Barefoot Pastures: Book One

By Lili Mahoney

All she wants is to keep her title. To stay at the top of her game. The world is harsh and Tory has already learned many of the harder lessons. Her lifes story has always been about control and the cowboy code, but will this year teach her the toughest lesson? Her own stubborn will may help her escape death, but will she come through unscathed? Can she remain true to who she is? In order to survive the pain, the cowardly men, the lies, and the passion that will threaten to tear her apart, Tory will have to hold tightly to what has always been important friendship, loyalty, and always Rusty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503517097

Lili Mahoney

Lili Mahoney’s love for horses began before she could read. Now books and horses share equal space in her heart, along with a few humans and a random scattering of beloved animals. Though she earned her B.A. in English, her dream job would be to work as a photographer for National Geographic. She loves romance with twists and characters with flaws that she can identify with. Texas is where she was born and raised, and is her heaven on Earth!

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Copyright © 2015 by Lili Mahoney.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014920527

ISBN:               Hardcover                    978-1-5035-1707-3

                        Softcover                     978-1-5035-1708-0

                        eBook                          978-1-5035-1709-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/02/2014

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Fort Worth

My Boys

Strong Women

School

The Date

Training Feisty Horses

San Antonio

Funeral

March

Houston Rodeo

He Saves Me

Being Tough

Dusting Off

First Dance

Secrets

Shopping

Tryouts

Fundraiser

Super Bowl Sundays

Broken Promises

San Angelo Rodeo

Me and My Temper

Changes

Third Place

Out with the Boys

Little Chats

Dillon’s Party

Meet Jake

Who’s Hurt

At Last

Ethics

Finals

Done

Pride

Dates N Snakes

Moving Forward

Summer Time

Friends

Silly Girls

Pain

Dreaming by the Creek

Coming from the Dark

Rain

Next Cycle

Big Bulls

Kindred Spirits

Jake’s Ranch

Grin and Bear It

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my MDO sisters, who read my first attempt at writing and convinced me to move forward. Anita and Carol, you have been my greatest supporters and I thank you. To my target audience go-to-girl, Allie, your wisdom reaches beyond your years and I can’t show you enough gratitude for the insight you offer. I hope you will continue to work with me on projects in the future.

Thank you most of all to my family. My best friend and husband, my mini-me, and my little man; without you and your love, I couldn’t dream of becoming who I want to be.

Fort Worth

It is the middle of winter, but the beginning of the New Year in Texas. Abhorring the cold and wet, my mood is directly influenced as I duck into a livestock barn. I’m hoping to escape the bitter wind’s abuse on my body and absorb some of the energy that comes from the rodeo environment. I live for summer, when I can be outside all day, riding in shorts and tank tops in order to soak up every ounce of sun possible. Summer is a time when I am safe from high school as well.

My family and I are out of town this weekend, attending the Annual Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, something we’ve been doing for years. We compete in the livestock shows with the calves we’ve raised and the timed horse events. This year is no different. It’s the same it has been since I can remember and the way it will always be. This is the circle of my life, and this particular portion of that cycle is what I consider an escape. The part I love and which defines who I am. I remind myself of that as I stomp my feet in order to keep the blood circulating. I want to be here. I need it. Freezing or not, it beats the alternative any ole day.

Livestock show and rodeo people have been living this way for generations. They always compete in the same arenas with the same breeds of animals. Traditions and knowledge passed down from forefathers, often resisting change in every way possible. Fresh dirt is hauled in to cover the cement floors of the coliseums or show barns. Always the same smells and varied livestock. Wood shavings for the stalls and holding pens. Always the familiar John Deere green equipment. Stock trailers, pulled by heavy-duty pickup trucks, decked out in the cowboy way.

My same old horse trailer with

District All-around Cowgirl

Tory n Rusty

Stagecoach, Texas

printed along the sides in sky blue letters.

Everyone is zeroed in on the same goal… a trophy in the form of a huge shiny belt buckle. Traditional attire—boots with cowboy hats and the standard tight fittin’ jeans, their favorite Wranglers.

We’re up in a few seconds… Rusty and I, so we watch as the girl before us enters the gate. For the last ten minutes, we’ve been loping in large figure eights. We’re warmed up. The adrenaline is pulsing through us, and every cell in our bodies is on high alert.

We’ve been an unbeatable team for a while now. No one has a faster horse, and as long as we have a clean run, no one ever beats us. Once I jump on his back, we melt into one being. He reads my mind before I complete the thought and we flow together, fluid in our movements. As it should be. After all, I started training Rusty as a young colt, and we’ve been working out, hard, every day since.

We don’t look as fancy as some other teams: girls all dressed in sparkly sewn, specially tailored outfits, matching from their hat down to their boots. They have all their horses’ gear to match as well. Rusty and I don’t glitter up. We are plain and simple. That’s how we match.

