Last Rodeo

Chapter One

2012 Crooked River Round-Up

Prineville, Oregon



The boys started rolling in at noon; the trickle became a flow by two and a full-fledged stream at four. Although opening ceremonies were still two hours away, the rodeo was a big deal here in Prineville. They came early to socialize, to talk smack and to hear the results of the draw. The hot Oregon sun punished them for their eagerness; it beat down on sunburned necks and inked-brown arms. Some unbuttoned their shirts; others procured cool towels to wipe the sweat from their lined faces. None removed their hats; the battered Stetsons and Eddys were the only trademarks they had.



The Reid brothers pulled their Dodge Ram into the dusty lot just after three. Luke jumped out quickly, his excitement impossible to contain. Austin took longer, lighting a Camel before easing his long legs out of the cab and stretching. He wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed the trucks in the lot.



“Same thing every year,” he drawled, shaking his head. “Bunch of weekend warriors hell bent on gettin' stomped.”



Luke followed his brother's gaze. “Looks like Billy Lancaster's here,” he said, gesturing to an ancient Ford. “Guess he's our pick-up man tonight.”



“You ride the way you did in Sisters, you'n him are gonna get acquainted real quick. You ain't no Lane Frost but I'd expect better than a 2.5 from you.”



“I read him wrong. Thought for sure that bastard was gonna spin.”



“Well, he didn't. Son of a bitch was buckin' in the chute.”



Luke frowned, remembering the ride. Whatever he may choose to tell Austin now, the real reason he went down in Sisters had nothing to do with that bull's method of operation.



“C'mon,” Austin said. “I think I just spotted me a rodeo queen.”



“If you spent half as much time thinkin' about wild horses as you spend chasin' after wild women, you'd have a dresser full of buckles by now.”



“Ain't about the buckles, little brother,” Austin said, eyes trained on the spangled skirt of the Crooked River Queen. “It's all about the ride.”



“'Course it's about the buckles, you moron,” Luke said, but Austin was already gone.



Entering the rodeo arena was like coming home for Luke. He was in love with the high, sweet scent of the manure; the stink of coppery sweat; the organic fragrance of the dirt and the hay and the breath steaming from the noses of the livestock. A calf crying for its mother; the slam of a pen gate; the muttered oath of a cowboy unhappy with his luck in the morning draw – such were the sounds of his life.



There had never been another passion.



Austin had caught up with the pretty girl in the rhinestone sash; he was leaned up against the gate of the roping pen, one boot heel hooked over the bottom rung, looking for all the world like he'd just stepped out of a Chris LeDoux song. As he talked, he jingled the change in the right pocket of his Wranglers; a nervous habit in direct contrast to his air of casual confidence. Luke shook his head and headed to check out the draw list.



He'd gotten Carhardt, a 1500 pound monstrosity who'd bucked him off in three seconds the past two times they'd met. He was a “set 'em up” bull, dropping a shoulder straight out of the chute to fake out his rider, then changing direction at the last second, bound and determined to put as much distance as possible between man and mountain. It would be a miracle if he could pull this off.



“Just can't get away from that one, can you?” Austin said from behind him. The hard set of his jaw told Luke everything he needed to know about the possibility of a date with the glittering cowgirl.



“No luck?” Luke said, just to goad him.



“Shut up. She don't date bronc busters. Besides, her lips were off-center.”



“Huh.” Luke stood by as Austin scanned the list for his horse. “You drew Matlock,” he said as Austin squinted at the printout.



“An honest bucker,” Austin said. “Goes left every damn time. He's a money horse.”



“Small purse tonight, I hear. Be lucky to get a couple hundred for first place.”



“A couple hundred will get us to St. Paul next week,” Austin said. “One of us better win somethin' this weekend. The dry spell is gettin' old.”



“Yep,” Luke agreed. Austin had taken second in Coulee City in May but Luke hadn't seen the short-go since Pendleton the year before; the itch was getting painful.



They joined the other cowboys and made small talk with the ones they knew. Austin downed a few shots of Jack behind the grandstands; the officials in Prineville liked to run a clean show. While they knew the boys drank to loosen themselves up and take the edge off the inevitable falls, they didn't want the paying public to see the hip flasks and discarded beer bottles.



