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Just a Simple Cowboy
Just a Simple Cowboy
Just a Simple Cowboy
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Just a Simple Cowboy

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Miles circled the date on the calendar for the bull riding benefit that he had agreed to participate in with a sigh. He had already been wondering how long he could continue to make a living riding green-broke horses five days a week and rodeoing weekends, but it was all he knew. He did take heart that he had been able to stash back quite a bit of money lately with a good clientele wanting their horses broke, plus hed been on a winning streak at the rodeos, but, he knew, that could change in a minute.

Miles Deroin starts out with one goal for the summer, and that is winning amateur rodeos calf roping championship. He has the talent, the want, and the horse that can get him there, but luck is another matter. Luck, however, can be what you make it, and Miles has always had a knack for making the best of whatever comes his way. But as Miles rodeo season unfolds he finds it a trip peppered with almost as many slumps as there are wins. And, making matters worse, after bumping into an old acquaintance, he comes to discover there is a bit more on the line than just winning a gold buckle.

Living a simple life doesnt necessarily mean life is going to be simple. Just ask Miles Deroin.
LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateOct 30, 2017
ISBN9781532028403
Just a Simple Cowboy
Author

Laurie Hartman

Laurie Hartman considers herself an uneducated country hick who just likes to tell a good story. She has won numerous awards in barrel racing, and, while working as a wrangler on a Wyoming dude ranch, discovered her love of photography. Laurie, who was born and raised in Nebraska, is the author of Cowgirl Is a State of Mind.

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    Just a Simple Cowboy - Laurie Hartman

    CHAPTER ONE

    T HE HOT MIDWESTERN BREEZE FLUTTERED the pennant banners at the arena fence, but the snapping sounds they made were smothered by applause. The rodeo announcer laughed at the clown’s antics and the show of appreciation from the bleachers died off. A horse whinnied behind the chutes and the scent of dirt and well-used leather mingled with the aroma of cotton candy and corn dogs.

    Gathered near the gate were the contestants, some mounted and some on foot holding the reins of their four-legged partners. Down the fence a ways, alone, on a well-muscled bay was Miles Deroin, waiting his turn. He lifted the coiled rope from its resting place over the saddle horn and his horse, ready for the slightest cue to go to work, flicked his ears with the subtle movement. As Miles reached for the reins the gelding was turning from the fence, an indication of the close connection between horse and rider, and over the loudspeaker came his name.

    The horse walked eagerly toward the gate that was being opened for them as well as for the contestant coming out. Miles and the contestant respectfully tipped their heads in acknowledgement and Miles continued on his way. He was conscious of the comradery coming from the cowboys helping at the roping box and of the announcer’s voice but not of what was being said—he was ready for what he had come for and a pleasant kind of competitive tension had taken over. He placed the piggin’ string in his mouth, made a last minute adjustment to his hat and tucked the large loop of rope between his elbow and ribs. He settled his Wranglers deep in the saddle and could feel the twitching muscles of the gelding below him. He knew that he and his horse were prepared, and he had in mind just how he wanted the next few seconds to play out, but he also knew—more often than not—that things did not go as planned. He backed the bay to the rear of the roping box while making note of the calf’s movements in the chute alongside.

    Miles braced for his horse to leave the box, and nodded. The gates snapped open and the calf burst from its confines with the horse and rider close behind. Miles swung his rope and moved with the gelding like they were one. When the rope left his hand, the loop snaked down and encircled the calf’s neck. The bay began to slide to a stop, his hocks inches from the dirt and Miles stepped off, airborne for a split-second before he hit the ground running. The calf was jerked to a halt and spun to face him. Miles reached the calf, threw it to the ground and then tied the legs with effortless finesse. The crowd was cheering before his hands flew up to signal the flagger.

    How about that, ladies and gentlemen? declared the announcer. Miles Deroin just took the lead in the tie-down calf roping with that picture-perfect nine-point-five!

    Miles’ infectious smile appeared as he walked back to his horse. He mounted and nudged his horse forward. The announcer continued the spiel and after the calf stayed tied the required six seconds Miles’ piggin’ string was returned to him. He turned his horse and left the arena. The cowboys outside the gate shook their heads, their expressions as varied as the cowboys themselves.

