Page 7 of Eight Second Hearts

Bareback Riding is considered one of the most physically challenging events of any rodeo. It’s all about pure strength and technique and while plenty of men seem to know what they’re doing, plenty struggle as well. I watch man after man get thrown from the Quarter Horses and Mustangs, their walk of anger off the dirt there for us all to see. Saddle bronc riding is vastly different. It emphasizes finesse and timing over raw power. The judges score both the rider’s technique and the horse’s bucking ability. Your score depends on both.

Eight seconds. That’s all they gotta stay on. It seems like such a small number, but the more men who are thrown off or lose their grip or technique before that makes me think it’s not quite so easy. Each time, Beau rushes forward with two other normal looking rodeo clowns to corral the horses back into the shoot. It doesn’t take much work. The horses are well trained and manageable, not like the bulls that’ll come later.

“That Quarter Horse doesn’t like anyone on his back and it shows,” the announcer booms when the cowboy rushes off the dirt, one of the first to make it to eight seconds. “This next cowboy has worked his way up from the bottom. At the ripe ageof thirty-nine, he’s the oldest competitor here, but age is just a number. The Mustang he rides is notorious for throwing his rider if he’s not ready and ranking high when his rider is. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome another one of the Crimson Three. It’s Ramiro Mondragon!”

The chute opens and the Mustang immediately leaps into the air high enough to surprise me. I immediately pull my phone out and take a few pictures as Ramiro beautifully follows the horse’s lead, his rhythm impeccable even to my uncultured eye. The timer counts down, the whistle blares, and the eight seconds finish like it was nothing. I watch as he springs off the bucking horse with the grace of a goddamn ballerina. Beau comes rushing up, distracting the horse long enough to send it on its way before clapping Ramiro on the shoulder with a huge grin.

They both look at the scoreboard, waiting for the score to pop up. The numbers tick before “ninety-one” pops up. The crowd goes wild as I snap a picture of the two men staring up at the screen.

“That places Mondragon at the top of the scoreboard. That’s gonna be hard to beat!” the announcer says, stating the obvious. I don’t doubt that Ramiro will go home with some of the prize money. He clearly knows what he’s doing.

“While we wait for the barrels to be brought out, who wants to see Beau Rogers do some of his tricks?” The crowd goes wild. “Steven,” he says in the deepest voice I’ve heard yet. “You heard ‘em. Release the bull.”

Ramiro hardly has time to leave the dirt before a different chute opens and an angry bull comes rushing out. There are no straps on him, so this is clearly just an extra bull they had waiting in the wings. The moment that bull gets free, he rushes onto the dirt, looking for a target.

And he finds it with Beau Rogers.

He’s got another cigarette in his mouth, the tiny tendril of smoke rising into the air as he tenses and faces the bull. The bull rushes forward at a punishing speed, aiming his too-sharp horns right for Beau. Who doesn’t move. He stands as still as a statue.

“Run!” the crowd begins to scream as the large bull closes in. “Get out of the way!”

Hell, even I’m tense as I watch, my phone in front of my face recording so I can take camera stills later. Just before the bull can make contact, Beau dances to the side, the horns just barely missing scraping across his back. And it only makes the bull angrier. It slides to a stop and turns, pawing at the dirt.

“Beau Rogers is a celebrated rodeo clown well on his way to the Rodeo Hall of Fame,” the announcer says. “And it’s easy to see why. He dances around rodeo bulls like it’s a choreographed show. It may look easy, but make no mistake that what he does is two parts skill and twenty parts agility. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t try this at home.”

The bull takes off again and I watch as Beau reaches into a little pouch hanging from his hip. He grins around the cigarette hanging from his mouth and when his hand comes out, it’s covered in blue chalk. It trickles from between his fingers, dotting the red dirt. The crowd goes apeshit at the sight of it, like they know what’s coming. I’d done my research. I know what the blue chalk is, but it’s one thing to read about it and another thing to see it.

I lean forward, my camera forgotten as I watch this man effectively prepare to perform a dare devil stunt. Rodeo bulls are powerful, bred for their muscle and their ability to buck. This bull is no different. He’s massive, heavily muscled, and big enough to make me nervous as he closes in on the rodeo clown. I say nothing. I don’t scream like the people around me do. I just watch, like I’m staring at a car wreck about to happen.

The bull reaches him, its head tilted down to gore him in the side with its horns. I watch, enamored, as Beau Rogers places his open hand on the bull’s head, right between his horns, and flips up and over its back. He sails through the air, blue chalk flying in the air from his closed fist. As he flips over the back, he finally opens his hand and slaps it against the ass of the bull, leaving behind a large open blue handprint. He lands on his feet behind the bull, the cigarette still in his mouth, a grin on his lips. All that he lost was his hat as he flipped, which sits unharmed in the dirt a few feet away.