Luke and Austin stood shoulder to shoulder as the national anthem was sung by some small-town farm girl with a thimble's worth of talent and again as the rodeo queens rode out on their white stallions, bearing the flags of their sponsors high in the air. Then they shook hands, wished each other a good ride and headed to their staging areas.



Prineville was a bareback crowd and when Austin rocketed out of the chute with Matlock, everyone was on their feet. The noise was deafening and Luke fed off his brother's adrenalin as the bronc ducked off, spun and bucked. A true union animal, Matlock quit as soon as the buzzer sounded, allowing Austin to dismount cleanly. The crowd and Luke screamed their approval as Austin's score was displayed; an 87 would surely be enough for the short-go. Matlock was a money horse after all.



“Good ride, cowboy!” Luke shouted over the excited roar of the crowd. Austin threw a thumbs-up over his shoulder as he jogged toward the fence.



Luke loved to watch Austin ride. A good bronc could transform his brother into someone he hardly knew. He'd watch in awe as a light came into Austin's cold grey eyes. No matter how hard the animal fought; whether he was thrown off in one or lasted the whole eight; there was never a moment on the back of a bronc when Austin didn't smile.



Luke thought back to those days growing up on the ranch in Terrebonne. The horses had always frightened him as a child; the wild beasts that bucked without notice, that crow-hopped without thought for the rider on their backs. Austin had never shared that fear. While Luke preferred Shane, his father's old paint, Austin had always barreled straight for Thor, the meanest horse in the stables. He'd climb on his back and let him buck, always with that contented smile on his face.



“Why do you like that mean ol' thing?” Luke remembered asking him once when they were very young.



“Cuz he's just like me,” Austin had replied. “He's got too much wild under his skin.”



As Luke watched his brother scale the fence and jump into the staging area, he realized that wild always finds a way out.



Things get funny when you're waiting to ride, Luke mused later as he paced the dirt behind the chutes. The clock slows; the second hand takes hours to make its rounds. Anticipation mounts and peaks and declines and mounts again. The senses are heightened. Vision is clearer; sound travels faster; smells have teeth that bite. The blood rushes to the head, the hands, the feet. The moments a cowboy spends behind the chutes waiting for his name to be called, Luke thought, make him as close to a superhero as he's ever likely to be. He could leap tall buildings in a single bound; he could stop a speeding bullet. Behind the wall, waiting to ride, Luke always felt immortal.



There was the familiar fear as he stepped into the chute and mounted Carhardt; the nervous flower in  the pit of his stomach, blooming with each breath. Austin appeared on the outside of the gate, standing two rungs up and helping him to cinch his strap tightly. He adjusted his brother's hat and straightened his shirt collar. “Gotta look good out there. Pro scouts in the stands. He leaned close to his brother's ear. “Word is, they're lookin' for a bull rider to replace Kading. He ain't comin' back after that fall he took in Cheyenne. You want to make the big show, this is your chance.” He clapped Luke on the back. “Ride clean,” he said.



Pro scouts. Luke tasted the words. Austin rode for the thrill but Luke rode for the buckles, and that solid gold beauty offered for winning the finals at Vegas danced through his dreams every night like a drunken showgirl. A weekend cowpoke could make the big show, but it was a hell of a lot more work. Austin was right; going pro was Luke's best chance.



“Let 'im go, boys,” Luke said to the gatemen, nodding his head.



Carhardt flew out of the chute, snorting like he had a snout full of cayenne pepper. He dropped his right shoulder but Luke would not be fooled again; the damn thing was going to spin and he was ready for it. He pulled up on the strap with his left hand and leaned into it, right arm high above his head. The crowd screamed as they saw daylight between Luke and the bull. “Spur him!” Luke heard Austin yell as he came back down, so he did. Carhardt reared up on two legs and Luke leaned forward until his body was parallel with the beast's hot neck.



“Give 'em a show,” Luke told him as he spurred him again and again and again. “Give 'em what they paid for.”



