Left Hanging (35 page)

Linda Caswell and Tom Burrell stood on the rodeo office’s porch, in the same doorway where I’d seen them six days ago.

“Have you heard? Evan Watt’s improved and cooperating with the sheriff’s department,” Mike said to them as we approached.

I needed to talk to him about giving away what we wanted people to watch the news to learn.

“Good to hear, Mike. Evening, Elizabeth,” Tom said.

I returned the greetings before asking, “What happens next?”

“We’re meeting shortly to decide that,” Tom said. “I’ve been asked to rejoin the committee.”

“Any options other than canceling?” Mike asked.

“There are avenues we hope to explore,” Tom said.

“Like what?”

“Avenues,” he said, doggedly.

But Linda shook her head. “I don’t know how we can do it now, not without Landry or Street. The contract is clear. Legally, we can’t use their livestock without one of them signing off on it.”

Her eyes glistened. This woman had spoken openly of family tragedies, her broken heart, humiliating treatment at the hands of Keith Landry with no hint of eye moisture. But here were tears—pooling now, slipping free of her lower lashes—over a rodeo.

“Street might sign a waiver from jail. Or we’ll keep trying to get animals from wherever we can.”

“Tom.” She rested a hand on his arm. “What stock we could get wouldn’t be the caliber needed to keep top competitors. Do you know how many cancellations we’ve had? And we can’t blame them. They need to be on good stock. They’ve got their seasons to think of. Without top cowboys, we won’t sell the tickets we need to, not to mention not presenting a rodeo worthy of our tradition.”

Tom put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s not over yet.”

She pushed at a tear. “I know. We’ll do everything we can, and what happens, happens. Will you look at me, bawling like this.”

I did look. And realized Linda Caswell was one of those rare women who looked good crying. Really good. The only woman I’d ever seen who looked this good crying was a young reporter who came on when I was in Dayton, Ohio. She’d made full use of her talent by lobbying for every tearjerker story. Less than three months after she arrived, she’d parlayed her skill into marrying a top doctor, inviting the entire newsroom. She cried through her entire wedding and reception, and looked spectacular.

Linda stopped short of spectacular, but she did look the best I’d ever seen her. I wasn’t the only one noticing.

Grayson Zane, standing across the open area from the rodeo office, had his eyes zeroed in on her.

She made another sound, this one not disgusted, and I knew she’d spotted him, too. And was staring back.

Just when the look either had to break or start one of them moving—and considering Burrell still had that shoulder lock on Linda, Grayson was the likely candidate—a truck moving at a crawl through the open area intruded.

I’d been so enthralled with the Beauty Cry and the stare-down that I hadn’t noticed the truck arriving. That was quite a feat, considering it was a livestock carrier about a block long, and
eau de bulls
announced its presence.

The truck paused, the engine running. A man on the passenger side appeared to lean over the driver to talk to Grayson. It wasn’t a long conversation. The passenger got out, shut the door, gave the side a
thunk
with the flat of his hand like a cowboy swatting the flank of a horse to get it moving. Sure enough, the truck crawled on.

The passenger—I’d tell you he was wearing jeans, boots, and a black cowboy hat, but what else was new?—walked straight toward us. Tom dropped his arm, but stayed beside Linda.

“Ms. Linda Caswell?”

“Yes. May I help you?”

“Well, ma’am, I’m hoping I’ll help you.” His thin lips spread in a slow grin. “I’m Digger Belasque, and I’m here on behalf of our stock contractors’ association. We’re real sorry to hear a fellow contractor—not a member of our organization, mind you—caused you any bother.”

Another True West moment. A murder, fraud, and a few other felonies boiled down to
any bother
.

“Thank you.” She spoke with her usual calm. Plus confusion.

“I’m here to make it right on behalf of my fellow contractors.”

“I
 . . .
I don’t understand, Mr. Belasque.”

“Please, call me Digger. It’s simple, ma’am. We heard how the Sherman Rodeo was left high and dry by that unscrupulous piece of dried up cow dung, and we don’t like it. It’s not right. It’s not how we want the folks counting on another fine Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo to think of stock contractors. When we heard about this, we put our heads together.”

At the second reference to hearing, her gaze flicked past him to Grayson, visible again as the truck cleared. But only temporarily, because a second truck crawled in behind the first. Just as long and just as stinky.

“You brought livestock,” she said.

If I ever have the chance to say, “I won the Nobel Peace Prize,” that’s the precise intonation I’ll use.