    I swear yer one a’ the luckiest sons-a-guns I ev’r met, said an old fellow with a full beard and a big brimmed hat, his eyes full of regard.

    But a portly middle-aged man grumbled as he disgustedly slapped the long end of his rope against his knee-high boot. I’da beat cha if I’d drawn a better calf than the jughead I got.

    I heard Miles found a genie in a bottle and was granted his wish to rope just as pretty as he looks, quipped another as he swung his rope and left the group for his turn.

    I think you’d do better to concentrate on your run than waste effort thinking up remarks aimed at me, Miles shot back good-naturedly. It’s not my fault I don’t resemble the back-end of a horse like you.

    The middle finger of the cowboy’s hand holding his rope went up. The other men continued their chuckling or complaining while Miles got off his horse, all the while watching intently as if they might discover his secret, if in fact he had one. Miles’ dark brown eyes, compliments of his French-Canadian ancestry, twinkled as he lobbed the stirrup over the seat of the saddle and loosened the cinch.

    When he reached his aluminum gooseneck stock trailer he tied his bay next to the Paint that belonged to one of his two hauling buddies. Good job, Willoughby, he told his horse while giving him a pat on the neck. Willoughby took a drink from the bucket on the wheel-well and Miles took up where he left off with unsaddling.

    I don’t believe it, protested a young man. He was leading a sorrel horse that, in Miles’ opinion, was as ugly as it was useless. Brody had red hair that stuck out below his cowboy hat and his ruddy complexion was flushed. He had also competed in the calf roping that afternoon. You won Friday night and probably will again today. And probably again tomorrow!

    Why, Brody, do I detect a hint of irritation in your words? Miles asked. He pulled the saddle off Willoughby. If it’s any consolation there were still four guys to rope when I left. It’s not over until it’s over.

    Resentful Brody continued with the dirty glare and remained standing where he was—in Miles’ way. It was times like this that the redhead reminded Miles of the ventriloquist’s dummy Howdy Doody—the only things missing were the big eyes and toothy smile. When Brody realized that Miles was impatiently looking back, he got the hint and gave the reins a tug. They stretched like a tightrope and the neck of his homely sorrel looked like a giraffe before making any effort to move.

    Miles carried his saddle to the front of the trailer and when he stepped inside Brody’s hat came flying in beside him like a Frisbee. Brody laughed, obviously pleased with himself. The young man was well-built and had a way with women, especially loose women. He had been sharing expenses with Miles and Hugh, who rode the Paint, during that summer of 1999. It was Miles’ turn to drive and they had been on the road for two days.

    You won some money yesterday, didn’t you? Miles encouraged when he came back from putting his saddle away.

    A little, Brody harrumphed. He drew a grubby sleeve across his sweaty face.

    That beats getting skunked any day, now doesn’t it? Miles rested a hand on the rump of Brody’s horse that was now tied to the trailer. "We all gotta pay our dues. Wanting to win—and keep winning—that’s not just a part-time gig. You can’t practice and then forget about it until the next session in the practice pen or when you get ready to load up for a rodeo. Haven’t you ever lived for something?"

    Brody looked skeptical.

    If you do well one weekend, at whatever level you are, Miles went on, "then you set the goal of doing at least that good the next weekend. If you’re practicing right, then nature takes its course and you get better. If you have a run of bad luck, you don’t give up but you evaluate what changes you need and go from there. Oh, I admit anyone can be gifted or just plain lucky for it to come easy, but if a person doesn’t work at it, that’d pass in time."

    Brody’s expression made the evolution to scorn. Miles could not take it and turned his back to the redhead. Brody was becoming a pain in the butt and Miles was at the point of having his fill. He did not expect him to last the rest of the summer circuit, and, in fact, found he was hoping that would be the case. Then, the sight of a small boy running straight for the horses made all thoughts of Brody disappear. Miles sprang from his position, scooped up the boy and playfully swung him in the air.

    What’s your hurry there, squirt? he asked.

    Bobby John! How many times have I told you! scolded a flustered man wearing plaid shorts and flip-flops. Thank you, cowboy, he told Miles and then he looked at the horses a few feet away. That could have been bad.

    Ya think? replied Miles.

