The night started off smoothly enough. We had a normal crowd, nothing too crazy. Then it started to spread through our small town and into the city that Bronco Layne was not only at the Circle C tonight, but he now owned it. We’d ended up at full capacity and had to turn people away. We’ve never had to do that before, and Bronco wasn’t even riding tonight.
It’s a bit of a reminder of who he really is. I try to keep my ears from not overhearing the buckle bunnies talk about him. Mostly people wonder why he’d buy this place to begin with. There are all kinds of whispers going around. I hate that so many remind me that Bronco and I might live in the same world but we’re still so far apart.
Thankfully I’ve been all over the place and could push most of those thoughts from my mind. It was easy to get lost in work because it was all hands on deck tonight. At one point, even I was slinging beer to help out some of the girls, but I did what I had to do. What’s better is that no one gave me any shit for the first time. I’m not sure if it was because of Bronco’s speech or the fact that there was no time. Still, no matter how busy I was, thoughts of him lingered in the back of my mind.
When we make the last call for drinks, which we always do thirty minutes before the show is over, I finally get to catch my breath.
“Want me to do rounds on the carts?” Betty asks as I walk past her cart, and she comes chasing after me. “I can do the counts if you like. I get it if you don’t want me to. I'm new and all, but I thought maybe, never mind.” All flustered, she starts to turn to leave and head back toward her cart.
“I’d greatly appreciate that, Betty,” I call out after her. I don’t think anyone has ever asked to lend me a hand around here before. She slowly turns back to face me, and I see that some of her wild curly hair has slipped free from her ponytail.
I hired her four months ago, and she’s so new that she doesn’t get the best sections. She does her job and keeps her head down for the most part. From the second I met her, she seemed genuine, and I hired her on the spot.
“Okay! I got it, boss lady!” she chirps with a giant smile. Boss lady is something all the construction men have been calling me today. No clue where the name came from, but I think it’s kind of nice. For so long I’ve been busting my ass here, and never have I felt any kind of respect until today.
I make a full circle as my eyes roam over the crowd and the concession stands. Everything is being wrapped up, and as I go by the arena, my gaze drifts over to the next steer wrangler that’s about to go in. He should be the last for the night.
I see Bronco talking to the man, or at least he’s trying to. I can tell the guy is only half listening to whatever it is Bronco is saying. You’d have to be plain stupid not to take advice from Bronco. It’s like a rookie quarterback paying no mind to Peyton Manning trying to tell him the best plays against the opposing team.
I wish I could say I’m shocked, but I’m not. Some of these boys that come in here are so damn cocky. I’ve seen more than a handful leaving in ambulances. Most of them have been ones I hadn’t wanted here to begin with, but my father has the final say in that. Or he had, I suppose. That’s something else that can change.
When Bronco leans back, he shouts something at someone, but the announcer starts to call out the wrangler, and it’s too late. I think Bronco was going to stop him from going in the arena, but I have no idea what the two of them were talking about.
The man doesn’t last even a second before he’s flung so hard and far you’d think he’s never been on the back of an animal in his life. The bull charges after him when he hits the ground, and I gasp.
The barrelmen try to lure the bull away, but he seems hell bent on going for his target. The whole stadium goes quiet as the rider tries to get up. I think his name is Jericho, if I remember right. Even from this distance I can tell he's out of it and probably hasn’t got a clue where he is.
An audible cry from the crowd sounds when the bull charges Jericho at full speed. Part of me wants to close my eyes and not see what’s going to happen next, but I know I can’t. This is my job, and it’s part of it.
Out of nowhere a rope comes swinging through the air, landing perfectly on the bull’s head. My head snaps back to see Bronco pulling hard on the other end of the rope. His boots dig in deep as he yanks the bull back like he’s nothing more than a dog. The bull grunts and shakes his head, but he has no choice but to back off. As big as he is, he could have seriously injured Jericho or even killed him.
The crowd starts to go wild, and I stand there in shock as I watch Bronco get this bull under control. Finally he gets it back into the stall, and it doesn’t dawn on me until I’m running down the back tunnel that I didn’t recognize the bull.
When I make it down there, they already have Jericho on a stretcher and he’s being wheeled out by the EMTs. An ambulance is always stationed outside for protocol, and thank goodness, since we needed it tonight.
“Kurt?” I call to snag his attention. He’s the EMT that’s always on standby for anything medical, and he’s the first to act and alert paramedics.
“Most likely a concussion and his right shoulder is dislocated for sure.” I let out a breath of relief because it could have been so much worse.
I go in search of Bronco next, and he’s not hard to find with everyone surrounding him. I see people have jumped over the stands and are filling the arena. All of them are in search of Bronco and begging for his attention.
Will it always be this way? Even in a perfect world if Bronco did want me in the forever kind of way, would it always be a fight to have his attention?
I wish I had it in me to be the one that pushed in front and wrestled the crowd for my place, but I want someone to fight for me. Is that selfish? Probably, but it’s my turn. I’ve spent my life letting everyone else walk all over me, and I’m not doing it anymore. I’m not begging for scraps and waiting around to see if Bronco looks my way.
Let’s see if he’s willing to make me the center of attention. If he ever makes it out of the arena.