LOSING MY LEFT STIRRUP was the first sign of trouble. Two jumps later, the feather-footed roan bucked his way to the end of the arena while I skidded into the Montana gumbo like a bumbling rookie. I pushed to my feet, flicked the biggest watery lumps off the front of my shirt and slogged back to the mud-splattered bucking chutes. The drone of the rodeo announcer punctuated each long step.
“Folks, that’s five-time national finalist Lonnie Bowers. It’s a rare occasion when we see Lonnie hit the dirt. Stock contractor Ray Kalin has brought some outstanding bucking horses here today. Let’s give Lonnie a big hand.”
I stood next to the chutes and unbuckled my fringed black and tan chaps while the sold-out grandstand on the far side of the Dillon arena made a polite noise. These ranch folks knew and loved rodeo. They deserved a better performance than I’d given them.
I threw my chaps in the general direction of my riggin’ bag and walked over to the unsaddling area to retrieve my saddle and bronc rein. I had just wasted the best horse I’d drawn in a month of grueling days and long nights on the road. My battered ego didn’t need another wallop. Neither did my scrawny bank account.
Only a few broncs in a stock contractor’s string will take you to the pay window. The rest are just filler material. Sometimes one of those second-rate horses will outdo themselves and you’ll win a few dollars, but it’s a rare event. That’s just the way it is, and all of us in the game know whether we have a shot at the money before the chute-gate ever opens. Air Wolf would have taken me to the pay window, but I’d blown it. Another opportunity might be weeks away.
Over at the unsaddling chute, I picked up my well-worn bronc saddle and flopped it down beside my riggin’ bag. That bag held my life: chaps, spurs, and bronc rein, as well as other sundry items of my trade. I dug to the bottom, looking for a spare shirt. Today, when I needed it most, I didn’t have so much as a dirty sock to wipe the mud off my clothes; a perfect finish to the rest of my loser week.
Blackwater Crossing Description:
A fistful of buckles and a dusted off Counterintelligence degree are poor currency in a fight with a Mexican drug cartel. But rodeo cowboy Lonnie Bowers has little else when he attempts to rescue his best friend Brian from the most sadistic and ruthless smuggler on the border.
It’s not like he didn’t have enough trouble. With a looming divorce and his career on life-support, he didn’t need anything else to go wrong. Then Clarissa, his soon-to-be ex-wife is mauled in a cougar attack. Lonnie knows he has to see her one last time. The visit doesn’t go at all as planned, and he walks away with deep regret for the love he has squandered.
His search for Brian leads him into the high Sierra Madre of Mexico. Will his long-ago training be enough to protect him from a brutal, lingering death?