There is a moment in battle when the fight has been won, even if neither side yet recognizes the victory. Neither Luke nor Carhardt heard the buzzer; they were locked in combat. Billy Lancaster pulled his Morgan up next to Luke and got a hand under his armpit, hauling him off the animal. Luke fought him, still attempting to spur his bull. “Quit it, boy,” Billy said, finally succeeding in dismounting Luke. “You win; it's over.”



The crowd had lost any semblance of decorum; they were stomping, whistling and screaming, out of their seats and pressed up against the arena walls six and seven deep. Luke ran to them, scaled the eight foot wall and jumped into their mass. He was patted, hugged and kissed; everyone wanted to touch him, to clasp his hand, to grab his shirt. He was the newly decreed hero of Prineville; they would remember his name.



Austin found him just before the score was announced, catching him in a bear hug and pounding his back with balled fists. No words were spoken. A hush had fallen over the crowd and every eye was on the huge screen mounted above the rough stock area at the far end of the arena. The brothers stood shoulder to shoulder once more as a four-foot tall “96” was displayed on the screen.



“A 96!” Austin screamed. “A 90-fuckin'-6, Luke!” He was laughing and crying at the same time. Luke couldn't stand still. He made a victory lap through the stands, slapping hands and kissing the pretty girls, signing hats and chugging the beers offered to him by 300 pound men with Skoal rings and tank top tans. The speakers blared a Garth Brooks tune and the crowd sang along.



An adorable little girl caught Luke's hand. A pink cowboy hat sat atop her blond curls and she smiled shyly as she asked him to dance with her. He grabbed her hands and twirled her around, right there on the bleachers. As they spun, he caught an image of himself on the screen; the cameras had ignored the last bull rider of the evening to focus on his celebration. He lifted the little girl high into the air and pointed to her face on the screen, kissing her cheek as she squealed in delight. “You go on down to the booth and talk to Luther before you leave,” he told the girl's mother as he set her back on her feet. “You tell him that Luke Reid said to make sure she gets a copy of that video, you hear? I'll square him up later.”



As the young mother smiled her gratitude, an elderly man in a PRCA shirt approached Luke and shook his hand. He had the broken, stooped walk of a former cowboy and a deeply lined face that spoke of years spent ranching in the hot sun. “That was a hell of a ride, son,” he said. “My name is Cody Wilson and I think I'd like to see some more of that.”



“You'll get your chance in the short-go, sir,” Luke said. He knew a scout when he saw one and Abby Reid had taught her sons well how to speak to those who held their futures in the palm of one calloused hand.



“If you can put on a show like that in the short-go, I'll be the first to buy you a beer to celebrate your professional contract,” he said with a smile. “The PRCA loves a cowboy who can get a crowd on their feet.”



“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Luke said with a tip of his hat. “Did you get a chance to see Austin ride?” He reached behind him and tugged Austin front and center. “My brother has never met a bronc he couldn't tame.”



“I saw,” Wilson said with a cryptic smile. “You always grin like a maniac in the ring, boy?”



“I sure try,” Austin said. “There's nothin' better than a horse who loves to buck.”



“Well, I'll be watching tomorrow night. You boys put on one hell of a show, I'll say that for you.”



“Thank you, sir,” Luke said, shaking hands again. “We'll see you tomorrow.”



“What in the bright blue hell was that, boy?” Austin asked as Cody Wilson made his departure. “Whoever said I wanted to go pro? Christ, Luke!”



“I ain't goin' without you,” Luke said simply.



“Don't be stupid. This is all you've ever wanted. Hell, I just ride for the fun and the pretty girls. It don't mean a thing to me.”



“You're lyin'.”



“The hell I am. You - ”



Luke turned from his brother and sat down hard on the grandstand seats. He put a hand to his left eye and rubbed vigorously. Something was wrong. He pried at his left eyelid, holding it open. Closed his right eye. Nothing. It had happened so quickly. He could see nothing out of his left eye.



“Luke?” Austin sat down next to him.



“Is there still an eye in there?” Luke asked him, gesturing to the left side of his face.



“Seems to be,” Austin said. “Why?”



“Because I can't see out of it, Austin,” Luke said.



