Page 6 of Eight Second Hearts

I’ve looked them up before. Once I got hired with Saddle & Spur, I did a little preliminary research to make sure I could atleast sound a little knowledgeable and The Crimson Three come up a lot when you search the rodeo circuit. But I hadn’t looked any deeper past knowing it was a group made up of three men.

The name they go by isn’t even the one they gave themselves. It’s just what the press calls them, which, in reality, is pretty fucking cool. News headlines are notorious for giving names to serial killers and criminals. They don’t often do the same for cowboys.

I click through tabs, searching up as much information as I can about the three men. I don’t find much. Frank wasn’t lying when he said no one had managed to score an interview with them before. They just don’t do them. The only information out there is cold hard facts and nothing else.

Tripp Savage is a legacy bull rider from a ranch in Wyoming. Both his dad and his grandpa were famous bull riders. His family breeds and raises rodeo bulls. His dad is still alive from what I can find and the ranch is called Fairview Acres, a ranch that Tripp is listed on the deed as owning now. He’s thirty-two. He’s a multi-million dollar cowboy and he’s been inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame a few years ago. That’s the end of the information on him besides his bull riding stats.

Ramiro Mondragon is a bareback and saddle bronc rider making a name for himself at the ripe age of thirty-nine. He’s Mexican and proud of his heritage. He’s the only member of the three to talk to the media and only long enough to say if he’s happy with his rides or not. He should have already been in the Rodeo Hall of Fame from what I can see for the most bronc’s ridden in a single season, but he isn’t for some reason. He’s from the same town in Wyoming as Tripp.

Beau Rogers is the deranged rodeo clown that seems to split people down the middle when it comes to their opinions on him. He’s internet famous, whole fan groups dedicated to loving him. The man even has fan fiction written about him. If anyone hasa cult following, it’s Beau Rogers. Known for the blue chalk he carries with him while he’s on the dirt and the blue hand print he leaves behind on the bulls, he’s often getting far too close for comfort. There have been close calls and plenty of injuries. Hell, last week, he apparently flipped over a bull and just narrowly missed getting a horn in the eye. Apparently, I can buy merch from his website or at any of the events he’s a part of. He’s the youngest of the group at twenty-nine.

As I click through the pictures of the three men, I can’t help but notice how ridiculously handsome they all are. It’s no wonder they have women fawning over them at every event they attend. It’s also no wonder that the press has taken a liking to them. They’re a mystery, the one story no one can crack. Why are they a group? Why do they not split up and do events separately? People love a good puzzle, and I’m going to finally be the one to solve it.

Still, not a single interview in fifteen years. Which means they actively avoid doing them. How the hell am I going to get three men to let me interview them when they clearly don’t want to be interviewed? I’m relentless, but I need more information about them if I’m going to execute a plan of attack.

Which is why I’m headed to Bismarck, North Dakota. In February. When it’s fucking cold as shit. I hate the cold. I’m hoping I can snag a ride with one of the other journalists already there between circuits, so I don’t have to keep paying for flights. I haven’t spoken to Kim or Zander much, but they should be open to me sharing a ride. We’re on the same team.

The gate agent gets up to the desk and starts announcing boarding instructions to the fifteen people sitting here waiting. I tuck my laptop away and get ready for the two-hour flight, but as I stand, my phone starts to ring. I look down at the caller ID and the words, “Red Rock Correctional Facility,” pop up from when I’d saved it.

I hit the red button and tuck my phone back into my pocket before claiming my place in line to board.

Chapter 4

Indie

The Bismarck PRCA Rodeo only lasts two days and I’m already a day behind. When my plane lands, I immediately call a rideshare and head out to the event center where it takes place. Before any of the rodeo has started, I’m already on location and scouting out the best places to see the contestants.

I flash my press badge to the security guards and they let me on through, gesturing for me to hurry up while they rope the passageway off again. I’m one of about three dozen media personnel meandering around the arena, and no one pays me any mind. I’m an hour early, just early enough to get to witness the busy rush of everyone preparing.

I check the schedule of events to see where The Crimson Three will be. Ramiro Mondragon will be participating in the saddle bronc riding, the third event once the rodeo starts. I missed yesterday, but Mondragon had qualified so he will be riding today. Bull riding is after barrel racing, so I’ll have plenty of time in between the two events to try and find Tripp Savage. Beau Rogers is another matter entirely. I don’t know if he’ll be in the arena for the entire event or if he only comes out at certaintimes. There’s no standard when it comes to his performance, only that he typically is on the dirt during the more dangerous sports like bull riding.

Many of the journalists are clustered in different places throughout the arena, some at the chute waiting for the bareback riding to begin, others in the stands. A large group of them are on the edges of the arena in a fenced off area labeled “press.” That’s where all the photographers huddle, their cameras around their necks ready to be used. In their mass, I spy Zander and Kim, the two of them laughing together. I don’t know if Frank warned them I was coming or not. Hopefully, they’ll be okay with giving me a ride to the next event. That’s usually how these things go. Besides, their gas is being paid for by the magazine so it would make sense.

