The cheers in the arena echoed down the hall to where Ben sat, alone, on a bench. Part of his ritual before he went for his ride. Generally he had his sister out there as his support, but she was out of the country teaching a seminar.
Ben hadn’t realized how much he counted on her to be there, especially after days like he’d had, full of hate-filled rhetoric and more. Most days he was able to shove it where that shit belonged, in the crapper. However, today hadn’t been one of them.
Slumping back against the wall behind him, he stretched out his legs with a groan. It fucking sucked when he wasn’t feeling his night. Didn’t matter. Everyone had a job to do and this was his.
He opened his eyes and listened to the crowd roar. They sure as hell knew how to gather them here in Calgary. He truly did love what he did and made a damn good living at it.
Two brothers who had competed in the team roping event walked up the hall. They both nodded at him.
“Good luck tonight, Ben.”
“Thanks, Tim, James.”
They were good men and he enjoyed seeing them at events. They’d never batted an eyelash that he wasn’t white like a good portion of competitors. He’d met their families and could consider them friends. But he didn’t hang out with them after.
He got up and ambled his way to where his mount waited. Ransom was a quarter horse and Appaloosa-mixed gelding. Ben had seen the horse at auction and had saved him from going to the glue factory. He hadn’t needed another horse at the time but there had been something in the gelding’s eyes that wouldn’t let him leave without him.
After months of getting weight put on him and working with him, Ben had given him a try at being his mount around cattle. The horse had taken to it like a fish to water. He barely needed to hold the reins with this equine, he knew his job so well. Ben was delivered to the same spot every time.
And on the rare occasion he would lend him to another rider—it wasn’t unheard of, just odd for others to ask him for help—Ransom did the same to that rider. Where he’d once been a dull dark color and his white blanket dingy with brown spots on his rump, now the animal shone. No one would think he’d had anything but a great life.
“Ready, boy?” he muttered to his horse as he rubbed his head.
“I think that horse likes anything to do with showing off for the crowd.”
“He does, that’s for sure.” He took an extra moment to get his facial muscles under control before he turned to the one who had just walked up. Bullfighter Matthew Jigs. “How are you doing, Jigs?”
The man stood just under six feet and had a thin, wiry body. He spent his days, or nights, running and distracting bulls during the bull riding when needed, to keep the riders safe. Throwing himself in front of the rider at a moment’s notice.
Right now he wasn’t made up in his makeup, but just in shirt and jeans, his dark brown hair falling forward over one eye.
“Didn’t think you were going to be up here. I hadn’t heard you were coming.” A grin. “I’m good. You?” He sobered. “I heard some of the shit people were saying. You know you’re good here, we’ve got your back.”
Ben wasn’t so sure about that. But the sentiment was almost nice. “Appreciate it. Hadn’t planned on coming until my sister had said she was going to be here, so I came and now she’s out of the country.”
“Love Lorna, always off helping people. What country this time?”
He rolled his eyes. Everyone loved her. “Spain. I think.” He scratched Ransom. “What are you doing over here? I didn’t think you were on this side.” Generally the bullfighters hung out a bit farther away from the steer wrestlers, more near the bull riders.
“He was bringing me!”
That voice was welcome and he turned, arms open, even as the petite bundle of energy shot into his arms. Well, small to him. A woman who was his sister’s best friend.
“Debra, what are you doing here? We’re a sight away from Kansas City.”
She hugged him tight and kissed his cheek. “Lorna said she bailed on you last minute.” Debra Williams, a woman he looked on as his own sister, leaned back and grinned. “So you get me.”
“You came alone?”
“Nope. I’m here.”
“Deacon,” he said with a grin as Debra’s brother stepped into his line of sight. “Good to see you, man. I take it you both met Jigs.”
There were some looks between them all before nodding commenced. Ben wasn’t sure what to make of the look on Jigs’ face as he stared at Deacon. He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Good luck tonight, Ben. I’ll see you later. Good to meet you both.”
Debra, who was still comfortably settled against his chest, waved at Jigs. “Bye! Thanks for bringing us down here.”
“Sure thing.” He ambled off down the hall, not looking back.
Didn’t stop Ben from watching him go until a small throat-clearing reminded him he wasn’t alone.
“Yes?” He looked down at Debra.
She batted her eyelashes. “Nothing. What do you need us to do for you? How can we help?”
“Nothing to do. I’m the fifth out tonight. I’ll get Ransom saddled and wait. Where are your seats?”
“Where Lorna would have sat. Right in the front, you know so everyone can hear me cheering.”
Deacon snagged his sister’s arm and tugged. “We’ll see you after. Knock ’em dead.” Pulling Debra with him, Deacon left Ben alone with Ransom.
Somehow he knew that little spitfire was up to something. But it was brilliant to see them both. Focusing on his upcoming ride, he got Ransom ready. Feeling the emotion in the air and the excitement, his horse had already worked up a lather by the time he was loaded in the chute.
Leaning forward, Ben smacked him on the neck. “No broken barriers tonight, Ransom. Let’s show these people why I’m referred to as The Dusty Demon.”
Ransom’s response was to shift as he gathered himself for his explosive exit. In his peripheral vision on the right, Ben saw the hazer over the barrier. It was one he knew. The man gave him a nod and Ben’s world narrowed onto himself, his horse and the cow he was about to wrestle to the ground.