Rusty is well proportioned and, I think, extremely handsome. His ears are forever alert. His eyes are bright and bold, beautifully brown and always full of intelligence. His coloring isn’t fancy: he’s a copper buckskin with brown points. In the past, it was thought that buckskinned coloring meant diluted genes, but we know better now. Rusty’s coloring proves his awe-inspiring genetic heritage of great Spanish ancestors, known for their superior qualities and strength. Buckskins have more stamina and determination. Their feet are harder and their bones stronger.

Rusty stands tall at about seventeen hands and is roughly twelve hundred pounds of solid power. His shoulders are well sloped with sharp withers. His hindquarters are soundly muscled to his hocks, and his back is broad and strong at the top of his barrel chest.

His body and his spirit are as tough as wet leather.

The girl is rounding her final barrel, and Rusty can no longer stand still. He can’t keep his hooves on the ground. Hopping in place, he’s waiting for me to drop the reins just enough to tell him it’s time, time to boost into his lightning speed at the blink of an eye. Rusty is the fastest horse I’ve ridden. He exudes power from every muscle within his body. Great barrel horses are usually built like race horses, even bred from them. Usually they are long and lean, so their bodies can curve gracefully around the barrels. They have powerful elongated legs that carry them through the arena, through the cloverleaf pattern of the three painted metal barrels, going as fast as possible before the timer ticks away another tenth of a second.

Like me, Rusty’s regular in looks. But not regular in how he lives to compete. How he knows to skid around the barrel, giving just enough space for my knee to breeze past it and then digging in to launch us at record speed to the next barrel, and then the next, and then home, past the timekeepers, past the gate. Past everyone else’s times. He is so surefooted and aware of where he is and where I am. That’s what makes a great barrel horse, his absolute need to win and to know how close to cut it.

The girl has finished her run, the gate is closed, the three barrels sit waiting for us, and although I’m not looking at him, I know the gateman is watching for my cue. The minute I give it, he will fling the gate open wide.

In the seconds before we run, I try to keep Rusty facing away from the gate. It’s our only battle. I pray quickly, God just let us have a clean run, do our best. I twist in the saddle, ever so slightly, toward the gateman as I pull my hat down by the brim, tightening it on my head just enough for it to stay put, and nod my head. The gate flies open two heartbeats after I’ve lowered my hands, giving Rusty his cue to take off.

We just fit through, the gate opening slower than it took Rusty the forty feet to launch us into the race against the timer. Probably I should have waited one full second to lower my hand. The gateman’s reaction time wasn’t as fast as Rusty’s. But I know full well that Rusty loves to cut it close, and the second he saw the man shift his weight, he might have left without me.

The memory is clear in my mind… once he’s decided to launch himself, if you’re not prepared, you’ll find yourself butt-cheek-deep in the dirt, with it smacking across your face as it gets kicked up from under his hoofs. At times, it’s as if Rusty were drag racing, peeling out and burning rubber.

Already deep in the pocket, I realize I’m going on about timing, reliving a distant memory of Rusty leaving me on my rear. Rusty’s the only horse that has put me on the ground since I was nine years old. Although it wasn’t that he was being cantankerous, he’d just gone off faster than I had been ready for, left right out from under me. And I sat there for a moment, feeling like the coyote watching his rocket leave without him. In truth, Rusty has never been one of those horses that fights his rider for dominance. He works as a team with me.

Focus! Get your head in this race!

Easy. I breathe out as I slightly give the reins a tug, a small reminder that I’m still back here as we leave the first tin can behind. I guess I say it more for me though. Rusty knows what he’s doing, and he’s always aware of where I am and what I want out of him. To win. He’s what you call an automatic barrel horse.

We round the second tin can. I check the timer. Ahead of schedule. Perfect. Haah! I urge Rusty as I feel him sliding his rear end around and digging his back legs into the dirt, claiming the traction to boost us off to the third tin can. I always pop up in the saddle when he launches us that way and hang on to the saddle horn with my outside hand. With my inside hand, I use the reins to guide Rusty into the pocket and then pull up the slack as he flexes his huge stocky body around the barrel. As we skid around the third barrel, I give him his head, pushing the reins forward, kicking him, and hanging on when I feel myself popping up again as he’s pushing with all the strength in his hindquarters. Sometimes I holler again to urge more out of him, but it’s not necessary today.

I watch the timer racing the tenths of seconds up, and I know that we are a full two seconds ahead of the current leader. No need to rub it in. No need to push us any harder. We’ve had a good, fast, clean run. Thank… you, . . . God! I whisper under my breath. "Good job, Rusty!" I pat him on his neck with contained excitement. We fly by the gate, and I pull on the reins. Whoa, I say firmly as I press the balls of my feet forward in the stirrups and Rusty plants his front legs. We begin to skid to a halt. Life… is… good!

