Page 24 of And Forever
Hear you’re in Coeur D’Alene from your mom. Got a rodeo happening tomorrow night. Thought you might want to show that little pipsqueak of yours what you used to get up to. Wouldn’t mind seeing you myself. I’ll leave your name at the entrance, come find me if you decide to show up.
“Huh,” I manage to say, sitting up next to Wilder with uncertainty and curiosity churning my gut.
“What is it?”
“Tim’s got a rodeo in town tomorrow night. He’s leaving me tickets if I want to go.” As I turn the screen so Wilder can read the message, he pales slightly, but tries to cover it with a quick grin.
“Win ever been to one before?” His voice is tight, but he keeps the smile on his face.
I shake my head. “She’s talked about it—asked a few times.”
“Then I’ll finally get to be here for one of her firsts! Let’s do it, baby.”
I don’t trust the false cheer in his tone. The only other time I’ve seen Wilder look this uncomfortable, this full of unease, was during our third episode ofMurder, We Heardon the way to Calgary. He looks like the horrible events in those stories are happening right in front of his eyes. I drop my phone next to the monitor and slide myself as close to him as I can.
“Have you been to one since Vegas?” I ask quietly, taking one of his rough, calloused hands between mine. It’s clammy and tense.
“No,” he confesses, blowing out a pained exhale. “I’ve talked about it with Adam, in our sessions, but I haven’t set foot on any rodeo grounds since…”
“Yeah,” I offer, saving him from finishing the sentence. “We don’t have to go.”
“It’s okay,” Wilder begins, and I squeeze his hand, looking athim with concern. He leans forward, a rough kiss landing on my forehead, right where my eyebrows pinch. “Really, Charlie. I can do this. I want to take Win.”
Before I can say anything else, he shuffles us into a lounged position among the cushions. He runs his hand up and down my back in a motion that I can’t decide whether it's meant to soothe me or reassure himself.
We haven’t spoken about Travis Frost. Now, as I lie with Wilder, my eyes travel across the room to the hook behind the front door. A brown Resistol hat that hangs there, and I know we can’t avoid this much longer.
16
WILDER
COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO — AUGUST
The thick, sticky-sweet smell of kettle corn mixes with the earthy odor of dust in the rodeo grounds. Country music is blaring from the speakers, and cowboy hats are everywhere. Winona rides on my shoulders, her hands accidentally pushing my baseball hat further down over my eyes. But, as I manage to walk through the throngs of spectators unnoticed, I don’t really mind. Charlotte has her fingers laced through mine next to me, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze every now and again.
Even without talking about it, I know she can sense how difficult this is for me. It’s just who she is. How well she knows me.
In my years of therapy, I’ve confronted my feelings about Travis’ death and how that impacted my relationship with the rodeo world. Rodeo became a graveyard, filled with the specters of what-ifs, death, and heartbreak. I haven’t been to one since that unforgettable December in Las Vegas. It’s taken a lot of growth and time to understand that I didn’t return due to fear or avoidance; I made the choice to look after my emotional wellbeing by letting that chapter of my life close.
But now I’m here so I can try to capture somefirsts with Winona, and embrace the part of Charlotte that secretly longs to come back into this world. I remind myself of the things Adam and I have worked on together: breathing techniques, mindfulness, and giving myself positive self-talk if I start to struggle.
“Do you want to come with me when I take Win back to the staging area to see Tim?” Charlotte leans over to ask as we near an opening in the stands to find our seats. I release her hand to bring both of mine up and extricate the little girl with a koala grip from her perch. She snags Winona out of my hold, bouncing her on her hip. Our little girl is wearing jeans and her tiny riding boots, a cherry-red bandana-patterned shirt paired with the red lace ribbons I added to her pigtail braids today.
“Is it okay if I skip it? I don’t think I’m ready to be back there.” I hook a hand behind my neck and stretch from side to side. I hope Charlotte believes it’s from carrying Winona, but the truth is the tension is making my muscles tight. She nods, but I don’t miss her examining me closely. “Let’s go get some seats before the good ones are all taken!”
I play up the excitement to my daughter. She babbled happily all morning about coming, practically vibrating in her car seat when we got here. We hadn’t made it three steps away from the ticket booth before Winona tried to break away to look at the rows of pastel-colored puffs of cotton candy. I hoisted her up to my shoulders, trying to focus on making this a good experience for her.
Our trio enters the stadium and begins making our way halfway up the metal bleachers to a spot big enough for Charlotte and me to sit and give Winona a little wiggle room. We’re at the north end of the arena, away from the bucking chutes and announcer’s booth, and on the side where the ropers will exit when they start chasing down steers. There’s a canopy covering the expanse of this section, keeping us from baking in the midafternoon sun.
Winona sits between us as the voice comes over the speakers, calling attention to the far gate where the rodeo queens aregathered in their rhinestones and rawhide, preparing to enter for the National Anthem pageantry. The crowd rises to their feet as the queens ride a loop around the edges of the arena, waving flags representing the country, the state, the armed forces, and other public services.
At the conclusion of the performance, the crowd, which is lively for a matinee, cheers loudly as the first event is introduced. The saddled bronc riders begin to scale the railings, up and over the top of the chutes, where their horses wait impatiently. Nervous energy pulses through me, a prickling under the skin, so I pick Winona up and settle her on my lap for something to do. Charlotte glances at me out of the corner of her eye, but I bounce our little girl, giving her a ride like the cowboys she’s watching.
“Ride, Wildy, ride!” Winona claps her hands, using Meehaw as a pompom when she cheers, continuing even when three of the four riders end up in the dirt. The concern lodged in my throat recedes a little as I watch the recovery riders quickly and safely aid the riders or direct the horses toward the open livestock gate. I know Brent’s no longer here, both because Tim fired him that summer, but also because Charlotte told me he died the New Year’s Eve after Vegas. I can’t say I was sad to learn he crashed his truck into a ditch after getting behind the wheel drunk.
In the brief changeover from broncs to pairs roping, Winona slips off my knees to root in Charlotte’s bag, extracting a container of goldfish crackers before climbing into her mama’s lap to munch happily.
“Can I have one?” I reach over, opening my mouth so Winona can pop a fish-shaped cheddar-flavored bite into my mouth. I chew in an exaggerated fashion that makes Winona giggle as she wedges the tail of another fish between my lips. The distraction this little game provides further pushes away the disquiet that hasn’t left my thoughts since the night before.