With his good eye, Luke watched his brother freeze. Austin sat stock-still; it seemed as though he had stopped breathing. Finally, he reached out and hit Luke, hard, in the shoulder. “Quit screwin' with me.”



“I ain't,” Luke said. He could feel the blood draining from his face. “My damn eye won't work.”



“Does it hurt?” Austin asked, getting to his feet and monitoring the departing crowd.



“No.”



“Let's get outta here,” Austin said. “Quit messin' with it, Luke; you want someone to see?”



“I want to see!” Luke said. “What the hell is goin' on?”



Austin grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “C'mon. We'll find us a doctor real quick.”



Luke batted his arm away. “Have you lost your damn mind? There ain't no way I'm goin' to a doctor tonight. What if they don't let me out in time to ride tomorrow?”



“Can you ride?” Austin asked.



“I can ride with my eyes closed, Austin.”                                         



“Okay,” Austin said. The change in his pocket was getting quite a workout tonight; the jingling was driving Luke insane.



“Quit it,” he snapped. Austin looked sheepish. “Let's just go back to the motel, all right?”



“Sure,” Austin said.



They drove through an eastern Oregon twilight, the wide sky a Picasso painting of watercolor brush strokes and bold hues of pink, red and blue. Austin turned the radio up; Chris LeDoux was singing about his Powder River home. Luke kept rubbing his eye, sure that if he tried hard enough, the sight would return. He had told Austin he could ride; could he? Depth perception was pretty damn important; at the moment, the world was a 2D image. He reached experimentally for Austin's pack of Camels on the dashboard; it took some time for his good eye to explain to his hand just where the damn things were located. He shook one out and flicked the lighter but try as he might, he could not get the flame to touch the tip. Without a word, Austin reached out and guided Luke's hand to the appropriate spot.



Luke thought back to the rodeo in Sisters last weekend. He'd drawn an easy money bull there; his victory had seemed like a sure thing. The bull had spun but Luke had expected him to. What he hadn't planned for was the complete lack of cooperation from his legs. It was as though he were suddenly encased in molasses; try as he might, his legs were sluggish. He'd held on with his upper body as well as he could, but without the strength to grip with his legs, it was useless. In the end, he had simply let go of the strap and rolled away.



He'd taken flack from Austin for it, of course. By then, the spell had mostly passed and he was able to play it off as a bad ride. He'd been a bit slow for the next couple days but he always was after a rodeo. No big deal.



Now he wondered if it might be something more. He searched his mind for clues from the past months. There were plenty of little things that stood out, now that he thought about it; stumbles and tumbles that he wasn't accustomed to. Back in May he'd had some blurry vision that he'd chalked up to dust in his eye. Was it something more?



Austin pulled the truck into the dirt lot of a roadside motel and killed the engine. He made no move to get out. Luke could see a muscle in his jaw working and a vein in his neck standing out. Neither boded well for the rest of the night.



“Think you need to go get checked out, Luke,” he said finally.



“Nah. It'll be fine.”



“Suddenly goin' blind don't seem too fine to me.”



“This is my shot, Austin. That scout don't want a half blind cowboy and he ain't gonna wait to watch me ride some other night.”



Luke could see the cogs in his brother's head beginning to smoke. Austin knew just how important tomorrow night was for Luke; he also knew that Mama would skin him alive if she ever found out that he let Luke ride at anything less than 100%. He'd always been Luke's greatest protector; Luke's refusal to allow that protection had to be driving him halfway to crazy tonight.



“Quit worryin', Austin. It'll go away.” He wished he were as sure as he sounded.



“Fine,” Austin said, throwing open the door. “Stubborn ass,” he muttered under his breath. Luke let it go and followed his brother into the room.



It was no different than a thousand other motel rooms they'd shared in their years on the road. A shabby shag carpet bore signs of recent vacuuming but the musty smell hinted at its true age. The dingy walls were stained by years of nicotine and neglect. Luke knew instinctively that the shower would have mildew in the corners and mold along the caulking. The two double beds were shrouded in threadbare coverlets; the pillows were flat and lifeless. Home, sweet home.



Austin threw his duffle on the bed closest to the door and began rummaging through it, looking, Luke knew, for the bottle of Gentleman Jack he kept hidden near the bottom. He found it and took a long pull, wincing as he chugged.