My Boys

As I steer him to the right so we don’t plow down the fence at the back of the pen, Tucker is there to grab Rusty’s reins. He grins up at me with bright blue eyes that dance with pride. My brother pokes the brim of his cowboy hat up and off his forehead. Don’t think anyone’ll touch that time today, he declares and scratches Rusty’s head, or tries to.

Rusty is still wired up, prancing, but anchored in place by Tucker as he tries to regain control of himself.

I stroke his wet neck. Good job, Rusty! Good job, ole boy!

Tucker has him at the bit so I sit back in the saddle and work on calming down too. I pull my boots out of the stirrups, letting my legs dangle. It’s a familiar trigger, and I can instantly feel our heartbeats slowing.

As Tucker walks us back to the horse trailer, he says, Hey, to several people, nodding to everyone else. He even tips his hat to that Rohan girl sitting atop her seventy-thousand-dollar mare, and I repress the urge to kick my brother in the back of his fat head. I can’t reach anyway.

I am not as outgoing as my brothers are. I don’t feel compelled to acknowledge and greet everyone I see, especially not iniquitous spoiled brats. In fact, I prefer to blend into the background. My brothers are twins, and they have herds of friends. Plus, adults love them to death. Oooh, those boys are just so good-looking. Oh, those boys are such gentlemen! I used to hate it, not just because they weren’t what others said or because I wanted to be the center of attention and have everyone swooning over me. Internally, I knew I would never be the eye candy that the twins were, but I hated that no one ever said anything about any of my good attributes. I know how to be polite.

I’m not desirous now, though I’m not sure what has changed. In fact, now that they’re in college and never home, I want people to talk about them. Somehow that fills the void, and I miss them less.

Tucker and Tyler are both rodeo stars, popular not only because of their achievements in rodeo, but also because of their charming personalities. They’re both going to be large animal veterinarians and open up their own practice. I’ve learned a ton from them, good and bad. They still come to my events, when they can, and help out. Not that I need them to.

Actually… I’m pretty sure they come for the girls.

The realization that there is just something about identical twins that attracts people has recently taken seed. My boys always have a group of fans trailing along behind them. Sickening, if you ask me, because it’s usually a herd made up of swooning girls.

Tyler is more the ladies’ man. He flirts with anything in a pair of tight jeans and is extreme in his enchanting endeavors. He knows what his ocean blue eyes do to the female variety. No age group seems to be immune. Tucker is less outspoken. Not a purposeful charmer, he is still a charismatic cowboy just the same. Complete with striking good looks to match his twin’s.

The girls that swarm around them don’t seem to be consistent in their preference of guys, and that very fact has always confused me. While my boys look exactly the same, and some people can’t tell them apart even now that they’re older, their personalities are polar opposites. Yet they still seem to attract the same girls. So is that based solely on looks?

This is a question that has plagued me all my life because it should be black and white. Either you’re attracted to a guy who has lots to say and is always horsing around, not a single fleck of outward emotions, or you’re drawn to the strong silent type who thinks before he opens his mouth, is sensitive, and tends to be more on the responsible side. Regardless, too many silly girls throw themselves at my boys and have no self-respect. I hear everything that’s said about them later.

When Tucker stops Rusty at the trailer, I slide down off his back and wrap my arms around his thick, wet neck. Rusty presses the side of his face against me. We are an awesome team! I love him more than I love… life.

Just flawless, Rus! I whisper in his ear, scratching a favorite spot between his ears. He rubs his huge head up and down my left side, knocking me against his body. With an elbow to my ribs, Tucker nudges me over so that he can undo the cinch on my saddle. He removes it from Rusty’s sweaty back, along with the wet saddle blanket, and disappears into the trailer. I gently slide the bit out of Rusty’s mouth, replacing the bridle with his halter before we go around to the shower stalls for a quick rinse. I’m not done for the weekend, but he is. We’ve won first place in all our events so far, settling us nice and neat into the number one slot for the all-around points. For the next two days, the only other runs I have to make are on horses I’ve been training for other people.

Easy money.

I enjoy the Fort Worth horse show because it’s always first-rate competition, even if it is in the dead of winter. It’s a straight shot north on Texas Highway 45, and the drive from our home in Stagecoach is usually pleasant. As I walk Hephaestus back to the trailer after our run around the barrels, a poignant thought hits me… this will be my last season competing at this level. Hep is intuitive and snorts against my neck as we walk together. Though he isn’t my horse, just one I’m being paid to train for a younger rider, we have a great connection. He’s a good little horse and handsome too. I will miss him when he’s finished. That too makes me feel like I suddenly can’t smile.

It would be nice to blame my sour mood on the weather, but the crux of it is basically that I’m not at all ready to be moving on. I am ready for high school to be over, for sure. But I wish that this coming summer could just stay frozen in time and I didn’t have to move forward after graduation.