* * * *
Matthew Jigs, Jigs to most who knew him and spoke to him, leaned against the fence around the arena and watched the displays put on by the steer wrestlers. He honestly wasn’t paying much attention since Ben Mooney, aka The Dusty Demon, had already made his ride.
Ben was tied for first with another man, David Hubert, who was a hell of a rider. Personally, Matthew believed that Ben and Ransom had done better, but he wasn’t a judge. Right now he just made himself stay put so he didn’t follow the man into the back.
Glancing to his left when he saw movement in his peripheral, he gave a chin jut to fellow bullfighter Thomas “Leggy” Dane. The man didn’t look a day over forty, but Matthew figured he was well into his sixties now.
“What are you doing here? Thinking of switching up?” Leggy propped a shoulder to the barrier beside him.
“Just watching the show.”
“I saw Ben’s ride. Man’s fucking incredible. Too bad he won’t win.”
Matthew frowned. “He’s tied for first. How do you know he won’t win?”
“They love Hubert up here in Calgary.”
“If he’s not the best, he doesn’t fucking deserve to win.” It took a lot for him not to make a fist. And put it through something.
“We both know this but we also both know what shit was spewed in Ben’s direction when he arrived.”
Matthew clenched his jaw, not needing to go off about the fucking racists that were here. Instead he grunted.
“Not saying it’s right,” Leggy continued. “Just that it is what it is.”
“If you’re not fighting it, then you’re saying it’s right. I didn’t see you going up to him to congratulate him on a fucking stellar ride.”
“There are places for everyone.”
Matthew turned to Leggy. “Yes, no matter what color your skin is, you should have the same playing field. In anything and everything.” He walked off and found his gaze moving to where Debra and her brother sat in the stands.
He’d watched one dumbass make a comment to her about cheering for Ben, but Matthew wasn’t sure who the man had been more scared of, Debra or Deacon. For such a tiny package, that woman was a force to be reckoned with. But hey, she worked with some of the biggest names with her interior decorating, so it made sense she knew how to hold her own. And she was passionate in her defense of others.
Continuing on the way to the back so he could get his paint on and get ready for his event, he paused at the sound of a fist hitting a locker. Without thinking longer, he angled into the locker room and saw Ben pacing and muttering to himself.
“All good?”
Ben lifted his head and Matthew swore. “What the fuck happened to your face?” Swollen and a cut above his eye. No doubt he’d taken a fist.
“Nothing,” Ben ground out. “I’m fine.”
The fuck he was.
Matthew kicked the door closed behind him then stalked over to where Ben continued to pace. Without asking for permission, he gripped the man’s chin and angled his head to the light so he could take a better look at the damage. Fresh anger surged.
“Who did this?”
A tense moment before Ben gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I wish you would trust that we have your back here, Ben.” He released him before he did something foolish like kiss the man. “Come with me, I’ll get you fixed up before you ride again.” Without waiting to see if he was going to be obeyed, he retreated to the door, needing the space.
“Words are easy to say.”
Okay, that stopped him. He paused and pivoted back.
“Excuse me?”
“The ones like you who say ‘we have your back, Ben’, walked right by while this happened. Not offering to help. No move to interfere or even see if I needed help, so I don’t need you to fix me up nor do I need you to have my back. This isn’t my first rodeo, pun intended. I’m well used to your kind not wanting me and my Black ass here showing y’all how it’s done.”
“Have it all figured out then, do you?”
“Enough, yeah. I’m good, thanks.” Ben strode toward him and brushed by before walking out.
Furious, Matthew stalked on to his spot and reached down to grab his bag with his paint.
“What crawled up your ass?”
Another bullfighter, Casey Korr, walked up to the spot beside him, face already painted.
“I’m fucking pissed that people who ride with Ben and claim to be his friend aren’t willing to step in when he’s getting his ass beat by some racist fucks.”
Korr sobered. “I heard about that. But I also heard that Ben didn’t lose, he wiped the floor with them.”
Of course he did. “Glad he did but the point is, no one asked him if he was okay. I just saw him with a busted eye and he pretty much feels unwanted.”
He put on the minimal paint he used. When he’d first started bullfighting, he’d done a bunch of caking it on, but now he went with a lighter touch. He wore a hat so most of his makeup wasn’t able to be seen anyway. Except when a bull tossed his ass and the hat went flying.
“Didn’t know you and Ben were that close.”
He wished. “Manning up and doing what’s right has nothing to do with if we’re close. I would have stepped in even if I hadn’t known who it was.” Matthew shook his head and finished getting ready.
It wasn’t easy to see the crowd when you were down on the dirt of the arena. The lights didn’t play in your favor, and normally he didn’t mind, but tonight he acknowledged he was staring off in the direction of where Debra had been. Far more than he should be.
As he hopped out of a barrel, he looked up and nearly landed on his face. Seated between Debra and Deacon was Ben. A spear of jealousy hit him. Was Ben with Deacon?
Diving back into the barrel to get out of T-Bird’s way as the bull ran at him, Matthew realized he had to pay attention here or he was going to get hurt. Work first, I can think about Ben later. And work meant putting on a show. So that’s what he did.
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