The arena loses its shit. I’ve never heard a crowd cheer more loudly than it does in that moment, and I’ve been to plenty of large events. I watch as women scream and reach for him, as some of them throw their literal freaking bras onto the dirt like this is a rock concert. I stare in disbelief as more than one of them scream, “I wanna have your babies!” at this complete stranger of a man. As everyone loses their minds, I stare at the man they worship. He watches it all, his eyes glittering dangerously, and something seems playfully sinister about him. I can’t name it. But the way his hand twitches as offerings and items rain down on the dirt makes me think there’s more to this man than meets the eyes. While everyone screams for him, I raise my phone and snap a picture, the rhinestone tassels glinting in the bright lights, his hair disheveled. His eyes snap to mine as I watch him, as if drawn to the one person not clamoring for his favor. He tilts his head, studying me and the way I stand out among the ridiculously bedazzled people around me. The screaming fades into the background. . .

. . . and then he looks away, back to his fans, bowing dramatically before picking up his hat, dusting it off, and plopping it back on his head. A true legend. One who will likely live on in infamy when he finally retires.

All that excitement fuels the rest of the event. The crowd is more feral, more rabid as event after event takes place. The cowboys and cowgirls who compete seem to live for the cheers and their performances seem to get better, more determined. As if Beau Rogers stepped up their game.

When it finally comes time for the bull riding, the atmosphere feels electrically charged. I’m from Arizona so I’m no stranger to bull riding. Hell, plenty of clubs and bars have the bull riding machines set up so they can watch women without supportive bras be thrown around. None of the bull riders on these bulls wow me in the way watching Beau Rogers did.

Not until Tripp Savage comes up.

“You’ve met Ramiro Mondragon. You’ve met Beau Rogers. Now, it’s time to meet the final member of the Crimson Three,” the announcer begins. “He’s the legacy of Steele, Wyoming, following in the footsteps of his granddaddy, the late Fredrick E. Savage, Senior and his own father, Fredrick, Junior, but don’t let that fool you into thinking he doesn’t deserve to be here. Tripp Savage has earned his place among the greats inducted into the Rodeo Hall of Fame, and you’re about to witness why.”

The cameras zoom in on Tripp Savage adjusting his hold in the chute, his head tilted down, his cowboy hat obscuring his face. He nods, and someone jerks the gate open, releasing the beast he rides. Immediately, the bull wants him off his back, but Tripp doesn’t release his hold. I snap a few photos, understanding right away that he knows what he’s doing. The eight seconds go by without incident despite the bull bucking with the best of them. When the horn blares, he dismounts and rushes away back to the gate, his fancy chaps flaring out around his legs as the clowns corral the bull. From his place on the gate, he turns and looks back and I get my first real look at his face.

Tripp Savage is a conventionally attractive man. His beard is neat and trimmed close to his jaw. His eyes are framed by longlashes that would make most women jealous. But he doesn’t smile as he looks up at the score board. He doesn’t look nervous or anxious like the rest of the contestants. He just looks. . . mildly interested.

When the score comes up higher than everyone else, he doesn’t celebrate. He doesn’t even crack a smile. If anything, he looks annoyed. He just climbs over the fence and disappears despite the cheers for him.

Of the three men, Tripp Savage is by far the most mysterious one. Beau has his whole persona he puts on for the rodeo, which is probably a cover for who he really is, but something tells me he may be exactly the daredevil he portrays. Ramiro seems the most reserved of the three and is the only one to talk to any press at all. Short and sweet talks, but it’s at least something. Tripp though? He’s a complete mystery.

The rest of the journalists stay in the press area, but I immediately tuck my phone into my pocket and leave, heading back over to the sectioned off prep area. I wait there, at the gate, until I see them start to walk out, long before the rodeo ends, long before it’s time to claim prize money. They’re not even gonna stick around to see it.

“Excuse me,” I say when they appear, and all three men look at me.

This close, I get the full impact of just how they look. I’m tall for a woman at five eight, and like most bull riders, Tripp Savage is barely an inch or two taller than me. Ramiro is a few inches taller than him, and Beau is the tallest of the three, easily six foot. The moment I speak, three sets of eyes focus on me with various emotions.

“My name is Indie Chen and I’m a journalist for Saddle & Spur Magazine,” I continue. “I was wondering if you had a minute and could talk to me.”

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