“Yes, ma’am, we did. First we thought we’d each send a few head, but that woulda meant an awfully long haul for ’em coming from the south. Instead, the furthest fellas will send a few head to the ones a bit closer. Second group will send that number plus a few on their own behalf on to another contractor closer still, and on, until it came to me, being the closest to Sherman, you see. I left a few of my stock, they’ll be supplemented with head from those other contractors down near the Colorado border where my assistant will run ’em real well to fill our contract for that there rodeo, and brought the rest up here to give Sherman the rodeo it deserves.”

The look she gave Belasque was one I would save for my acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize.

It disappeared beneath a new sheen of tears and a slow head-shaking. “All the withdrawals—Our entries don’t stack up—”

“Now don’t you worry none about that, ma’am. You know how fickle these cowboys can be. From what I’ve been hearing, a good number of those cancellations got uncancelled. A plane’s making it so roughstock boys can hit two rodeos a couple of the days.”

“A plane, but who—” Her gaze flickered toward Grayson, once more masked from us by a truck. “I don’t understand.”

“Understanding’s way above my pay grade, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see to getting these animals settled.”

The truck cleared, and there stood Grayson Zane, looking our way. Looking her way.

She made a sound. Low in her throat. It might have been from laughter or tears. Either way it came from down deep.

Slowly, still looking, he tipped his hat, the brim’s shadow reaching his mouth as another truck came past.

Linda colored. Fast and bright. “I, uh– I have to go see
 . . .
I have to make sure all these animals are seen to and have everything they need. This is—It’s a miracle, isn’t it?”

She flashed a beaming smile in our general direction, jogged down the steps, and headed off in a path parallel to the trucks.

In a new gap, we saw Grayson turn to apparently follow the same route on the far side of the trucks.

I was aware of Mike beside me, of Tom looking at me, but I was watching Linda Caswell and Grayson Zane, wondering if I could watch them long enough to see their parallel paths converge.

Epilogue

THAT YEAR’S Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo, I am told by those who have been to many others, was special. Not necessarily better competition, but an appreciation for something that had almost been lost.

Word was that the rodeo made enough money for Stan Newton to avoid his personal fiscal cliff.

With Cas applauding heartily from the stands, Heather performed her queen’s ride with, no matter what Tom says about the word, panache. Her mother’s pride was as fierce as ever. Her roping tricks were as impressive as Needham Bender had promised. She did not rope anything over a beam.

For me, the highlight was watching Mrs. Parens, wearing a split skirt and a glittery cowboy hat, in the parade of past rodeo queens. Later, the fireworks added spatters of color to a sky already dazzling with stars. It didn’t hurt that I watched all this on a breeze-cooled evening while being warmed by the presence of Michael Paycik sitting on one side of me and Thomas David Burrell on the other, with Tamantha in front, informing us that it would all be done just a little better when she was queen.

~ THE END ~

(Please continue reading for more information about Patricia McLinn)

Acknowledgements

Like the continuing characters who are vital to this story, some acknowledgements are ongoing. Thanks so much again to:

Bill White, whose answers would be worth a thousand times his going rate.

Bill Beagle, who enters into tales of TV news with welcome gusto.

Pat Van Wie, who doesn’t falter in two challenging roles.

The author also gratefully acknowledges:

Robert Skiff, who taught a terrific class for writers on forensic evidence collection at Sirchie Labs as well as brainstorming scenarios. Also to Sirchie for holding the class and my fellow students for making it such fun.

The Cody Nite Rodeo in Cody, Wyo., which inspired the positive elements of the Sherman Fourth of July Rodeo and none of the negative ones.

Dan Morales of King’s Saddlery/King Ropes in Sheridan, Wyo., who was so generous with his time and expertise, and Don King who welcomed a nosy writer.

About the author

P
atricia McLinn spent more than 20 years as an editor at the Washington Post after stints as a sports writer (Rockford, Ill.) and assistant sports editor (Charlotte, N.C.) McLinn received BA and MSJ degrees from Northwestern University.

McLinn is the USA Today bestselling author of more than 25 published novels, past president of the international writers group Novelists, Inc., and instigator of AWritersWork.com. The books—cited by reviewers for wit and vivid characterization—have topped best-seller lists and won numerous awards. McLinn has spoken about writing from Honolulu to Washington, D.C., including being a guest-speaker at the Smithsonian Institute.