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Trying to decide if she sounded jealous, he answered, “I’m in the trailer, same as last night. Travis rode with Ditch, and Ditch and his woman made up, so he’s coming back here to bunk with me. You with Kelsey?”
“Yup, two rows over,” Daisy nodded, moving off to the shower room. “Night, Hank.”
“G’night, Daize.”
Good, she’s done for the night, then. He hated the idea of her wandering back to the party and hooking up with some guy—or worse, with T.J.
On Sunday, Hank blew the bronc, slipping off before the horse really got started. It looked to be a bad weekend for both of them until Daisy recovered with a strong finish in barrels, a time of 16.34.
When the announcer called her as first place Sunday winner with the best time of the season so far, she whooped and jumped into his arms. Surprised, he gave her a squeeze and twirled her around, amazed by the way she felt, full against him. When he set her on her feet, she ran off to find her girlfriends.
On the way home, he asked if she wanted a steak dinner to celebrate. “That’s real thoughtful of you, Hank,” she smiled, twirling a strand of her hair. “Best we get home. It’s a long way yet, and I don’t want Gypsy standing in the trailer for the extra time.”
“How ‘bout tomorrow night, then?” he asked.
She looked at him quizzically and gave her head a little toss. “You and me, dinner in town? I don’t think so.”
“Next Friday the rodeo is up at Kickasaw in Oklahoma. You want to go?”
“Aw, it’s kind of dinky up there. The showers are rank, the footing is crummy, and it’s more than an eight-hour drive. Kind of a long way for so early in the season. I hadn’t planned on it. I picked up a Friday shift at Hymie’s.”
So it would be two weeks until he saw her, if she and Gypsy rode with him to Hillsboro. When he set her bags on the porch, it was hard to walk away.
******
Mowing Hay
The forecast promised clear skies that week, so Hank climbed into the giant tractor before dawn on Monday. Mowing for hours, he put up field after field of big round bales, but the numbing buzz of the tractor did nothing to take his mind off Daisy.
He kept seeing flashes of her as she ran barrels; her body and face tight-wound with focus and determination, sweat-streaked with effort. Moments later, if she or one of her friends had a particularly good time, she’d bust out in a big smile, glowing like a lantern.
Caring for the horses, she was different: gentle and quiet, the notch above her pink lip dewy with perspiration. Lately, when he caught her eye from a distance, she’d give him a quick smile. Her smile did something crazy to his insides. Sure, maybe it was pure lust, but being with Daisy had always been potent.
Back when they were kids, Buck always brought Daisy to the ranch in good weather. Fair, pale and skinny-legged, wearing cut-off jeans and t-shirts that had seen too many washings, she’d emerge from his beat up pick-up in cowgirl boots or worn out canvas sneakers, smiling to beat the band.
With Daisy around, the colors of his life got a little brighter. She took the knife edge off his father’s cutting remarks, eased the wariness the old man’s grim expression caused. Daisy made sure Hank saw the bubbles and ripples of Hobble Springs Creek, felt the slick red coat of a newborn calf.
They’d saddle up ponies and hightail it out to the fields to explore.
Giggling, she’d poke her fingers around the new calves’ soft-lipped gums, until their sandpaper tongues lapped the salt from her sweaty hands. Both hands out, pink tongues licking her palms, she’d walk backwards and the calves would always follow, which caused Daisy to throw her head back and squeal with delight. The sight was comical, and he’d always joined in.
Back at the ranch house, his mother fed them sandwiches for lunch, pouring glass after glass of milk or lemonade. If it was too hot or the weather turned bad, they’d hole up in front of the television and watch stupid movies. Sometimes, she’d stay to dinner. After ice cream on the back screen porch, they caught fireflies until his mother backed her sedan out of the garage and called for them.
He always rode along to drive Daisy home.
In summer, Daphne came too, bringing their swimsuits so the three of them could float down the creek to McGreer’s swimming hole in big tractor inner tubes.
Then, in sixth grade, Daisy had started hating him. Hurt and confused, he hadn’t understood what his daddy had done to turn Buck’s fate.
By then, he was old enough to put in a full day helping with chores, and the old man made sure he did. Frederick Henry “Red” Gallagher was as stingy with direction as he was with praise, as hard on his son as he was with the rag-tag crew he managed to keep around the place. Maybe harder, because when a ranch hand got fed up, he took off for better wages, or at least, less work.
Hank had no choice; he stayed on.
In eighth grade, Janie Dupree brought him relief. New to town, Janie was docile and predictable, always with a pretty smile. She had pretty clothes, smooth cheeks, and sweet lips. . . Janie had been good to him. They’d gone steady in high school, lost their virginity to each other senior year, and stayed a couple long afterwards. Spring of last year, Janie started hinting about future plans and he balked.
Rodeo season was coming, and he wanted fun.
His flings with buckle bunnies were short lived, but then he found a girlfriend of sorts, a thirty-something bucking stock operator with an outfit near Bastrop.
