Marin Thomas - A Rodeo Man's Promise

“Folks, the action’s at gate number five. Let’s see if this world-champion bronc rider can tame Blackheart!”

The roar of the crowd faded in Riley’s head as he climbed the chute rails. The familiar pungent smell of livestock calmed his nerves. As soon as he attempted to settle into the saddle, Blackheart rebelled, forcing Riley to hop off. Once the gelding calmed, Riley claimed his seat.

After the dink he’d drawn in Colorado, he was ready for a fight and prayed Blackheart wouldn’t let him down. Riley squeezed the buck rein, secured his hat on his head and slid deeper into the saddle. One. Two. Three. He signaled the gateman and the chute door opened. Riley’s body tensed in anticipation then the horse burst from his metal prison.

Riley raked fur—rolled his spurs high on the gelding’s shoulders, inciting the animal to buck harder. Blackheart responded to the taunt by thrusting his hind legs into the air. The horse hit the ground then twirled left, right and back to the left again in quick succession.

Eight seconds passed in a blur. The buzzer sounded but the ride wasn’t over until his boots hit the dirt. Dismounts were tricky and had to be timed perfectly so the cowboy didn’t break his neck or worse—get his head stomped on. Riley vaulted from the saddle. Luck was with him. He landed on both feet, stumbled once then regained his balance.

“Our world-champion cowboy gave us a world-champion ride. Fitzgerald scored an eighty-six!”

“You lucked out, Fitzgerald,” Stover said when Riley returned to the cowboy-ready area.

Before he had a chance to refute Stover’s charge, another competitor shouted, “Hey, Fitzgerald! Those kinks the press said you needed to work out just got ironed flat!”

Riley chuckled.

“Don’t get cocky. Your eighty-six is about to bite the dust.” Stover stomped off.

As Riley stowed his gear, his cell phone rang. He checked caller ID. His father. Perfect timing. “Hey, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“Arizona. Tamed a little booger called Blackheart. I’m in the lead with an eighty-six.”

“Congratulations. Got a minute to talk?”

“Sure.” Riley grabbed his bag and retreated to a quiet corner away from the bucking chutes.

“I’ve got a potential buyer coming in sometime mid-October. I want you to show him around Belle Farms.”

“Who’s the buyer interested in?”

“Bonnie-Blond and Sir Duke’s offspring. We’re expecting the foal early October.”

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