David rounded the corner of the catch pen, headed for his trailer, and came face-to-face with Galen.
“Everything okay?” Galen asked, his gaze focused beyond David’s shoulder.
“Just dandy,” David drawled, tossing in a sneer for good measure.
Galen gave him a long, level stare.
David was the first to look away. “I’ve got phone calls to make,” he said, angling to step around the other man.
“The kids were hoping you’d rope some with them,” Galen said.
David stopped short. “Why?”
“They heard you were pretty good at it,” Galen said. “Thought you might show ’em a few things.”
A kid sidled up, the youngest and skinniest of the bunch. Couldn’t weigh more than a buck thirty-five, all knees and elbows and big, brown puppy-dog eyes. “Sure would be cool, unless you’ve got somethin’ better to do.”
David glanced around, found half-a-dozen more pairs of hopeful eyes trained on him. Had they nominated the little kid to speak up, figuring David couldn’t say no to the runt of the litter? How would Kylan feel about him butting in to the practice session? On the other hand, Galen wanted him here. David didn’t understand exactly why, but so far Galen was the most reasonable person he’d met in this place, so he was willing to play along.
“There’s never anything better to do than rope,” he told the kid, and went to get Frosty.
They started out flanking and tying on the ground. David held a calf at the end of a rope tied to a post, and the kids lined up to take their turns. Kylan hung back, silent and sullen. David couldn’t blame him. He’d probably rather get roping tips from the devil after the hell David had raised with his world.
The calf kicked, nailing David square in the shin. He sucked in a curse and caught a quick glint of amusement in Galen’s eyes. The man never missed a beat. The skinny kid—Sam—pushed off the post and ran toward the calf, his left hand sliding down the rope. He grabbed the calf’s flank, grunted, lifted hard, and toppled over with the calf in his lap, pinning him down. They wallowed around in the dirt until David got a hold and hoisted the calf up.
Sam staggered to his feet, face red with exertion and frustration. “I’m too little.”
“Nah. You just have a low center of gravity.” David grabbed his arm, pulled him into position. “Here. Get ahold of him like this. Bend your knees, get ’em down under his body, and roll him up onto your thighs.”
On the third try, Sam got it right and flanked the calf cleanly. He grinned up at David, eyes bright. “Cool.”
The others took their turns, drinking in David’s instructions, faces intent. Then Kylan stepped up to the post.
“I don’t need no help,” he declared.
“Okay,” David said.
Kylan launched from the post, his teeth gritted but his strides sluggish, as if his legs refused to heed the command to move fast. His flank was decent, the tie deliberate but solid until he tried to pull the end through for the half hitch, fumbled, and dropped the string. The calf kicked free. Kylan cursed, untangled the string, regathered and fumbled the tie again. His chin dropped, his shoulders sagging as he sat back on his haunches, letting the calf up.
“Stupid hooey,” he muttered.
“Tell me about it,” David said. “I missed mine to place in the ninth round at the National Finals.”
Kylan’s head jerked up, and for an instant, he forgot to be mad. “Really?”
“Yep. Happens to everyone.” David paused, considered keeping his mouth shut but couldn’t. “Might work better if you didn’t wear gloves.”
Kylan scowled down at the black nylon batting gloves. “Mary made me.”
“Why?”
Kylan shook his head, but Galen stepped up. “Show him.”
When Kylan didn’t move, Galen reached down, grabbed a wrist, and pulled off the glove. Every knuckle on Kylan’s hand was bandaged with blood oozing dark through the tape.
“Before the state finals, he tied the practice dummy so many times he wore the skin right off his hands,” Galen said.
Kylan jerked away, clambered to his feet, and stomped back to the end of the line. The kid had practiced so hard he’d made his hands bleed, and he still wasn’t any smoother than that? As David watched him shuffle away, the light finally dawned.
Shit. How could he, of all people, be so obtuse?
“Kylan’s got some challenges,” Rusty Chapman had said. And what had Galen said, about how Kylan wasn’t any good at regular sports, but in the arena Muddy could even the odds? David had been too busy sulking to pay attention. He should’ve seen it right off when he first got a close look at the kid, but he’d been too blinded by his own emotions.
Kylan wasn’t sloppy or lazy. His body literally wasn’t put together quite right, and probably neither was his mind. The telltale signs were written on his face. The smoothness of it, the odd shape to his eyes. Not Down syndrome—David knew firsthand what that looked like—but something that made his life difficult in similar ways. And now, when he’d finally gotten a break, had a little success, David was going to take it all away.
Hell. Hell. Like it wouldn’t have been bad enough if Kylan was just a regular kid.
As David grabbed the rope, pulled the calf back into place, and held it for the next roper, he could swear he heard faint hoots of laughter from high in the cloudless sky.
David would’ve said it couldn’t get much worse, but as usual, he was wrong. From the minute the kids climbed on their horses, he could see it was going to be a wreck. Kylan was sulking, his whole body radiating resentment. Muddy fed off his mood and turned cranky, pawing and shuffling, mashing into the other horses. Every time Kylan touched the reins, Muddy grabbed the bit in his teeth and flung his head, damn near yanking the kid’s arm out of the socket.
David knew the feeling all too well, and he knew exactly what would come next, because it always did when Muddy got pissy. The horse ran up on the first calf, barely let Kylan throw before he slammed on the brakes, jacking the kid onto the swells of the saddle. The loop landed wide right, in the dirt.
The next calf, Kylan tried to speed up his rope, slapping it at the calf before Muddy could short him out. The loop nailed the calf in the back of the head.
“Follow through, Kylan,” Sam yelled helpfully.
Kylan shot him a glare, but on the next calf, he did try to stand up and rope. The loop hadn’t even left his hand when Muddy jammed his fronts in the ground, driving the saddle horn square into Kylan’s groin. The air busted out of him in an uff they could hear back at the chutes. He folded in two, his face going white and then red.
Ouch.
David’s privates puckered in sympathy as Kylan yanked on the reins and spun Muddy around. He rode out the gate and around the back of his trailer before sliding off to hunch on the fender. David glanced at Galen, but the older man didn’t move. Up in the bleachers, Mary stood, neck craned, but she stayed put. Only the girlfriend—Starr—hustled down the stairs and out to Kylan’s aid.
Well, it wasn’t like there was anything they could do, other than pat Kylan on the shoulder and remind him to breathe. Some things a man had to suffer alone.
“Who’s been straightening Muddy out when he needs it?” David asked Galen. Because it sure wasn’t Kylan. The kid was only along for the ride.
Galen hiked a shoulder. “Even an old team roper like me can tune a horse up a little.”
“Pretty well from the looks of it.” When Galen’s eyebrows shot up, David hustled to add, “I mean, he worked great yesterday. Today…” He shrugged. “Sometimes, he’s a real asshole.”
Galen laughed. “You got that right. Ready to rope some? I wanna see what that white horse can do.”