Tabula Rasa

The rope whipped through the air and landed almost exactly where it was supposed to. Teagan held his breath and tightened his fingers on the fence while he watched it slide up the back legs of the calf.

“He’s got it! … Fuck, no, he don’t.” Bram rolled his eyes and snorted with disgust. “How in holy fuck is it so fucking hard to find a decent heeler? Jesus.” He pushed away from the fence that surrounded the practice ring. “I’m gonna go smoke.”

Teagan sighed and watched the cowboy in the ring leap off his horse. He had only gotten one of the calf’s rear legs, not both, and it took the man about four seconds to figure it out once he was down in the dirt with the animal.

Joe threw Teagan a look from under the brim of his hat and dismounted. He strolled to the steer and lifted the rope he’d tossed around the cow’s front horns. Teagan watched Joe spit a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt as he coiled his rope. “Five second penalty,” he said to the cowboy, who was examining his own rope as if it was to blame for his mistake. “Can’t afford that.”

“Lemme try again?” The cowboy squinted up at Joe, a hopeful note in his voice.

Joe glanced at Teagan. Teagan shook his head. “Nope,” Joe said, walking back to Stormy and mounting up again. “That was your third time, boy. Close is only good in horseshoes, sorry.” He waited until the steer was back on its feet before wheeling Stormy around and heading for the barn.

The cowboy still sat there in the dust, discouraged. Teagan had a momentary flash of sympathy. He’d been there, once. Fifteen years ago, to be sure, but still. He didn’t have time for this shit now, not when qualifying rounds were in two weeks.

“Sorry.” Teagan sighed and waited, hoping the kid would get to his feet.

The boy shrugged and got up, slapping at his jeans. “I fucked up. Ain’t no call for you to be sorry.” He mounted his horse and looked down at Teagan. “Hope you find your heeler.”

Teagan watched him leave the ring and scrubbed a hand over his face. It sounded so damn easy. He tried not to curse Stubby again, but the man couldn’t have broken his ankle at a more inconvenient time. It wasn’t that uncommon for a team roper to also participate in solo rodeo events such as calf roping or steer wrestling, but Stubby liked the saddle broncs. The last one hadn’t liked him, however, and had promptly stepped on Stubby’s ankle three days ago during practice.

Now, Teagan was stuck with trying to find a heeler that he could compete with in the upcoming rodeo season. It was harder than it sounded. He lifted his head and watched the young cowboy ride off down the lane, tiny puffs of dust kicking up under his horse’s feet. Fuck. He’d come highly recommended, too. Chet Dawson had given Teagan the kid’s name.

Reminding himself to call Chet and ask him what the fuck he’d been thinking, Teagan pushed off from the wooden fence and headed toward the house. It was looking like rain, in any case. Good enough excuse to stop for the day.