    Thanks again, the man said. With the boy in tow, he turned to leave.

    But I don’t want to go that way! the child argued and pulled away, once again running off.

    Miles’ brows went up. Then he looked for Brody, who was in the front of the trailer with the tack. Where’s Hugh? he asked.

    Brody, amid saddles, buckets, a sack of grain and what was left of a bale of hay, motioned. Miles grinned, for Hugh was a few trailers away, under a large shade tree, talking to some cowgirls.

    Hugh was soft-spoken and fair-haired with a great tan. He worked construction for a living and below the rolled-up sleeves of his western shirt were well-defined forearms. Miles thought he must be what a clean-cut beach boy looked like, but instead of toting a surf board Hugh was comfortable in boots and jeans. When the women saw Miles coming their way, their reactions varied much the same as had the cowboys’ when he left the arena after roping. He came to a stop under the shade tree where there was little relief from the hot summer sun, and slapped Hugh on the back.

    I told the stock contractor we’d help with bull riding, Miles said, addressing Hugh and the girls as well, and then, with a hand on Hugh’s shoulder he turned him, arena bound. The women made no attempt to hide their disappointment at the thought of neither man sticking around. Hugh looked over his shoulder. The two on the left are too young, Miles reasoned, knowing they were out of earshot, the two in the middle are too old—he faked a shiver—and the one on the right is bad news.

    Hugh, still looking back, eyed the last cowgirl mentioned who fittingly responded with a suggestive smile.

    I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know… elaborated Miles. We gotta be selective these days.

    Hugh’s comical splutter indicated he agreed. They continued on, their minds on things besides where they were going, and in his distraction Miles crossed the path of one of the barrel racer’s antsy horses. The near collision got his attention.

    I’m so sorry! apologized the brunette cowgirl with her hair in a single braid.

    It’s alright, Sawyer, he replied. My fault. Then to Hugh, he said, Danger lurking everywhere when it comes to women these days. They exchanged grins and continued on their way while Sawyer settled her mount. Now Miles was the one to look over his shoulder. I always did like her, he mused.

    You might’ve had a chance if you hadn’t been doing her sister once upon a time, Hugh told him.

    You got a point there, he granted with a resigned grin.

    They climbed a pipe fence to get to the bustle behind the scenes of the rodeo, then perched on the top rail to wait for the steers returning from the bulldogging event. The herding cowboys hollered and the cattle stirred up dust and, after they passed beneath them, Miles and Hugh dropped to the ground in the alley within the maze of pens.

    The bulls being used that afternoon were confined to a narrow run that led to the bucking chutes and many cowboys were preparing for their rides on the platform that ran the length of it. One of the men, with a bull rope draped over one shoulder of his paisley print shirt, gazed at the tawny-colored bull he had drawn.

    Buttercup? the man questioned. Seriously? What kind of name is Buttercup for a two-thousand-pound bull? ‘I won the bull riding on a bull named Buttercup,’ he said in a girly voice. That’s sure to get me points with the ladies.

    You ain’t won yet, Phil, someone said.

    Skepticism showed on Phil’s face and he lifted the bull rope off his shoulder.

    What’re we missing? Miles asked from the ground.

    Phil looked down at Miles, who vaulted onto the platform. Now Miles looked down at Phil, who was nearly a foot shorter than he was.

    It’s about time you got here, Deroin, interrupted stock contractor T. L. Beckby, an older man who came across as gruff as his tone. His jeans were streaked with manure, his shirt stained with sweat and his bushy grey eyebrows nearly touched the brim of his battered hat. But when he spoke again, it was congenially. Glad you came to lend a hand, he told Miles. Then he turned to address Phil, but whatever it was that he was going to say hung in the air and Phil’s paisley print shirt got the once-over instead. Beckby shook his head. My granddaughter named that bull I’ll have you know! You might be turning into a topnotch bull rider but I’d advise you to show respect to your colleagues…including not getting too full of yourself concerning the ladies when you’re in the company of Miles Deroin. His face cracked a smile. I was witness to Miles finishing off a mug a’ beer one night to find the cute little waitress had taped her phone number to the bottom. There was laughter. You never did say how that turned out. Beckby elbowed Miles, a bit too hard, threatening to knock him off the platform.