“Tryin' to drink yourself drunk?” Luke asked.



“Thinkin' about it,” Austin replied. “Want a shot?”



Luke reached for the bottle, reveling in the burn. He usually stuck to beer on the road but there was nothing usual about tonight. He took one more pull before capping the bottle and tossing it back.



As the liquor rushed through his blood stream, he began to relax. Surely, this was a passing phase; surely, he would wake up in the morning and see the dust motes floating in the sunlight with both eyes. Things were finally beginning to turn around. He'd had a hard ten years or so, but with a PRCA contract and a few good rides under his belt, he'd be moving closer to his dream. Austin could deny it all he wanted, but Luke knew he'd turn pro in a heartbeat if given half a chance. His brother loved it as much as he did.



“Luke!” Austin's tone suggested he had been calling him for awhile.



“Huh?”



“I asked if you wanted the first shower.”



“Nah. Go ahead.”



Austin gathered his things and slammed the bathroom door behind him.



I'll have to tell him, Luke thought. He was not looking forward to the conversation. Austin understood the importance of the rodeo to Luke; he understood exactly how much he wanted to be the best. Still, this was something that couldn't be ignored. The dizzy spells, the loss of coordination and muscle function – it all added up to a consequence Luke was not ready to face.



All he'd ever wanted to do was ride. Austin had been the first to get into rodeo; he'd started mutton busting as a small child. By the time he turned 12, he'd progressed to some of the tamer broncs; in high school he'd gone all out, winning the high school finals three years in a row.



Luke, three years younger than his brother, had grown tired of being left behind as Mason Reid shepherded Austin around the Columbia River circuit.



“Mama, I want to go out with Daddy and Austin,” he'd told his mother one night at dinner. He'd been twelve, perhaps; maybe thirteen. Austin was riding a high school rodeo in Pendleton.



Abby Reid had pursed her thin lips and untied her apron, draping it over the back of the kitchen chair.  “I thought one of you boys would have half a lick of sense. Guess I was wrong. You tell your Daddy to take you along next weekend in Othello. What wild animal do you mean to ride?”



“I want to ride the bulls, Mama.” The words were out of his mouth before he'd known what he was going to say.



“God help us,” Abby had said, looking skyward, but there had been no further discussion. Luke would rodeo like Austin and Mason before him. Abby had spent her life waiting through the short-go. This was simply business as usual.



Mason took Luke along to Othello and paid the entrance fee for him. “You ain't gonna waste my money, are you?” he'd asked



“No, sir,” Luke replied.



He'd watched Austin ride before; how hard could it be? The rules were simple. All he had to do was stay on the bull. Keep one hand in the air; don't touch yourself or the animal. Hold on tight til the buzzer sounds.



Mason got Luke up on a small bull who looked like he'd been hit with the business end of the ugly stick. Although Luke had always feared his father's broncs, he had no fear whatsoever for this beast.



“You ain't so bad, are you?” he whispered to the bull, leaning close to its ear.



His mind was changed immediately after Austin pulled the flank strap and the gate was opened. It was like the quarter operated horse outside the drug store, provided that horse had a mind of his own, a chip on his shoulder  and weighed half a ton. Luke lasted about three quarters of a second out of the chute before the bull ducked off and left him hanging in the air like a cartoon character.



The fall hurt; Mason's laughter hurt more. “Good ride, cowboy,” he'd said sarcastically. “You 'bout done now?”



Austin jumped off the fence and ran out to his brother. He hauled Luke to his feet, dusted off his chaps and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We'll work on it,” he said.



“I ain't never doin' that again,” Luke replied, his face red with shame.



“'Course you will,” Austin said. “Cowboy up, baby brother. There's another go-round tomorrow.”



Luke had ridden the next day with marginal success; he'd stayed on for the whole eight, but it hadn't been pretty. Fortunately, several of the better riders had drawn rank bulls and been thrown to the ground in quick succession. Luke made it to the short-go his first rodeo out; Mason quit laughing.



In the end, he had a solid third place finish; not the best, but enough for a sincere “Good ride” from his father. From that day on, he'd gone with Mason and Austin all over Oregon, Idaho and Washington, riding wherever they got a chance.



