It Ain't No Bull

By Louisa Swann

Meet J.J. Colton—a bull-fighting clown with Baditude. Not only does she love to clown around, she does so while sharing an arena with a not-so-happy bull. Being a bullfighter is the achievement of a life-long dream. Unfortunately, dreams come with a price tag. In this case, the required payment could cost J.J. her life as well as the lives of her seven-year-old nephew and J.J.’s four-footed partners in comedic crime.

Join J.J. on a rollercoaster ride that turns out to be trickier than braiding live rattlesnakes in a barrel and twice as deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eye of the Eagle
• Release date: Jan 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781882156160

Louisa Swann

Louisa is a professional writer living in northern California with husband, son, and a slew of critters, both domestic and wild. The family has been off the grid for over twenty years and keeps their carbon footprint small by doing without frig and water heater. Besides writing and caring for critters, both two-legged and four-legged, Louisa is the proud mama of a host of other little beings, namely veggies and flowers, who live in their 8′x16′ greenhouse. Springs fills the air with flowers and song while frogs leap merrily underfoot. Life is sweet!

Book preview

Prologue

SEVEN O’CLOCK IN the morning and the tiny Airstream was already a friggin’ oven. Opening the windows didn’t help—hot air swooped through the screens like a hungry hawk after an innocent mouse.

And June had just gotten started here in the Biggest Little City in the World.

Reno, Nevada.

A minitropolis whose sprawling urbanism screamed Vegas wannabe, sprouting people and houses faster than overwatered weeds. What he couldn’t understand was why anyone would want to live in this heat? He’d showered less than fifteen minutes ago and he could already smell his own sweat.

To add insult to sunburn, the desert heat played havoc with a guy’s makeup.

Next time we ain’t holding back, Dave O’Shawnessy, aka Sparky the Clown, told his reflection. A soft baby scent filtered through the air as he quickly set his grease-painted cheeks with a light dusting of powder. Next time we’re getting the works: leather seats, wall-to-ceiling carpets, and air conditioning.

His reflection smiled and nodded, though the smile was wistful. They both knew there wasn’t going to be a next time for Sparky the Clown.

A sharp knock rattled the trailer door behind him as Dave drew a heavy black line from the center of his lower left eyelid down over his cheekbone. He tapered the line, lifted the grease pencil from his skin.

Door’s open, he said, scowling at his shaky hand. He’d put off this day for way too long. If he’d retired ten years ago, maybe he’d be sitting in Cancun sipping piña coladas right now instead of perching on a chair held together by duct tape and coat hangers in front of a cracked mirror that showed not one, but two Sparkies if he leaned too far to the right.

Like he could afford Cancun. Hell, he couldn’t even afford Tijuana.

Dave cleared his throat and studied his lines with a critical eye, tilting his head to the right. We had a good run.

The double reflection nodded.

A second knock threatened to shake the door loose from its flimsy frame. Dave gritted his teeth. Wouldn’t take much more knocking and his figurative ass would be bared to the world. A doorless trailer in a mall parking lot was worse than a semi-private room in a nuthouse.

It’s open! Dave raised his voice a notch, but the door still didn’t open. He was getting tired of all these pranks—three in the last week. Definitely time to retire.

He stretched the skin over his right cheek, smoothing fifty-eight years’ worth of wrinkles into a paintable surface.

Retirement was a hard pill to swallow. He didn’t really care about the poor-to-nothing paychecks, or living in a one-room trailer he could hardly stand up in, or the fact he hadn’t seen what was left of his family in the six months he’d been traveling from job to job.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was seeing the curiosity in a child’s eyes turn to wonder as a simple balloon, twisted and knotted, became a fantasy animal and knowing that he—Dave Sparky the Clown O’Shawnessy—was responsible for the smile on that child’s lips.

Dave sighed. If it hadn’t been for this faulty ticker of his, he’d be working the carnival at the rodeo this week. As it was he had to settle for watching from the sidelines.

His niece had sent him tickets, though. Gotten him a prime grandstand seat for every night of the rodeo. A real nice gesture, but hardly a replacement for working the crowd.

There was one more gig he could do. The rodeo had added a special event on finals night: the Parade of Clowns, celebrating the unsung heroes of rodeo. He’d been offered a position in the parade. At the back. Riding in a mule-drawn wagon.