    Miles, grinning, did not answer.

    You’re a mite too tall to be riding bulls if you ask me, remarked Phil, looking Miles up and down. Where’s your bull rope? I suppose you’re not riding?

    Miles ain’t got nothing to prove, said Beckby before Miles had a chance to respond. Miles’ been there, done that…ain’t that what the kids say these days?

    Laughter broke out again.

    If you’re as good as Beckby says, Phil goaded, why don’t you sign up for the bull riding benefit that our rodeo association is hosting in September? He looked from Miles to Beckby. It’s the week before our finals, right? During the professional rodeo in Owen?

    That’s right, that’s right, confirmed the stock contractor. Of course the bulls for the benefit won’t be the caliber of these here today, he insisted. I’ve been told critters in retirement’ll be brought in for that. It is a benefit after all—we don’t need anyone getting hurt.

    Whattaya say, Cow Boy? cajoled Phil. My name’s already on that list. Put your money where your mouth is…ain’t that what the kids say these days?

    Miles wished he wasn’t trying to stop the habit of chewing tobacco because spitting right then sure felt appropriate. His eyes and those of his challenger remained fixed on each other, and despite knowing better, Miles heard himself say he would do it.

    Hot dog! exclaimed Beckby. He grabbed Miles’ hand and pumped it up and down. Then he snatched a pen and a business card from his grubby shirt pocket, wrote the date of the benefit on the back of the card, and handed it to Miles. When he had trouble putting the pen back where he got it, he asserted, Ah, hell, take this too. Now when you get home, you mark that date on your calendar, and this gal,—he tapped the card—this gal’ll call you one day. She’s my rodeo secretary and she’ll explain the benefit in detail. He turned to Phil to shake his hand as well. I want you to know we sure do appreciate your support… his words trailed off as the paisley print redirected his eyes. I’ve really got to tell you something, Phil—you need to get yourself a new shirt! It reminds me of that gawd-awful living room wallpaper my ex-wife picked out in 1964 that I’m still living with!

    CHAPTER TWO

    T HE NEXT AFTERNOON, SUNDAY, FOUND Miles, Hugh and Brody on another rodeo grounds. This three day connect-the-dots jaunt in pursuit of the amateur championship would cover six hundred miles before it was over. Planning weekend rodeos to be as practical as possible for the trio fell on Miles—Hugh was ‘just along for the ride’ as he liked to put it and Miles did not trust Brody to navigate crossing the street let alone a weekend trip. Most weekends offered a dozen or more association rodeos scattered across the Midwest and it was up to the contestants to choose where they wanted to enter.

    They were with their horses at Miles’ trailer, and because of the reverberation coming from the PA system Miles knew there was at least forty-five minutes before the calf roping would begin.

    Where’s the curry comb? asked Brody from his crouched position at a leg of his horse, the gaudy rowels on a spur almost touching his back pocket. He followed the question with a look at Miles, his shock of red hair moving. Brody was not wearing his cowboy hat—it was still in the front of the trailer where he had pitched it the day before.

    In the door like always, answered Miles. He swung his saddle up on Willoughby, and did not look at Brody over the horse’s back.

    Easy-going Hugh ducked under the gooseneck, returning from the other side where his Paint was tied. He got the curry comb from the shelf in the open door, tossed it to Brody, and stepped up inside. Without a word of thanks, Brody began to scrape the dry mud off the horse’s leg. Miles walked around Willoughby and tugged at the cinches and breast collar lying over the saddle.

    Where’d you find mud that deep? Hugh asked Brody, pausing in the doorway of the trailer with his saddle. It hasn’t rained for weeks.

    I let the tank run over, replied Brody, not looking from what he was doing.

    Miles exchanged glances with Hugh. It was unlike Brody to give his horse any attention, and it could use quite a bit. Miles made sure everything was hanging the way he wanted. He returned to the other side, reaching under Willoughby’s belly for the cinch. He threaded the leather latigo through the ring, snugged it tight enough to keep the saddle in place, then buckled the back cinch, and finally the breast collar. He gave the gelding a pat. The weather was a carbon copy to the day before, and Willoughby’s neck was damp under the black mane.