A bull rider had been born in the dust and the dirt of Othello, WA; he'd never have enough.



Now, though – christ. Luke ran a rough hand through his hair, frustrated. It wasn't that he was afraid of whatever was going on inside his body; he was afraid that whatever was going on inside his body would ruin his chances to ride. He had paid dearly for the life he lived; it had cost him more than he'd ever budgeted. If he had to quit riding – if his body betrayed him before he had the chance to make the run for Vegas – well, it would all have been for nothing. He couldn't accept that. He'd lost too much.



Austin reappeared, clean and freshly shaven; Luke's resolve wavered. He was sure that Austin knew how much a professional contract meant to him; he was not so sure that Austin would allow him to ride tomorrow night if he informed him of the multitude of concerning symptoms he'd been experiencing.



He told his brother everything. There was nothing for it.



“So I've been thinkin',” Luke said, “and it don't seem like this vision thing came without warning.”



Austin leaned up against the table and cocked an eyebrow. “You tellin' me it's happened before?”



“Not exactly,” Luke said. “Not like this. A couple months ago my eyes went all blurry for a couple days. Didn't affect much 'cept my ability to read the morning paper and there ain't no good news in there anyway.”



“So you ignored it.” It was a statement rather than a question. Austin knew him far too well.



“It went away,” Luke said. “I'm sure this'll go away too.”



“Logical,” Austin said. Luke ignored the sarcasm.



“Somethin' funny happened in Sisters last week, too.”



“Fabulous,” Austin said with a sigh. “Bet I'm about to hear why you tanked it on a bull that shoulda won us a $2000 purse.”



“My legs wouldn't work right,” Luke said simply. “Couldn't grip.”



Instinct told him that Austin was the length of a bull ride from exploding; he began to talk faster, wanting to get his side of the story in before his brother's fury came out.



“It went away pretty quick; by the time I hit the ground, I was mostly okay again. It was just that few seconds. It ain't happened since. I don't know, maybe I was just nervous or somethin'. Maybe I'm rememberin' it wrong.”



Austin held up a hand. Time had run out.



“You know, Luke, when people's eyes go blurry, they usually go to an eye doctor. You're stubborn as all hell, so I'll give you that one. When your damn legs stop workin', you tell someone. Maybe make an appointment with Dr. Clyde back home. When you suddenly go blind, you go to the goddamn hospital!”



“Half blind,” Luke corrected and Austin took a swing, narrowly missing his head.



“What the hell is wrong with you, boy? I got half a mind to call Mama, let her talk some sense into your thick skull. You think you'd still be sittin' there if she were here?”



“I have to ride,” Luke said quietly.



“There'll be other rodeos, you idiot! Other bulls, other scouts. Somethin' is all screwed up with you and we need to fix it!”



“What if it's too late?”



“What are you talkin' about?”



“It's not just my eyes and my legs, Austin. It's everything. I been gettin' dizzy for no good reason. Fallin' down when I ain't tripped over nothin'. You're right, somethin' is screwed up; I know that. But what if the screw up can't be fixed? What if it gets worse? I gotta take this chance, Austin.”



Austin sat down hard on the bed. The muscle in his jaw was working again, fast and furious. Luke fully understood the power Austin had over him; he knew that when his brother dug his heels in, there was no moving him. He had laid his cards on the table; all that was left was to await Austin's decision.



“All right,” Austin said after an eternity. “All right, Luke. You ride. If you don't stay on for eight, we go home and get you checked out. If you do, you sign your damn contract and finish out the the season, then we go home and get you checked out. Best deal you're gonna get, boy.”



“Thank you,” Luke said. Austin nodded slightly, then lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes.



Somewhere in the night, long after Austin had fallen asleep, Luke heard him thrashing. In slumber, he called her name. His voice was soft; the merest shadow of a whisper. It was no surprise he dreamed of her tonight; Luke knew he would see her face in his own dreams when his exhausted mind finally shut down. Still, it was rather disconcerting to hear her name there in the darkness, nearly ten years after they'd lost her.



“Casey,” Austin muttered. “Casey.”