Way to go out with a bang.

The door swung open with a groan that would’ve made the Adams family proud, but no one stepped inside.

What the . . . ? Dave glanced at the clock. He didn’t have time to deal with pranksters. The damned alarm hadn’t gone off this morning and his big gig at Game’s End was scheduled to start at eight.

Look . . . Dave twisted his chair and started to stand. A nut-brown face popped into view. Dave took a second look at the shank of pale blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Pink albino eyes would’ve been less shocking. The two stared at each other a moment, then the boy lunged up the trailer’s rickety steps and held out a bakery box.

That’s ten dollars and fifty-five cents, not including tip.

The kid’s voice had a strange, almost eerie edge that made Dave’s hair stand on end. Not the hair on his head—he’d lost his head hair years ago, though he still suffered from occasional bouts of phantom hair syndrome. No, this was an all-over-the-body sensation. A real creep-out. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

Blondie checked the tag on the box. Dave O’Shawnessy?

That’s me. But I didn’t order any donuts.

I don’t see no other clowns around this place.

Judging by the sugar-sweet aroma permeating his dressing trailer these lovely gems slid off the rack only moments ago. Too bad no one thought to add a little eau de skunk to the donut batter. It’d be easier to stick to his new heart-healthy diet.

Dave inhaled long and deep. Another minute and he’d be drooling like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

What the hell? Dave shoved his makeup kit to one side, clearing a box-size space on the counter. I guess it’s time for some serious eating. Care to join me?

The delivery boy slapped the box on the counter along with the morning’s newspaper without shifting his gaze from Dave’s face.

Dave waved at his reflection in the wall mirror and made an oversized grimace. I know, I know. A clown without his makeup is like a toilet without a seat.

The stare didn’t change. If anything, the kid’s eyes grew more intense. Dave tried again.

You keep that up, kid, you could get a job as a mannequin. I hear the pay’s pretty good, but the hours suck.

Still nothing. Dave raised a painted eyebrow. What’s your name, kid?

The boy, at least he looked like a boy, though Dave suddenly realized the delivery person could have been female, or even a lot older than he looked, what with those wide blue eyes and pouty lips and flat-as-an-ironing board chest, finally turned away and started looking around the trailer.

In his younger days Dave would’ve taken the boy’s silence as a challenge, but over the years he’d learned that some folks just plain weren’t made to laugh. No use wasting his time. Not today.

The box rustled as Dave tugged it open. He wrapped his hand around a still-warm glazed donut and took a huge bite. Pure manna. The pastry melted across his tongue as his eyelids drifted shut.

Looks like somebody’s taken a dislike to your chosen occupation, Mr. O. Maybe you should think about retiring early.

Dave flinched at the sour breath warm against his cheek. His heart skipped a beat. He opened his eyes. Found himself nose to nose with the delivery nut. The donut that just a moment ago tasted like a slice of heaven now lay heavy on his tongue, a sodden mass of nauseating sugar dough. He swallowed hard. Swallowed again.

What the hell are you talking about? The words exploded from Dave’s mouth along with a hail of soggy crumbs. He’d run into some nut cases during his career—there were folks in the world who just plain didn’t like clowns—but he’d never really felt threatened.

Until now.

The boy jabbed a finger at the newspaper sitting beside the donut box. Dave glanced at the headlines splashed across the front page: Clown Killed In Hit and Run.

Not only was that hair-standing-on-end feeling back, his heart was fluttering faster than a bird on the wing. Dave scanned the article. Heaved a sigh of relief. The accident had taken place in Chicago, Illinois.

A long, long way from Reno.

Dave put down the donut. This freak encounter of the worst kind was over. Accidents happen all the time, kid. Putting on makeup and a costume doesn’t make a clown immortal, no matter what some folks think.

The delivery nut picked up Dave’s red clown nose. He turned it over. Stuck his finger in the nose-shaped hole.

Keep the change. Dave shoved a twenty into the kid’s hand, retaking possession of his nose in the process, and turned back to the mirror. There are kids standing in line to see Sparky the Clown. Can’t be late and disappoint the little buggers, now can I?