Brushing horses is very therapeutic. With each stoke of the brush, I consider my goals right now. The top of Hep’s back… Rusty and I will keep our title as All-Around Cowgirl. Hep’s rump… I will finish training the horses I’m being paid to make into great barrel horses. Hep’s long neck… I want to get accepted into Texas A&M University, like my brothers before me. Maybe even attend.

After I get the horses settled back into their rented stalls, I head to the truck in search of a snack, and hopefully a nap stretched out on the backseat. As usual, I watch the ground as I walk. You never know when a rock will jump out of the gravel road and trip you up, but then suddenly I find myself being spun from my waist. As I quickly regroup, I realize Shelton Reeves’s lips are coming in to mash against my mouth. That boy is quick. I feel intensely nauseated as he yanks me closer, bending his head down because I won’t look up at him. I won’t do anything to make sticking his lips on mine any easier, two-time champion bull rider or not. I swear kissing our cow dog, Patch, would be less wet and sordid. I punch him in the gut with my fist, just as Tyler comes into view over Shelton’s shoulder. Shelton releases me, bending at the waist and gripping his stomach instead.

Ya know, Tory, if you’da put that much energy into our first kiss, that would’ve been just as gooda-one for me as it was for you. Lordy, you are a sweet little thang.

I hate the grimy sound of his voice and the controlling look in his unctuous eyes. His jeans and hat are stained from too much time spent on and around rough stock, though his chaps look new. And to think there are girls that actually find him attractive. Must be the gold trophy buckle.

Maybe she hit you ’cause you ain’t that great a kisser, you piss ant. Tyler’s voice is always calm and commanding, even when he’s on the verge of busting his knuckles into someone’s teeth. Tyler spits a black puddle of his dip on the toe of Shelton’s boots as a dismissal. You alright, T? My brother drapes his arm over my shoulders and steers me toward our truck and trailer.

Fine. I finger my torn belt loop. Dang, I liked these jeans. I hate stupid boys.

Maybe I’ll tear his jeans off his sorry hide. Tyler drops his arm off my shoulder and swings around, starting at Shelton, who instinctively draws his fists up, knowing firsthand what’s coming at him. These two have a history, and it ain’t a good one. Ty is bigger in height and heftiness, but Shelton hangs on to bulls for a living so is ripped with muscle and fast as lightning. I’m not the only one who notices that the tension has been kicked up a notch. We are drawing a crowd and previous experience tells me that a few strategic words are needed.

Don’t bother, Ty. Come on, I’m hungry. Where’s Mom? I tug hard on Tyler’s arm, pulling back in the direction of the truck. It takes all my own body weight to change the direction of his. My boys are both over six foot tall and very well built, but the power of food and the mention of Mom instantly helps tip the momentum.

Hopefully at the truck makin’ me somethin’ ta eat. He chuckles and tosses me up on his back as he teases in his southern drawl, Come on, ’lil filly. You’re always slowin’ me down.

"Yeah, that was all me back there." Tyler struggles to keep breathing after I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles, squeezing hard with all I’ve got. He coughs and laughs, tickling my thighs while carrying me piggyback. I’ve missed my boys and have enjoyed seeing them these past few days. They’re fun to be around, so full of life and energy. Having them around makes me feel warm inside.

When we get there, Mom has already handed out sandwiches to Dad and Tucker. I flip over a bucket and plop down on it since the tailgate’s serving as a kitchen counter. Riding makes me hungry as a horse, but at least I’m done. The boys still have an event left and then tonight we’ll go to the rodeo dance, unavoidably… heading home tomorrow. My circle is moving closer to the section I can’t stand… Mondays.

How’d you tear your pants, Baby? Dad notices the belt loop as I store some of Tucker’s tack in the bed of the truck.

Sir? Oh… I’m not sure. Must of caught it on somethin’. I generally never lie to my father. There are severe consequences when you do. Not that I’ve learned that from personal experience, more from the examples of my brothers’ mistakes.

"Liar! Shelton Reeves was kissin’ on her. Shoulda seen her, Pop, makin’ out right in the middle of the flippin’ parkin’ lot for everyone to see. Pullin’ in quite a crowd too. Disgraceful! Not at all ladylike!" Tyler is a jackass, and I hate him.

I don’t bother with a rebuttal. The second I open my mouth, he’ll just cut me off with more slander. Besides, Ty’s voice is louder and more powerful than my own, and even though we were the best of siblings five minutes ago, his agenda changes like South Texas weather and he’s made up his mind to win a fight.

Meeting my dad’s gaze, I firmly shake my head, my teeth cinched tight.

I personally feel, Pop, that she should have an escort with her at all times. She’s not to be trusted, and she’s smearing your good name. Tyler’s voice is all business, but once Dad looks away, he folds over in silent laughter.