    Miles led his horse around the back of the trailer, causing Hugh’s Paint to turn its head. Paint, bright reddish-brown with a lacy white pattern on its neck and ribs, was good-looking and not solely because of its color. Hugh was not with Paint but was by Miles’ truck, tucking in the long-sleeved shirt he had obtained from inside. You go on, he told Miles.

    The brim of Miles’ hat rose with the lift of his head in reply. He finished tightening the cinch, mounted, and gently touched Willoughby with a spur.

    Miles struck off amid trucks and trailers, ranging from plain to extravagant parked in uneven rows. Between the trailers were horses and camp chairs, bales of hay for roping practice and fellow contestants lingered. When Miles reached the gravel road, he followed it to the warm-up area, which in this case was a vacant lot with overgrown bushes on one side and a little clapboard house on the other with a tiny yapping dog on the porch. There, cowboys dressed plainly and riding pricey but practical horses, loped circles, courteous to each other in the small confines.

    The space was too crowded for Miles’ taste, and he continued down the road. The rodeo grounds were on the edge of town, as most were, and it was not long before the road changed to meager gravel, which was all the better. To his surprise there was a cowboy he did not recognize riding his way, long-trotting a rangy sorrel horse, apparently thinking the same way as Miles about the congested warm-up area. Amateur rodeo was like a local bar—everyone knew everyone—and Miles had never seen this cowboy before. The man intrigued him. It was not the dusty black hat, the faded wild rag at his neck, or the lines on his weathered face that made him look like the real thing as far as cowboys go, but his unpretentious air. He was gnawing the short stump of an unlit cigar, and by the easy way he sat his horse Miles guessed he was younger than he looked. As the cowboy closed in he tipped his head and Miles returned the gesture, and then he nudged Willoughby into a trot.

    Thirty minutes later Miles and Willoughby were making their way back. The cowboys in the warm-up area were gone, replaced by cowgirls preparing for the barrel race. Now the area was filled with silver-laced saddles and glittering shirts reflecting the sun and the horses pretty, polished, and animated. He spotted Sawyer with her long brunette braid, and then her sister, Tinley, easily recognizable by her flowing black hair and a gothic look she had been fond of for as long as Miles could remember. What Hugh had said the day before was true—Miles might have a chance with Sawyer, if not for the fact that he and Tinley had had a thing once. And, despite Tinley being a bit psychotic, it might have worked, except he found out he was not the only one she’d been sleeping with, which put a quick end to that convenient relationship. Miles diverted his eyes when Tinley looked his way, and that was when he saw the cowgirl riding toward him. Riley, exclusively a friend to Miles, had her auburn hair tied at the nape of her neck, below her cowboy hat and out of the way. He did not look at the scar across her cheek, but the warmth in her eyes. His thoughtful poker-face broke into a smile. What brings you here?

    Jay had to come this way to pick up a part from a buddy for something he’s working on. We’re killing two birds with one stone, you might say.

    Good for you! Miles said. He fell in beside her and considered what she had said. But how did you manage that with entries for this rodeo due last Monday?

    It was actually Jay’s idea. He brought it up last weekend.

    Where is your old man? Miles asked.

    Probably in the stands. That’s where he was headed when I got on my horse anyway.

    They talked small talk, then Miles asked, Do you miss rodeoing? I miss running into you from time to time.

    She smiled at his remark. I miss running into you too. But, to answer your question, yes and no. I’ve been going to big barrel races where the ground is good and that’s why I like this rodeo—the ground is good here.

    Naw, Miles disputed cordially. It’s too deep. Makes it hard on us calf ropers.

    Riley laughed. They left the road and she looked in the direction of the arena past the trucks and trailers.

    I’ll be watching you rope, she said. Good luck.

    Good luck to you, too, he told her, and with that, they parted ways.

    Hugh was not at the trailer, neither was Brody. Miles, already having everything he needed to compete kept riding, heading for the arena. He was right on time—the event before the calf roping was coming to an end. He saw Hugh on Paint, and rode over to join him. It was not long after that the announcer introduced the first tie-down calf roper. It was the man Miles had met on the road.

    Frank Wendenhall? repeated Hugh. Why does that name sound familiar?

    Miles watched Frank ride into the

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