Footsteps shuffled toward the door and the boy’s reflection vanished. Dave took another breath. His pulse was a bit on the heavy side, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Not with all the meds the doctor had him on.

With shaking hands, he pulled the cap from an adhesive bottle, smeared the brush across the hole on his rubber nose. Wet goo glopped onto the counter.

But Dave didn’t notice.

He was too busy struggling to breathe through the damp cloth suddenly clamped to his face.

One

THE ONLY THING worse than standing under a leaky umbrella in the middle of a torrential downpour is lying face first in a fresh cow pie.

The umbrella was part of the act; the cow pie wasn’t.

Talk about a bad hair day.

Lightning split the black-bellied cloud overhead with a sharp crack! that rumbled over the ridges like a herd of ancient buffalo. It hadn’t started raining yet, but it was only a matter of minutes. Bright lights flooded the arena, shoving back the night’s dark shadows.

A big, fat raindrop plopped into the dust an inch or so away, adding damp dirt smell to the eau de bull already perfuming the air.

It’s all yours, sweetheart, J.J. Colton muttered to the fly standing protectively on the cow pie. She sprang to her feet, smacked her lips, and smirked at the tiers of groaning spectators surrounding the arena.

Reno rodeo fans. You gotta love ’em.

And J.J. did. She’d worked hard and long to get good enough to perform in front of these folks. No way was she going to let a little bull shit ruin her day.

Um, um. Better than Gramma’s pumpkin pie! she said into the microphone fastened to her collar. A chuckle started high in the grandstands and spread. Behind her someone whistled.

Looks like the little lady got herself a free facial, the announcer said. J.J. turned and stuck out her tongue at Carl Ames. She’d only met the announcer tonight, but he seemed like an upright guy. He looked the picture of cowboyhood in his white hat, tight jeans, and Wrangler’s shirt. Everyone else had abandoned the deck outside the announcer’s booth, but Ames stuck to his position overlooking the bucking chutes.

Not bad, for an old fart.

You’re just jealous, Carl. J.J. did a quick two-step so she was facing the audience and primped her manure-laden wig. The crowd howled with laughter. Another raindrop splatted in the dust. Then another and another.

Gonna get nasty real quick.

Godsmack’s Unforgiven blared over the loudspeakers, commanding everyone’s attention. J.J.’s heart skipped like a kid playing hopscotch. She’d worked all night with her partners in comedic crime—Bo, the infamous Australian shepherd; Chico Black, the notorious Mexican raven; and Dakota, the teenage pug. They’d put her through her paces like the pros they were and the crowd had eaten it up like pancakes. And so had she. She loved working with her friends, both furry and feathered.

But the fun and games were over.

Bull riding was where things got down and dirty. Hopefully, she’d eaten her last cow pie of the night.

Ladies and gentlemen, Carl Ames dramatically raised his voice above the dwindling chuckles. There are bulls that spin, bulls that buck, and bulls that can’t be ridden.

The arena quieted as die-hard rodeo fans settled back to watch the last ride of the night. A few of the wimps had already cut out, but there were always those fans who—rain, shine, or bitter cold—held on until the dirt stopped flying.

J.J. hitched up her tattered skirt and scampered back to her barrel near the center of the arena. More fat raindrops splatted against the padded sides of her condo. Amazingly, the drops didn’t sizzle. Even though the sun had slipped below the horizon several hours ago, it still felt hotter than the inside of Gramma’s woodstove.

The kind of weather that made cowboys grumpy and the bulls even grumpier.

Tornado has been a part of the bull riding circuit for close to two years and so far, he’s never been ridden. Ames’s voice dropped a notch. If there’s a cowboy who can ride this bull, it’s Justin Holmes. All-round champion two years in a row, Justin not only needs to stay glued to that bull the full eight seconds, he needs a score of eighty points to win the silver buckle.

Go, Justin! someone yelled.

J.J. readjusted her condo, making sure the open-ended bottom sat solid in the dirt, then sprang onto the barrel. She planted one foot on each side of the open top and did a little hoochee-coo, then hopped down inside and stood, waiting.

Her gut clenched, but not from the clowning. Tornado was one of the most athletic bulls on the competitive circuit.

He was also one of the most unpredictable.