Dad studies my face. Is that so?

No, sir. I look him straight in the eyes as I stand with my back straight, my head high. Just as he’s taught me. Breathing calmly, I remain in control. It’s never okay with my dad when I lose my temper.

Do you deny kissing Reeves? I’m sure I can find witnesses, Tyler spits out so loud I’m sure the whole of Texas can hear him.

I did not kiss him! I scream back, then remember to breathe, and face my father. "Daddy, I did not kiss anyone. I promise, I state confidently. Using Daddy" softens him just enough and reminds him that I’m his sweet little girl, something I sometimes think he forgets.

How did you tear your pants, Tory? My dad repeats one more time, and I know by his stern tone it means I have to come clean. His green eyes mean business. There’s a very defined line as to what’s acceptable when it comes to public displays of affection. Not that I’ve ever come close to even standing with a toe near it.

I’m tellin’ ya, Dad, her and Shelton were . . .

Dad shoots Tyler a look to hush up and let me have my say.

I draw in a deep breath. How do I explain this? Well… I was coming from the stalls to the truck, and Shelton Reeves came out of nowhere and yanked me by the belt loop and it tore. Plain and simple.

"He did what? Dad growls. My dad is very old-fashioned. Say Yes, sir, or Yes, ma’am" to your elders. Treat women and your animals with respect, no sex until marriage, and all that kinda stuff. And he’s extremely protective of me, particularly when it comes to boys. Again, unnecessarily.

Dad rolls his shoulders. I knew he would get angry. It’s no big deal, Dad. I throw Tyler a roll-in-hog-crap look as I toss the stack of feed buckets into the compartment of the horse trailer. I hate when my dad is mad, whether it’s at me or about me.

I love my dad. His family comes from German heritage, and that’s where I get my olive skin from. I’ve heard my mom tease the uncles and cousins that have the darker skin, calling them, Dirty Germans. Comes from cross-breeding, she taunts. What I’ve often found interesting is that all my dad’s brothers have olive skin, like their father. The sisters all have pale, ghost-like skin, resembling my grandmother. I’ve always wondered if it was a regional thing, like maybe my grandmother was from East Germany and my grandfather came from West Germany. In any case, I get the impression that our olive skin, from my grandfather’s side, isn’t as treasured as the lighter variety.

Besides his skin, I’m also quiet like Dad. Some call it being shy, but really it’s just that I’m private. I get my inner strength from my father and of that I am most proud. My father is the strongest and toughest person I know. He works from sun up to sun down and always expects perfection of himself, and of his children.

Tyler knows when to quit and then to switch hit. He begins laughing. She belted ’im a good one in the gut, Pop, but I still think we should knock him with a man’s sized fist right in his kisser. He laid a wet one on ’er. Tyler’s voice is getting more energized at the thought of fighting.

Dad looks at my brother for a second and then back at me, but I keep my head down, staying busy. If I act like it’s no big deal, it’ll blow over faster. Never fuel the fire. They exchange words for a second, but I ignore them and make my way around to the other side of the truck. When I’m sure Dad’s not going to speak to me again, I wander off to the barn to check on Rusty and escape the cold once again. This time I keep my head up and try to be more aware of who’s around me in case Shelton or some other stupid cowboy comes too close. Why is it cowboys think women are only around for their personal pleasure, to handle as they see fit?

Rusty neighs softly as I spread one of the horse blankets out over the cedar shavings. I stretch out in the corner, snug as a bug, and dose on and off as the afternoon passes.

Brought you a new pair of jeans, baby. Mom’s tone is hinting that she wants all the details when she says, "Dad said you’d had a run in with Mr. Reeves." I’m sure that she’s heard Tyler’s version, so I don’t bother.

Thanks, Momma. I pull myself up and stretch as I yawn. Rusty doesn’t bother getting up and closes his eyes again after I shut his gate. He is usually pacing back and forth because we don’t like rented stalls, but we’ve had a good nap just now and he’s still relaxed. I hope he stays that way for a while. I can’t bear to have him anxious while I’m away.

As I take the jeans from her, she starts in on me, I’m sure you didn’t do anything to make him think that sort of behavior was invited?

Stopping in my tracks, I stare, trying not to be annoyed by her questioning tone. Mostly by the lack of trust that would prompt asking it. Ugh. What is with my parents?

Calm down. We didn’t think so. She flashes her bright smile at me, considering herself such a trickster and proud to have nettled me. And what is with the "We"? I guess the council that makes up my parental authorities has had a powwow back at the hotel. While I was napping with Rusty, they were supposed to be prettying themselves up for the dance.