As I look around the arena, I’m reminded again of how much I don’t fit into this world. My denim jacket might have fit in if it wasn’t covered in tons of patches from around the world. It’s well-loved and I still add new patches whenever I travel somewhere I’ve never been before. Some of the patches have bigger meanings. Some of them mean very little. It’s my lucky jacket. I couldn’t leave home without it. Past that, nothing I wear matches anyone else. My combat boots are a contradiction to the cowboy boots surrounding me. The women wear fancy, bedazzled ones while the men wear everything from pointy to square-toed boots. Pretty much everyone either wears a cowboy hat or a well-loved baseball hat despite the frigid air outside begging for a beanie. Even inside the arena, it’s cold enough that most people wear heavy jackets. Carhartt’s are everywhere. So are plaid patterns. I’ve never seen so much plaid together in one place. I probably should have at least attempted to blend in, bought a cheap cowboy hat or something, but part of me doesn’t even want to bother. What does it matter if I look like them ornot? I’m here to do a job. A hat doesn’t make me do that any better.

Unless it’s an IHPS helmet that is. That shit’ll save your life.

Still, I stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Ripped black jeans, combat boots, an army t-shirt one of the squadrons I’d traveled with in Iraq had signed and given me, the cluttered denim jacket. Hell, even my ethnicity is odd here. I might as well be a walking billboard for an outsider, and the eyes that watch me slip through the crowd tell me they notice.

The press is only allowed in certain areas. I’m not allowed in the cordoned off prep areas where the contestants are getting ready. That’s reserved for the contestants and their people. The journalists get to stand outside of the area and try to get pictures of them putting on their chaps and praying. Maybe they get lucky and catch a hug from afar on camera.

The lights dim overhead, and I realize I need to make my way to the floor with the rest of the press or else I’m not going to get a good spot. I don’t have a photographer or a fancy camera, but I have my phone and the camera in this thing has come a long way.

“Welcome to the Bismarck PRCA Rodeo,” the announcer says, his voice booming through the arena. “Are you ready to see some cowboys?” The crowd goes wild, screaming and cheering. “I said, ‘are you ready to see some cowboys?’” he repeats. The crowd screams louder. “Then grab your popcorn and your belt buckles, because you’re about to witness the hardest ride some of these cowboys and cowgirls have ever done! Ladies and gents, it’s time to rodeo!”

Ramiro Mondragon competes in both bareback bronc riding and saddle bronc riding, but this event, he’d only signed up for the saddle bronc. Sometimes he signs up for the other one, but he’s generally considered a master at both events. He’s older than many of the other competitors, for sure older than all ofthe bull riders, but he still manages to hold his own among them despite the toll on his body the sport takes. Hell, even Tripp Savage is aging out of his sport, but he doesn’t show any signs of slowing down soon. Legacies tend to continue until theycan’tfrom what I gather.

I don’t pay much attention to the two events before saddle bronc riding. While I need to write articles for Frank every week, I hardly think the first two events are going to give me anything to go off of. It isn’t until the announcer booms that it’s time for the saddle bronc riding that I get my first view of one of the Crimson Three.

And it’s not even Ramiro Mondragon.

“You’ve heard of him. You’ve seen him on your Tick Tacks and your Face Journals. You’ve probably had a dream about him at some point in your life. Let’s give a huge round of applause for the famous rodeo clown from Fairview Acres in Wyoming. . . Beau Rogers!” The announcer’s voice is nearly drowned out by the arena’s cheers as a man comes running from one of the shoots onto the center of the dirt. He spins, showing off his hot pink, rhinestone tasseled, leather crop jacket as the crowd goes wild.

My brows shoot up. I’d seen pictures, but they really don’t do this man justice.

He wears no shirt under the bright jacket, revealing all his black ink tattoos in all their glory, including a large cow skull along his rib cage and twin revolvers pointing at his crotch that disappear into his blue jeans. His cowboy hat perches on his head, balanced just so. Where most rodeo clowns have a varying degree of messy clown makeup, Beau’s is neat and carefully drawn on. One eye has a large blue star painted over it. The other has classic clown points. His nose is barely painted red, just enough to give him the clown look, and there’s a red strip from his bottom lip to his chin. I watch as he fawns over the crowd,doing fingers guns at the women clamoring for his attention. He does at least three hip thrusts at them, making them scream even louder. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black zippo lighter before grabbing a cigarette from his hat band and tucking it between his lips. Only then does he make the motion above his head for the event to begin. He lights the cigarette just as the first horse is released.

Most rodeo clowns have a barrel they can get inside of for safety and while there are a few scattered around the dirt, Beau stands near none of them. With the cigarette firmly hanging from his lips, he leaps into action when the first cowboy is thrown from his horse in only three seconds. A terrible time. He probably won’t even qualify for the prize pot.

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