The knot of cowboys clustered around the bucking chutes heaved and surged like turbulent water as the support crew helped the bull rider settle into place. The gate slats striped Tornado’s white hide with dark shadows that rippled as the bull moved restlessly in the chute.

The music swelled in volume and so did Ames’s voice. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together and give Justin a big Nevada welcome!

Adrenalin sang in J.J.’s veins, bringing every one of her five senses to an almost painful awareness. Someone coughed way back in the stands as fans stomped and whistled and clapped their hands sore. Wind started to pick up, bringing with it the stench of stale beer and burned barbeque. A sudden gust barreled along the ground, snatching up errant programs and straw hats, swirling the debris into a blinding dust devil.

Music and announcer both were drowned out by the crowd; the crowd was drowned out by Mother Nature. Lightning split the sky, releasing a thunderous crack just as the gate hand opened the chute, releasing two thousand pounds of explosive bull.

J.J. squinted, trying to see through the flying dust. Two of the top bullfighters were working the arena tonight: Fletch Monahan and Billy the Kid Malone. She was their backup, someone to distract the bull if things went too far sideways.

The dust cleared, allowing a quick glimpse of Fletch as he dodged in front of Tornado, then off to the side, trying to catch the bull’s attention.

Working a bull took more than guts. It took fast feet, timing, and skill. You had to get a feel for how the bull was thinking. Try to anticipate his next move. The right move at the right time could help a rider get a better ride.

Or save a rider’s life.

From the way Billy ducked inside the bull’s turning radius, J.J. could tell the rider was already in trouble. She slid out of her barrel and moved a few feet toward the action.

Tornado heaved his massive bulk skyward, shedding bucking rope and rider in one muscular lunge. Justin Holmes landed on his feet.

Right in front of Tornado.

Before Justin could scramble away, Tornado lunged forward, knocking the cowboy flat. Billy leapt in, slapped the bull’s face, and dodged out, tripping over Justin’s arm. Billy went down on his hands and knees.

Right at Tornado’s feet.

J.J.’s heart leapt into her throat. The wind died, leaving behind the stench of dust, sweaty animal hide, human fear, and urine—mostly animal, at least that’s what the cowboys wanted the audience to believe. For a moment, even Tornado seemed to hold his breath.

Fletch darted forward, tapped Tornado’s forehead as Billy had, then danced backward, trying to lead the bull away while Billy rolled off to the side.

But Tornado wasn’t about to be lead anywhere. He lowered his head and swung his super-sized horns around in a huge circle, catching Fletch with a tip of the right horn and flinging the bullfighter out of the way like an empty candy bag. Billy scrambled to his feet, leapt over Justin’s legs, and tagged the bull’s ear.

He might as well’ve been swatting flies. Tornado didn’t want Billy. Not anymore.

He wanted Fletch Monahan.

Her uncle and mentor.

Pickup men closed in on both sides, their horses moving calm and steady, but J.J. knew they couldn’t get too close to the bull. If she could lead Tornado away before he decided to really get nasty, the pickup guys might be able to get a rope on him.

Sweat tickled her sides as J.J. dashed forward and grabbed hold of Tornado’s tail.

That got the bull’s attention.

Air whistled by her head as she ducked a well-aimed hoof.

A primal urge to run and hide twisted J.J.’s gut into nauseated ropes and threatened to glue her feet to the ground at the same time. She let loose a whoop that carried into the crowd. Flipped her brightly colored skirt up over the rear of her patched long johns. Bolted toward her clown condo.

Tornado charged.

Sweat drained down her forehead, under her arms, between her breasts. Her lungs choked on shallow breaths of dust-filled air; the spectators’ pale faces blurred against the blinding stadium lights.

Clown condo dead ahead. The empty barrel didn’t look nearly close enough.

Ten steps.

Seven steps.

Five steps.

J.J. turned as she ran. Looked the bull in the eye. Gulped back the panic that clogged in her throat when she realized how close Tornado was.

The crowd cheered, hooted, and cheered some more. Some for the bull, some for J.J., and some just because it was fun to make noise.

For them it was all a game, but for J.J. this was the ultimate challenge. One slip, one misstep, and she would be at the mercy of two thousand pounds of pure muscle.

