I fell easily into the rhythm of the ride that evening, moving with the bull and focusing on the ride. At the edge of my consciousness, I was aware that a crowd sta
rted to gather around the ring. I grinned a little as people started cheering me on, loving their attention, and concentrated on staying secure on the bull. I was getting better at it the more I rode. I wondered again whether I could maybe make a living out of riding bulls like this. Or rather, make a living out of riding real bulls. I still had never been on a live bull, but it couldn’t be too different.
I glanced out toward the crowd, making sure they saw how much I appreciated their cheering. It was then that my eyes landed on Vanessa, standing awkwardly at the far end of the bar. She watched me while trying to look like she wasn’t watching me. I could tell. What was she doing here? Did she come here just to see me?
That moment of distraction was all it took. The bull dropped forward, and I went flying. I rolled through the fall. That much had become automatic after taking a few tumbles. It had been a while since I’d gotten bruised like I had the first time.
I lay there for a moment, catching my breath. Then I hauled myself to my feet, waving my hands at the crowd and playing things up. A few women already made eyes at me, but I pointedly didn’t look back at them, ignoring their disappointed faces. As soon as they turned their attention to the next rider, I slid through the crowd and approached Vanessa, tapping my hat to her.
“Now what’s a good little lady like yourself doing in a place like this?” I asked her. It was a line I used on girls I was trying to pick up, those out-of-town girls impressed by a cowboy drawl and a bit of a swagger. But with Vanessa, I was genuinely curious what she was doing here in that cute, flowery dress and strappy white shoes.
She shrugged and glanced away from me, looking uncertain. I wondered if she knew, herself, why she was really here. “I just wanted to get out of the house,” she said. “It’s not like there’s an awful lot open around White Bluff, even though it’s still pretty early.”
“True,” I agreed. “Why don’t we get a plate of wings to split? You want a beer or anything?”
“A beer would be good,” she said, although she still glanced around the place, looking slightly uncomfortable.
It made sense; she’d always been more of the prissier sort. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her in the rougher bars like the Roasted Bison before. And since John didn’t drink, he wasn’t the type of guy to frequent these places, either. Not that there weren’t plenty of respectable folks who came to the Roasted Bison. But the crowd tended to be a bit rougher, made up of a fair number of farmhands and ranchers. Hell, there were peanut shells all over the floors and dudes spitting tobacco into little pots all down the bar.
I led Vanessa back toward one of the booths. I figured she might be more comfortable there. I knew I should be pushing her away. Away from the Bison and away from me. She was too good for a place like this, and she was definitely too good for a guy like me.
I noticed the way men were eyeing her, checking out her cute little behind and those shapely legs that her dress flowed around. White hot jealousy flared up in me. I felt the urge to fight every bastard who even looked at her. I swallowed that jealousy. It tasted bitter.
We sat in the booth, away from prying eyes. It was easier to focus on Vanessa, now that it felt like just the two of us.
“I just don’t get it,” I said, leaning back in my seat and studying her.
“You don’t get what?” she asked.
“I don’t get why you came back to White Bluff, that’s all,” I said. “I thought you hated it here. It felt like you couldn’t get away fast enough.”
She laughed. “I never hated it here,” she told me. “I was definitely ready to leave here and go somewhere else for college, but I could never hate it here. It’s my home.”
“But with the degree you got, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to head off to some big city and work for a gallery there? I know you want to open your own place, but maybe that would be easier if you had a little experience first.”
She got prickly the moment the words were out of my mouth. “As a matter of fact, I have some experience,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been able to graduate if I hadn’t done a few internships. Why do you think I’ve spent most of my summers away?”
I shrugged. “I figured you had nothing to do in this town.”
She shook her head. “Of course, it wasn’t that. My father still lives here. I’ve missed him. And, there’s a lot I’ve missed about small-town life. I grew up here. I know everyone in this town. When I was in college, I didn’t know half my neighbors. Heck, there were people in my classes whose names I didn’t even know. That anonymity is kind of nice, I guess, but it starts to feel like people are never all that genuine. It sounds silly, maybe, but I just wanted to have a conversation with the person I bought groceries from, or the person cutting my hair, or anyone else that I interacted with.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I said slowly.
“And, I missed people,” she continued. “People other than my father.” She gave me a meaningful glance and then looked out over the rest of the crowd and took a sip of her beer.
I sat silently for a moment. As much as I appreciated her saying that she’d missed me, I knew we couldn’t keep going down this road. I turned to look out toward the crowd as well, automatically picking out the attractive women with my gaze. “Sometimes, it’s good to move on, though,” I said quietly.
Vanessa looked surprised to hear me say that. She shook her head, reaching out to lay a hand over mine. “I really am sorry I missed your father’s funeral.”
Of course, she thought when I said it was good to move on, I meant that it was good to quit missing people you could never see again. What I really meant was, it was good to move on from people you should never see again.
I snorted. “I’m glad my father’s dead,” I told her. It probably wasn’t something I should admit to, but I’d had enough of the sympathetic looks, and I’d certainly had enough of people telling me all the great times that they remembered having with my father. I didn’t have very many fond memories of him, despite being his only child.
Vanessa looked shocked at my admission. “There’s a difference between moving on from someone and being glad they’re dead,” she said.
“I know that,” I snapped. “And I’m telling you, I’m glad the fucker’s dead. In fact, I personally spat on his grave.” This too was met with silent disbelief. “You didn’t know the guy. Not really. No one did. Or at least, none of you knew the same guy I did. He was an abusive asshole.” I sat back, folding my arms across my chest.
Vanessa looked at a loss for words. She shook her head, and even though I knew it was more of a reflexive action than an active sign of disagreement, I couldn’t help feeling a little bubble of anger at the motion.