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With a last pat for his horse, Dylan said, “I should be going. I’ll leave you to your evening, gentlemen.”
“Hold on there, son,” Mr. Hickory said. “Don’t go running off. We were just going to get a few drinks back at the head office and talk about an opportunity for the MPRC to assist the WPRC. And I think you’d be the right person for the job.”
A job? Just who the hell was Mr. Hickory?
Jackson looked Dylan up and down, frowning in thought. Then he slowly nodded. “You might be onto something, Mr. Hickory.”
Oh shit. What did he get himself into now?
“Come on,” Mr. Hickory said. “My driver’s just outside.”
Dylan didn’t have a graceful way out, and truth be told, he was a little curious about Mr. Hickory and whatever the role they saw for Dylan in the MPRC was—especially if it came with a hefty paycheck or something that would help him build a nest egg so he could put a down payment on that farm he’d been eyeing. He’d do just about anything to give Lola a break from traveling from rodeo to rodeo.
Dylan was afraid to use the “H” word yet. Home. Was he sick of sleeping in his truck or in a flop hotel when he had the money? Yeah, who wouldn’t be? But it went beyond that. He wanted a place where his horse could live out her days in comfort and not be threatened to go to the glue factory or the slaughterhouse, like his uncle’s horses. And if that meant he had to sit and have a drink with a couple of suits, he’d do it.
*
The home office was a showpiece building. Large outside screens on the side of the building broadcasted the latest rodeo highlights to the busy streets below. Inside was an architectural glory of steel and glass with enough down-home country décor to make it seem like it was a legitimate Old West enterprise. Dylan had heard rumors that the company was in serious financial trouble but looking around at the building, he wondered if that was all they were, just rumors.
“First time here?” Jackson asked.
Dylan nodded.
“She’s something isn’t she?” Mr. Hickory said as they got into the elevator.
“Impressive,” Dylan said.
The elevator ride was fast and a little disorienting, but it was nothing like riding a bull. Once the elevator doors opened up, they stepped out into a wide corridor. On the walls there were framed pictures of all of the MPRC champions from his boyhood idol Hank Teller to the more recent legend Trent Campbell.
“Someday that’s going to be you on that wall,” Mr. Hickory said.
“Maybe.”
They turned into an opulent conference room that was stocked with a full bar. Wall-to-wall windows overlooked the busy street below.
“Beer or whiskey?” Jackson asked.
“Whiskey,” Dylan replied.
“That’s my boy,” Mr. Hickory said and clapped him on the shoulder.
When they all had their drinks and were sitting around the table, Mr. Hickory leaned in. “I’m not going to beat around the bush.”
Dylan sipped his drink. It was the good stuff, and it was free. He’d listen as long as they kept pouring.
“We saw you and Killer Keller out practicing.”
Fingers tightening on his glass, Dylan wondered how much they saw. Had they seen the kiss?
“She’s a firecracker, isn’t she?” Jackson said.
“She’s a talented athlete,” Dylan said.
“Did her sister hire you to train her?” Jackson asked.
“I’m training her,” Dylan confirmed, bracing for the condemnation. Whether it was about training a woman or about taking on another student so soon after Johnny’s death.
Jackson and Mr. Hickory exchanged looks. “That’s good. Real good. It makes things easier,” Jackson said.