She’d been there before and had the scars to prove it.

As if Fate had read her mind, J.J. stumbled in a depression, twisted her ankle, and fell forward.

The crowd gasped, laughter forgotten. The ground trembled beneath her hands. J.J. used the momentum of her fall and tucked into a forward roll. A quick flip brought her feet back to the ground, putting her in almost-perfect position to leap into the padded barrel.

Her feet hit the dirt inside the condo’s protective circle. Pain shot through her ankle as she sank down and braced herself.

Tornado smashed into the barrel.

The impact tore her grip from one of the rope handles. Her head snapped hard against the padding. Vision blurred. Pain seared her neck and shoulders and the coppery taste of blood coated her tongue.

J.J. gritted her teeth, pressing her feet against one of the barrel’s sides, her back against the other. No way was this bull going to evict her.

No way.

The barrel went still and for one heart-stopping moment J.J. thought she had won.

But Tornado wasn’t finished with her. Not yet.

Thunder pealed again, only it wasn’t thunder she heard. It was the sound of her condo being rammed by a freight train.

The clown condo tilted sideways, sand and dirt crunching beneath metal as the barrel twisted, then fell with a gut-wrenching thud, leaving her bottom end open. Vulnerable.

Tornado slammed the barrel again and again, pushing, rolling, shoving.

J.J. took a deep breath. No sweat.

She’d been through this a thousand times, both in practice and for real.

Tornado would get tired of the game, the pickup riders would get a rope on him, and it would all be over.

That’s when J.J. noticed the sides of her barrel—her condo, her safe house made of double-strength aluminum braced with steel—were slowly starting to buckle.

Two

COWBOY OR CLOWN, the dark side of a bull’s belly was not a healthy place to be. J.J. lived for the adrenalin and the crowd. For the challenge of looking fear in the face and winning.

Being crushed like a bug in a soda can didn’t fit into that picture.

Time to vacate the premises.

There were two ways out of a clown condo: out the attic or through the basement. Unfortunately, Tornado kept the barrel swinging one way and then the other, switching direction so fast she couldn’t get her bearings. Even with the padding, noise reverberated through the metal until the inside of the barrel sounded like a war zone.

Funny how she could look a bull in the eye without even blinking, yet the thought of being stuck in this metal coffin terrified her. She could smell her own fear. Her skin crawled with need. Need to be gone. To be free.

To be out of this teeny, tiny, suffocating, shrinking space.

She gasped, drawing air into her lungs like she was starving for oxygen. Stupid, really. She knew it. She wasn’t locked inside an airtight box.

Her feet tingled and so did her hands and she really, really, really couldn’t get enough air. In fact, she was dying. Her heart was giving out. This was it. The last goodbye, only there was no one to say goodbye to.

The bulls had finally won.

A tiny part of her mind recognized the symptoms. She wasn’t dying; she was hyperventilating. She’d had it happen once before.

The day her brother was shot to death.

She’d dealt with it then. She could deal with it now.

It would be better if she had a bag to breathe into, to help recycle the air so she was breathing more carbon dioxide, but even if she had a bag, there was no way she could let go . . . J.J. concentrated on slowing her breathing—

A hard smack sent the barrel flopping like a deflated basketball. Another smack sent her spinning—the opposite direction. J.J. concentrated on breathing slow and holding on, two tasks that required all her concentration.

But it was working. The tingly feeling left her hands and her head started to clear.

Sort of. With all the damn spinning it was hard to tell her front side from her back side. On one of her lucky spins, she caught a glimpse of horse hooves dancing a few feet from the barrel.

Tornado’s head—complete with rounded horns—dipped into sight.

Someone shouted as something slid across the padded metal. Tornado blasted sour-grass breath in J.J.’s face, dug a hoof into the dirt.

Then he was gone.

And so was all the noise. By the way the world kept spinning, though, J.J. was certain the earth had flown off its axis and was now on a collision course with the sun.

Dirt crunched close outside. A running shoe appeared near the top of her squished barrel. A knee dropped to the ground. After what seemed like an eternity, Billy’s familiar face appeared, only he didn’t look so familiar. He looked—bruised.

You look like shit, J.J. muttered. She spat dirt from her mouth. Realized