Page 23 of Second Chance Spring in Paradise

“A building with a planetarium and a bunch of telescopes where you can learn all about the stars.” I sweep my hand across the sky. “I’ll take you there when we visit LA.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, relieved when he smiles.

“Deal.” He sticks his legs out long and crosses one foot over the other. “Show me some more constellations. I’ve shown you all the ones I know.”

I point out Cassiopeia, Vega, and the Northern Cross before I’ve reached the limits of what I can remember from field trips to Griffith when I was a kid.

“Now I’ve got a harder question for you,” I tell him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you tried to distract me from making you get uncomfortable.”

“You think sitting like this isn’t uncomfortable?”

“You’re the one who put us here. I can move, if you’d like.”

I wiggle out of the chair, but don’t even make it a step before he grabs my hand and pulls me back into his lap.

“Nope. I like being uncomfortable.” He shifts until we’re both in a better position with me leaning against his chest. “Ask your questions.”

His arms circle my waist, and I draw my thumb across his hand. “I want to know about bronc riding.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why did you do it?” I look back at him. “I can’t imagine anyone willingly getting on a horse they know is going to buck them off.

“I never got on a horse thinking I was going to get thrown off. The plan is always to stay on. But why I did it is a hard question.” His mouth pulls into a teasing frown. “The only answer is that the first time I saw a cowboy ride a bucking bronc, I wanted to do it. It called to me, same way I’m guessing being a writer called to you.”

“Yeah, that’s how it was for me.” I slide my hands over his and pull his arms tighter around me. “But it hurts the horses, doesn’t it?” That’s the question I’ve been dying to ask since I met him.

Rowdy bursts into laughter. “You think it’s the horse getting hurt? They’re not the ones getting thrown around. They live a better life than most animals do.”

“Okay, but what about when you spur their necks? That has to hurt!” I’ve watched the videos of Rowdy. I know he got hurt too, but he chose to be there. The horse didn’t.

“Girl, you’re really letting your city show now.” He reaches around me and stokes the firewood until the flames grow higher. “The spurs aren’t sharp. They just signal to the horse that it’s time to do his job.”

He sits back and continues. “The broncs you see in rodeos are bred to buck. They're not just captured in the wild and made to work in rodeos. And aside from the eight seconds per rodeo that they work, they spend most of their lives in open pastures. Nobody rides them because they’re not meant to be tamed.”

He goes on to explain more than I’ll ever be able to remember about different horses he rode in rodeos and why he was able to win an event because he was on a specific horse that bucked harder than any others.

“The stock owners and the cowboys all want to keep the horses from getting hurt,” Rowdy adds. “A hurt horse can’t do its job, so they’re well taken care of. Aside from cowboys loving horses to begin with, our livelihoods depend on those animals. The last thing we want to do is put them out of commission,” he finishes.

By this time, the Little Dipper has rotated a full thirty degrees across the sky, and I have an even greater respect for Rowdy, along with a much better understanding of the skill it took for him to win as often as he did. And, I really want to go to a rodeo.

But I still have one more question. “What happens when the horses can’t work anymore?” I’m really hoping he doesn’t say glue factory.

“They’re put out to pasture or trained as pick up horses.”

Before I can ask the question that’s on the tip of my tongue, he answers it. “A pickup horse is the horse and rider thatpicks upthe bronc rider when his eight seconds are over. Good ones will get the cowboy right on the horse without dropping him in the dirt.”

“I didn’t realize so much went into what you do—did. I’m sorry you had to give it up.” I tuck my hands into my sweatshirt pocket. The night has turned chilly. I don’t know what time it is, but my eyes are growing heavy.

“Me too. And most people don’t know what goes into it, so don’t feel bad.” Rowdy’s mouth opens into a big yawn, and he tugs his hat over his eyes. “Bronc-riding, rodeoing… they’re just like anything else. You take a little time to learn about it from people who actually know, you realize most of the assumptions you’ve made are dead wrong.”

“Like you thinking I didn’t know anything about stars because I’m a ‘city girl’?” I stretch my arms over my head and release a yawn.

“I wasn’t wrong about you not knowing how to make a s’more.”

“You weren’t right either. Just because I don’t make them the way you do doesn’t mean I make them wrong.” I stand and wave the smoke from the fire out of my face. “I think I’m ready to try the sleepout part of this night.”

“Yep. It’s way past my bedtime.” Rowdy pushes himself up and grabs the bucket he set next to the fire, then walks the short distance to the lake. When he comes back, he pours water over the burning logs, sending a hissing funnel of smoke to the sky.

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