Mom walks with me back to where our trucks and trailers are parked, her arm looped around my own. Being Irish to the core, Mom’s highly emotional. She has gorgeous fair skin, complete with freckles. Her hair is light brown, and she has big brown eyes that convey her compassion. They reveal an energy that rivals that of any wild animal. Mom’s Irish temper is about the only thing I have inherited from her. Oh, and my love of horses. And maybe my rebellious, tomboy personality.

As I change my jeans in the tack compartment of the horse trailer, I shiver from the cold that bites into my bones. Mom is chatting through the crack in the door, claiming she doesn’t know what compels boys to behave in such a way, and that if she’d ever heard of the twins acting like that, she’d whip ’em good with a buggy whip. Mom’s never whipped any of us with a buggy whip; in fact, she hasn’t spanked me since I was four. I remember it clearly because it was after I’d gotten my own horse. His name was Hardy.

I’d taken a pair of Dad’s dykes from the barn and clipped off all the arms from Tyler and Tucker’s green army men. Mom popped me once on my rear-end, so I kissed my hand and rubbed the spot on my behind that was stinging, angry that I was in trouble for trying to get even. I reached a whole new level of fuming mad since I was sure it was okay with God, because I’d gotten the idea just that very morning in church when the preacher said something about a sin for a sin. Anyway, after I did that self-kiss-it-to-make-it-better thing, my mom lost her temper and I lost my new horse for a week.

She still threatens with the whipping, and we still pretend that we’re sure she means it.

Tucking my shirt into my jeans, I confess, I don’t know if that’d help. Boys are just worthless and some are more worthless than others.

She giggles. Well, some of them just take to training faster than others, honey, just like horses.

Rolling my eyes while she can’t see me helps. At least horses have a use in the world. I’m not gonna waste my time.

She gives me a disapproving look as I step out of the trailer. "I know that boys like Shelton Reeves are… disturbing, sweetheart, but there are good men out there. You just have to make an effort. Your father and I have had to work very hard to stay married as long as we have. Maybe if you spent less time with Rusty."

I don’t have a response to that. She locks our elbows together, always feeling touchy-feely, and drags me to the dance. From where I stand, it doesn’t appear that Mom and Dad have had to work all that hard at loving each other. The second he senses her approach, he turns to await a returning kiss. They’ve only been apart for twenty minutes, tops. Why do they need to do that every single time they separate and then reattach? Anytime they are in the same area, they hold hands, or he keeps his arm around her waist. Inseparable. That doesn’t take work. Magnets can’t stop themselves. Even as they continue a conversation with the McCluskies thirty minutes later, they remain latched together. My best friend, Megan, says it’s romantic.

My family and the McCluskies have been friends since I can remember. They have a daughter that is just a year or two older than me and a son that’s one year older than my boys. Kody and Tyler raised hell together from the time they were in diapers. He’s as good looking as my brothers, if not more so, and he knows it. He’s a Marine now and is breathtaking in his uniform, and he knows that too. God’s gift to women around the world.

Madison is not as crazy as her brother, but outspoken, and I’ve heard she gets a little wild from time to time, mostly racing cars or horses. She’s always been very nice to me.

I notice her pretending to box with her dad as he gives her a hard time about dancing with the Stevens’ boy. Jarrod Stevens is a bull rider. Mr. McCluskie is a roper. Families tend to stay loyal to their events.

She ducks behind my dad, for protection from her father’s mock fight, and my dad shields her.

Good run today, Tory, Madison says when she notices me. Rusty’s really in the zone.

I smile. Yeah, he ran real good for me this trip. You did an impressive job too. That new horse is going to be something when you get him polished.

Mr. McCluskie’s hand comes from around my dad’s side and almost grabs a hold of Madison’s shirt. She’s got impressive reflexes, probably from having a big brother similar to my own.

How’s Kody?

His tour will be over in a few months, and he’ll be coming home. We talked to him a couple of days ago. He looked real good. She laughs. He’s gained a few pounds because of all the care packages he gets from your momma.

I nod. Yeah, I saw his ‘Welcome Home’ party marked on the calendar in the kitchen. Smiling, I remember the last one. It was at a fancy hotel in downtown San Antonio, on the Riverwalk. A few of the guys ended up in the river, which isn’t very clean, plus it had been dyed green for St. Patrick’s day.

Well, I better go. I promised Tyler a dance, Madison says as she waves, keeping a vigilant eye on her dad.

My boys have already had their arms full as they make their way around the dance floor. But when Tyler spots Madison looking for him, he swaps the blonde-headed girl for her. I think he’s taken it upon himself to fill in as a big brother while Kody is deployed. Tyler and Kody broke many hearts and caused even more fights. It was probably Kody who taught my boys how to be romeos.

The boys were tons of fun to watch when they were in the American Junior Rodeo Association (AJRA) together, always bantering back and forth, proving the reason for their arrogant cockiness to the rest of the world.

