sweat trickled between her breasts and down her back. Ignoring a fly buzzing around her face, she crossed her arms. “Aw, hell, Hank Gallagher, you’ve got no time for me.”
Hank dropped his stupid action-hero glasses, and his chapped lips twisted. “I’ll admit your attitude sucks, but you and Gypsy are due for a helluva season, Daisy Mae. I’d hate for you to miss the opener. There won’t be another rig comin’ this way headin’ for Willow Springs, y’know.”
Daisy stood stock still. Her mouth felt dry.
Finally, Hank slapped his shades on the dash and swung his big white door open. Fancy black alligator boots hit the dust, and his long, denim-clad legs ambled around to the back of the expensive rig.
His beefy arms stretched, unhitching the trailer’s rear door. It dropped to the ground with a thud; an air-conditioned, thick-rubber padded, non-stop, free ride to Willow Springs.
Save’s me gas money, but it’s hell on the ego.
Hank spit impatiently, and a stream of tobacco juice hit the dusty yellow road. Daisystared hard at that dark stain, trying to keep her head clear.“Can I take the ride and keep on hating you?”
