FRIDAY
On Friday, Danny and Dad brought two steers into the arena and took turns roping and running the chute. They practiced for three hours, and the whole time Danny worried about what Dad and Mr. Brodie had talked about on the phone. Dad hadn’t said a word about that conversation.
But if he’d called about Banjo, Dad would have been all over it.
Wouldn’t he?
Just after they’d sent the steers back out into the pasture, Mr. Brodie came dusting up the drive.
He parked, got out, and put on his hat. “Ray. Danny.”
Dad and Mr. Brodie shook hands. “How’s the family?” Dad said.
“Good, good. Boys like to work less and less, though. Must be the age.”
Dad nodded.
“So—what I called about…,” Mr. Brodie said.
A wave of fear washed over Danny, his hands instantly sweating. He saw the dog sign.
Dad turned to Danny. “Go on and get the post-hole digger for Harmon, would you?”
Danny hesitated. What?
“You forget where it is?”
“Ah…no, no…I’ll get it.”
He headed to the toolshed and laid his head against the door.
I can’t live like this. Tell Dad. Tell him as soon as Mr. Brodie leaves.
He took a deep breath, got the post-hole digger, and brought it out.
“Keep it as long as you want,” Dad said. “We won’t need it anytime soon.”
“Appreciate it.”
Mr. Brodie drove off.
Tell him!
“Dad, I…”
He stopped. He couldn’t do it. Not before the rodeo. In the arena, Dad had to trust him. Every second.
“…I think I’ll stay out here and rope the dummy for a while.”
Dad nodded and went into the house.