Marin Thomas - A Rodeo Man's Promise

“A daughter. Shelly’s four. I missed her birthday last week because I was in Texas.”

Parker was only a few years older than Riley but already a father. Riley figured he’d have kids one day but he couldn’t picture himself as a dad anytime soon.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a cold one,” Parker said, hopping out of the truck.

A wooden bust of a woman from an ancient sailing ship hung above the entrance to Dirty Lil’s. A sign dangled from her neck, reminding customers that Friday night was ladies’ mud wrestling.

As far as roadhouses went, Lil’s was top-of-the-line and plenty big enough for the cowboy ego. A decent-size dance floor occupied the rear of the establishment, where a stage had been constructed for local bands. In the middle of the room sat a twenty-by-twenty-foot inflated kiddie pool filled with mud. A garden hose hooked up to a spigot behind the bar rested on the floor next to the man-made mud bog.

Waitresses dressed as saloon wenches carried drink trays and flirted with the cowboys. “Hey, fellas.” Sugar smiled behind the bar. “Don’t stand there gawkin’. Sit down and have a drink.”

“Two Coors.” Riley fished his wallet from his back pocket. “When did you start pouring drinks?”

“Melanie’s on break.” Sugar leaned over the bar and whispered in Riley’s ear. “Heard about your ride. You’ll win next time.”

Or the next time. Or the time after that.

As soon as Sugar walked off, Riley chugged his beer, then spent the following hour dancing with a handful of women. He bought a round for the house then caught up with Parker and challenged him to a game of darts—and lost a hundred-buck wager.

“You did that on purpose,” Parker accused.

“Did what?”

“Gave the game away.”

“You’re nuts.” Riley swallowed a sip of warm beer. He’d been nursing his second longneck for over an hour. “What?” he asked when Parker stared at him.

“You strut around…a big shot with the women.” Parker pointed at Riley’s waist. “Flashing your world-champion belt buckle and pilot’s license. Buying rounds of beer with hundred-dollar bills.”

No sense refuting Parker’s charges. Riley was set for life. He was aware most rodeo cowboys shared motel rooms, slept in their trucks and skipped meals to scrape together enough cash to pay their entry fees and fill their gas tanks. A few guys even set their own broken bones because they didn’t have the money to pay for an E.R. visit.

Riley had never experienced sacrifice—that set him apart from the other cowboys on the circuit. In return, his rivals had no idea how it felt to live with the pressure and responsibility attached to the Fitzgerald name.

When Riley refused to debate his privileged life with Parker, the cowboy muttered, “Thanks for the gas money.”

“You beat me fair and square.” Riley had believed Parker was one of the few cowboys who’d ignored Riley’s wealth. If he’d known otherwise, he wouldn’t have played darts with one eye closed—his good eye. He couldn’t have hit the bull’s-eye if he’d been standing five feet in front of the board. He set his beer bottle on the bar.

“You’re not stayin’ for the mud wrestling?” Parker motioned to the pit behind Riley. Two women wearing string bikinis—pink-and-white polka dot and cherry-red—taunted each other while drooling cowpokes placed bets.

Both blondes were pretty and not shy about flaunting their centerfold figures. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to watch the first match. Riley found a table with an unobstructed view of the pit and far enough away to avoid the spray of mud.

The antique train whistle attached to the wall behind the bar bellowed. Sugar introduced the wrestlers. “Get ready, boys, ’cause Denise and Krista are gonna give you a fight to remember. Both gals made the finals in last year’s Royal Gorge mud wrestling competition.”

Wolf whistles filled the air.

The women retreated to opposite corners of the kiddie pool and made a big production out of straightening their swimsuits. When the train whistle blew again, the contestants dove into the pit, spewing mud over the edges of the pool. They tussled, slipped and slid until only the whites of their eyes and their teeth were visible. Riley chuckled at the effort the women put into the act. They knew if they gave the cowboys a good show, they’d earn enough money in tips to cover their rent for a month.

“I thought you were leaving?” Sugar sidled up to Riley’s table.

“You know me—can’t resist a dirty girl.”

“You need a real woman.” She snorted at the mud-slinging duo. “Not immature, self-centered brats who only want to get their hands on the Fitzgerald fortune.”

“And where is a twenty-five-year-old guy to find a mature, worldly woman his own age?”

“Not at Dirty Lil’s, that’s for sure.”

“If I stop coming here, you’ll miss me.” Riley kissed Sugar’s cheek. “I’ve got to hit the road.”

“Fly safe, you hear?”

“Will do.” Riley returned to Parker’s F-150, where he’d left his gear bag, then phoned the cab company. By the time Rosalinda arrived, thunder echoed in the distance. She stepped on the gas and issued a weather report. Ominous black clouds threatened the skies to the west. At the airport he tipped Rosalinda another hundred before entering the hangar that housed his plane. The Dark Stranger—literal translation of his great-great-grandfather’s name, Doyle—was a gift to himself after he’d graduated from college.

Ben Walker, the airport operations manager, stood next to the Cessna 350 Corvalis. “High winds and possible hail are headed this way. You’re being routed through Albuquerque, then over to Arizona. You’ve got to be airborne in the next ten minutes. After that they’re shutting us down until the storm passes.”

“What about fuel?”

“Took care of that earlier.” Walker shrugged. “Heard you lost today so I doubted you’d stick around long.”

“Thanks.”

“Have a safe flight.” Walker returned to his office.

Riley got in the plane and hurried through the preflight checklist, then taxied onto the runway. The control tower instructed him to fly twenty miles east then turn south toward Albuquerque.

Once the Dark Stranger leveled off at sixteen thousand feet, Riley relaxed behind the controls and turned on the stereo. Time passed quickly and the plane soon entered Albuquerque airspace. He decreased his altitude and veered west toward Arizona. He’d just straightened the aircraft, when out of nowhere an object slammed into the propeller.

“Shit!”

Flecks of blood spattered the windshield and the plane vibrated violently. Riley quickly feathered the propeller and shut down the engine to prevent further damage.

He muttered a prayer and searched for a place to land.

OH, MY GOD.

Maria Alvarez stared in horror out the window of her station wagon. The small plane wobbled in the sky, its right wing dipping dramatically before leveling off. The aircraft was losing altitude fast. Maria pressed on the gas pedal as she whizzed along I-40 heading west out of Albuquerque toward Mesita.

Suddenly the plane switched direction and crossed the highway right over her car. He was gliding toward the salvage yard—Maria’s destination. Flipping on the blinker, she entered the exit lane. Keeping the plane in sight, she drove along a deserted road for a quarter mile. The road dead-ended and Maria turned onto a dirt path that led to Estefan’s Recycling and Auto Salvage. The business had closed to the public years ago but the property had never been cleared of ancient car parts, tires and appliances. The past few months the lot had become the home turf of the Los Locos gang.