Page 23 of Rope Burn

"I heard you came back." His eyes stay on the stock. "Brenda told me you left your saddle in Prescott."

"Brenda tells everybody everything."

"She does." He pushes his hat back and rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead. "You look like you've been eating, which is more than I could say for you at Fort Worth."

I've been eating because fence work burns calories and competing burns more. Morgan has something to do with it too. That part stays out of the conversation.

"You riding today?" I ask.

"This afternoon." He finally looks over, and there's a clarity in his eyes that confirms whatever I suspected. The man got sober, or close enough that the difference stopped mattering. "You?"

"Steer wrestling. Borrowed horse."

"Still borrowing mounts."

"Still don't have my own."

The silence between us fills with pen noise and the sound of handlers calling to each other across the alleys.

It's a comfortable silence. Two men who've been on the same circuit long enough to know each other's damage without requiring a tour.

"I remember you before Cheyenne," he says. Quiet, like it's been sitting in his mouth awhile. "Best young bulldogger on this circuit, and smart enough not to believe your own press."

"That was a long time ago."

"Not to the people who watched you." He looks toward the boxes. "They remember what happened. They remember this too. One didn't erase the other."

He extends his hand. I take it. The grip is firm, dry, and brief.

"Good to see you back, Carrick."

"How's Laney?"

"Still here." His grip tightens once before he lets go. "So am I."

He heads toward the competitor area without waiting for me to respond, and I let him go.

He remembers me before. I remember me before too. The kid who drove to Cheyenne with his first real paycheck, a gear bag, and the unshakable belief that the worst thing that could happen to him was a bad draw.

The second go-round of steer wrestling follows saddle bronc. Wade makes the whistle on a horse called Jurisdiction. The score won't put him near the lead, but he's in the saddle when the horn sounds, and for a man who spent a year propping himself against bar rails, that's enough.

I pull my tape from my bag, wind it around my left wrist, and head for the chutes.

The borrowed horse is the same animal from the last event, a compact sorrel with a deep chest and the lateral speed to close on a running steer before the hazer loses the angle. The contestant who owns him lets me ride for a percentage because having a ranked finisher on your horse is advertising.

I settle into the saddle and let the horse read the box. The hazer nods from the opposite side, his mount shifting with the contained energy of an animal trained to run on cue.

The gate breaks.

The steer runs left, and the hazer pushes alongside on the right while the sorrel closes from the left at a sprint that compresses the distance in three strides. I leave the saddle with both hands reaching, catch the horns, and let the steer's momentum pull me forward until my boots hit dirt and dig furrows in the arena floor.

The torque rolls through my shoulders and into my hips. I turn the animal's head, drop my hip, and put him on his side. The arena noise rises, and the steer kicks once before the flagger drops the flag.

The time on the board is good. The ranking on the posted sheet is better.

A few events back on the circuit, and each run has been faster than the last. That's what happens when a man stops hiding and starts competing again.

I pull the tape and cut back toward the pens. The physical cost is currency I understand.