They’re an all-Irish family going back generations, and Madison has the prettiest auburn hair. The McCluskies drink loads of beer, every one of them, and start at an early age. I remember my brothers arguing with our parents about when they could start drinking, because they wanted to keep up with Kody.

Madison’s temper matches her unruly curls. I always kind of thought that one of my boys would date her because she’s very pretty and even funnier. But neither of them ever have. I’m sure it’s because they are such good friends with Kody, and there’s that unwritten rule about crushing on your friend’s baby sister.

Remaining supportive of this war that so many Texas boys are fighting in is becoming more of a challenge for me. It makes me mad when I hear of another kid from rodeo joining up. I understand that it is a way to get out, to see the world. The thing is, they get sent right over to fight in a war that they really don’t know anything about and that no one really seems to know anything about or understand the purpose of. Too many of our boys aren’t returning home to Texas the same as when they left or even not at all, and that eats me up. Are we really making enough of a difference over there to make the sacrifices over here worth it?

After the McCluskies wander off, Daddy sits for a few minutes talking to Mr. and Mrs. LaValley about some new breeding technique, but then he strolls off to get him and Mom a pitcher of beer. A few minutes later, Tyler is yanking me out of my chair and dragging me to the dance floor. I’m still angry at him so I balk as much as possible. It doesn’t do me much good.

He squeezes me too hard and nods toward Dad. I was just taking his mind off some stuff, T. My brother the Good Samaritan, except it’s always at my expense. Tyler’s fingers dig into my ribs, and I internally shy away from his bullying. Alright, ’lil filly, you just go right ahead and puff up like a toad and see if it bothers me one bit. Tyler twirls me around once and then yanks me back into his arms as we two-step across the floor. I’ll pop your sour little bubble like a piece of green-apple gum. His blue eyes dance with mischief and that makes me nervous as hell. Sorta like your dear ole sweetheart’s bubble got busted tonight. He tosses his head back laughing.

What? As the word slips from my lips, I question whether its’ a good idea to ask. You never know with Tyler, but just then Tucker cuts in and shuffles me in another direction. He has a funny look on his face too, but I wait, figuring he’ll explain. Tucker talks to me about important stuff more than Tyler does.

Thanks for cleaning the stalls for me. I don’t mind shoveling out the horse stalls, but it’s real nice when someone else does it for me. It doesn’t happen often and is a true rarity.

We figured it would be an even trade, you know, for the stolen kiss, Tucker replies.

What he says doesn’t make much sense, and I look up at him with utter confusion. Before I can ask, the song is over and a pretty, willowy girl cuts in, leaving me standing there alone, in the middle of the dance floor. It annoys me how girls don’t ever see me as an obstacle. That’s the one time I don’t like being the invisible little sister. Tucker glances back at me and winks once before getting more committed to the brunette.

I make my way back to the table so I can sit with my mom, treading carefully through the maze of tables and chairs. The music is too loud to bother asking if she knows what’s going on. I’ll wait until we get back to the hotel, but as I’m sitting there, it gets me to thinking. He said we. Tyler doesn’t clean out stalls if he can get away with it. On principle, he never cleans out rented stalls. And Tyler is up to something with that "poppin’ bubbles’ chatter. Only time will tell, but my stomach knots just the same. I also pray.

My mind drifts farther back to that last spanking, and I remember how I sat on the rail to Hardy’s stall, crying because I wasn’t going to get to ride him for days and days. I’d only just gotten the white-gray gelding, but had fallen instantly in love with him. My hair matched his mane exactly, and he was just the right height for me to climb the fence to get on his back all by myself.

After losing Hardy as punishment, I sat up there for days and refused to even eat. I didn’t handle punishment well back then, especially when it wasn’t fair and the twins hadn’t gotten into trouble for whatever it was they’d done to me. As was usually the case since it was always two against one. Boys!

My dad came out and yanked me down off the rail of Hardy’s stall and told me if I wanted to be a cowgirl, I would have to stop crying. Right then. His words still ring in my head, Cowgirls don’t cry, Tory! You’d best cowgirl-up by learning to accept the consequences of your actions or you won’t have a horse to call your own, much less ride.

I hated boys then, and I hate them now. I have no use for them. All they do is cause problems and consequences that I don’t have time for. Right now, all Rusty and I have time to think about is the last few months of high school, counting down the last five months of hell. Then we will focus everything we’ve got on keeping our title in the youth rodeo circuit. That’s the only thing that matters to us right now. After that we will have to figure out what we want to do with the rest of our life.

I glance up as my dad comes to escort Mom onto the dance floor. I force an agreeable smile and wonder why it’s such an effort. Must be that I’ve just been so cold all day. I feel like a rock that hasn’t been touched by a ray of sunlight in ten years, gray and hard and bitterly cold.

