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“I guess because this was the room where I spent the most time with Uncle Mack. He sat me down at this table and told me that I could do anything I wanted. That it didn’t matter what anyone else thought—as long as I worked hard and put everything I had into what I wanted, I’d succeed. And that photo? That’s the moment. One of the networks sent me a print of my last ride—my world championship ride.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I didn’t know it at the time, but maybe Uncle Mack was there with me in spirit.”
“But what are you going to do about the rest of the house?” Russell asked.
“I don’t know. For now, though, this photo makes me feel close to Uncle Mack, and that’s what I want. I reworked his bedroom and made that my own, but I’m okay with changing the rest of the house a little at a time.” He sat down, and Russell took the seat across from him.
“I messaged the directors of the rodeo we thought was in those pictures, and I just heard back from them. The organizer, Jessica, sent me the rosters for the events, and I passed them to your email. We could take a look at them when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” Rafe hurried away and returned with a laptop, which he placed on the table. He opened it and brought up the email, then sifted through the images. “Here’s Uncle Mack.” He pointed to his uncle’s name in the registration, as well as on the list of winners. “Awesome!” He looked through the rest of that list and then went on to the next.
“No Dale?”
“Not yet. I checked the other bronc and bull riders.” He went through the rest of the lists and then shook his head. “I don’t see….” He sighed. “No. It’s not one of the pickup men or….” He turned away with a shrug. “I guess this was a dead end.”
“Check one more time before we move on,” Russell asked. So they went through them again, but this time Rafe stopped on the bull-riding entries.
“What?”
“Look here.” He enlarged the print, zeroing in on the bottom of the sheet. Russell leaned forward, peering over Rafe’s shoulder. “It’s handwritten. I thought I saw something the first time but wasn’t sure.”
The nameDale Westmorelandwas written in what looked like pencil that had faded.
“Do you really think that’s him?” Russell asked.
“I don’t know. But we have a last name now.”
“Google him and see if anything comes up.”
Rafe searched on the name and a few pictures came up. Then he tried adding the word “rodeo” and got a few more hits, but nothing really useful. “What else do we know?”
“Dad said that he thought Mack was going to Denver. Maybe add that and see if we get anything.” Rafe gave it a try, but the images and information that appeared were for close names and younger people. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. But it’s a start. I’ll let Luther know what we’ve found. Maybe he’ll be able to take it further.” Rafe sounded discouraged, and Russell put his hands on his shoulders.
“We’ll figure this out.” He was just as curious about Mack as Rafe was. Russell had known the man for years, yet at times his close friend now seemed like a stranger. “Maybe search for his name on some of the other rodeo sites. There could be some older records.”
Rafe gave it a try but found nothing. “Can you think of anything else?”
Russell slowly sat down and met Rafe’s gaze. “Try the Denver obituaries.” He was running out of ideas.
“I’m not getting anything,” Rafe groaned. “I thought that once we had a last name, we’d be able to find out more.”
Russell gently massaged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know this is important to you. When you have a chance, contact Luther and tell him what we’ve found. Maybe he can put the pieces together.”
“But how?”
“I wish we had more than a name, maybe even an address. But Luther should be able to figure it out. That’s part of what he does—find people. Or he knows people who can find people.” He sighed and let his hands slide down Rafe’s strong chest. “I just wish we could do more.”
“Maybe I can,” Rafe said, grabbing his phone. “His name on that roster tells us that he rode bulls. And that means he would have gotten points with the PBR. Let’s see what they have.” Rafe made a call, and in a few minutes he was speaking to one of the officials.
“Harvey, I need a small favor. I’m looking for a rider, someone who rode bulls some years ago. All we have is a name—Dale Westmoreland. I was hoping that maybe you guys might have something on him.” Rafe smiled, and Russell wandered out of the room while he talked. There was no need to listen in.
He looked around the living room, which had become a strange combination of Mack and Rafe. Mack’s pictures still hung on the walls, and it was still his furniture, but Rafe’s book sat on the coffee table, and a few other little things, like Rafe’s socks on the floor, made the room his as well. Russell realized that Rafe hadn’t accumulated very much, living on the road all those years, so there wasn’t all that much for him to put out.
It seemed strange to Russell that a person’s whole life could fit in a few bags behind the seat of a truck. But that was how Rafe had lived for a long time now. Russell wasn’t sure he could have done it.
Footsteps behind him pulled his attention. “We got something,” Rafe said. “Another old address. I already called it in to Luther. Now we can see what he comes up with.” He wound his arms around Russell’s waist. “It finally seems like I’m getting closer to understanding Uncle Mack. I know it sounds kind of dumb, but Dale was an important part of his life. Maybe he’s still alive and could tell us about Uncle Mack when he was younger.” He swallowed hard, pain filling his eyes. “I know I’m being stupid, but I wasted all that time. Uncle Mack was right here, and I thought he didn’t care.”
“Hey, he did care, and whether you knew it or not, Mack knew you cared. Maybe that’s the most important thing. He knew that you were out there, and he made it a point to see you—at your graduation, at all those rodeos—even though you didn’t know it at the time.”