My mom telling me to make an effort is bothering me as well. What they want from me has become unclear. I make great grades. Rusty and I work hard, and we’re maintaining the lead in our rodeo standings. I don’t have time for anything else.

Rusty is all I need anyway. I could never replace him with a boy and wouldn’t want to. I take a deep breath and instruct myself not to worry about it. In five months, high school will be over and then we can be together all day. I’ll worry about the rest later.

Strong Women

Around midnight, Momma and I leave the dance and head back to the hotel. This trip the girls are bunking together, probably because Mom is in need of some girl time. Or maybe she was going to have Dad talk to Tyler about his pranks. He’s fixing to get kicked out of college for something he and his buddies did to one of the dorm buildings. Somehow they got dye into the hot water heaters, and when a few girls washed their hair, they weren’t too happy with their new maroon highlights. Last month, Tyler and his gang stole the seats out of the Lacrosse Team’s vans. I don’t think that was actually proven though.

About three o’clock in the morning, we hear our boys in the hall, a little too loud.

Good pair of fine fittin’ jeans… fifty bucks… followed by chuckles.

A different slurred voice said, One broke truck window… a hundred twenty bucks. Roaring laughter echoes through the wall.

One repaired reputation… throats clearing and then in harmony . . .

Priceless! Thuds hit the wall and then the floor as if someone is falling through it, with barrels more laughter. My momma murmurs something about German blood and alcoholics, as she stomps to the door.

"What the hell are you boys doin’? Tryin’ to get us kicked out of this hotel?" She snaps in a tone that scares me, and even though I haven’t done anything wrong, I still feel the need to shield my backside.

I hear my dad clear his throat. Evenin’, ma’am. Fancy meetin’ you here.

The twins muffle their laughter. As I lie in the dark staring at her back, I can feel Momma’s eyes burning daggers into them. She’s scary when her voice is laced with that tone, but now she doesn’t even have to say another word. My boys go to their room, cowering, and in the dead silence, I hear the door unlock and open. But once it closes, I hear roars of laughter break loose again.

I know Momma is considering using her own key to go in, but she decides not to. They’re too far gone to hear or care about anything she has to say, no matter about her temper. I can’t help but feel guilty. I know they’ve done something awful because of me. I chew on the inside of my cheek. When do they grow up? Maybe it’s a lost cause. Momma’s the best horse trainer around, and even she can’t get our boys to behave.

We head out to breakfast and then the coliseum before the boys’ room is showing any signs of life. Rusty neighs at me as I start to fill buckets with grain in the stall next to him. That starts all the others up. Neighing, pacing, and pawing at the floor. It’s like they haven’t eaten for weeks, poor horses.

It’s a good thing we’re strong women, Tory, or we’d have to sit around on our thumbs waiting for the men in our lives to get their crap together, Mom says, pushing the wheelbarrow full of supplies back to the truck.

She still seems pretty pissed at times, when her mind seemingly revisits the scene from last night, and she mutters under her breath. I keep my head down, not wanting to draw any incoming fire.

Momma’s tone appears slightly happier as she steers the truck home. I close my eyes and picture my last race. It was perfect, and as I play it over in my head, I can’t help but smile as I watch Rusty work us through the pattern the way only he can.

What cha thinkin’ ’bout, baby? Mom reaches over and tugs my ponytail.

Our run. Rusty was magnificent, wasn’t he? My pride is immeasurable.

Y’all did real good, she confirms with a wink before she weaves her fingers between mine. Mom is very hands-on when she’s fixing to be serious. My body tenses in anticipation. This is your senior year, Tory. Your dad and I think you should be spending more time with your friends and a little less time with Rusty. Prom is coming up in a few months. Is there anyone you’re thinking about going with?

Are you serious? The shock is palpable. AJRA will be that weekend. I’m not going to prom!

Oh my gosh! Calm down, Tory. We just don’t understand why you don’t want to hang out with your friends from school.

I don’t have friends at school, Mom, besides Meg. Those kids have no idea that Rodeo is something besides a place to shop in Beverly Hills. Horses are something in movies and books to them. Most of them are vegetarians and would hang me if they knew I raised cattle for slaughter. I take a deep breath and say under my breath, I hate them and their huge houses that contaminated the wide open spaces that used to surround our land. They’re invaders.

It’s getting to where even my parents have accepted the fact that we aren’t like other small town people anymore. I’ve even heard her tell someone that we’re from Houston. We aren’t! Houston is a huge city with over a million freaking people in it. Many of those aren’t even native Texans; they’re transplants from California, or wherever, and moved here because our taxes are cheaper and we have more land.

We’re from Stagecoach, northwest of Houston. It’s just that Houston has exploded and swallowed up much of the ranch land that surrounded us. As a result, my backyard has filled with people who care more about the current reality TV stars, than if we’ve had enough rain for