Bull Rider by Suzanne Morgan Williams Read Free Book Online Page A

movies?”
    “That’s no place for Ben, and you want to come too, don’t you?” he said to my brother.
    Ben frowned and said, “No.”
    “Of course you do. You haven’t been anywhere but out on the porch since we planted you in the living room. It’s done then.” When he said that, there’d be no arguing. Ben couldn’t claim paralysis or pain or anything else. He’d just wait for his orders from Grandpa.
    “Where we going?” I asked, looking for my own instructions.
    “The bull ring.”
    Wow. What do you know? Grandpa Roy was still fixed on getting Ben to the bull ring, crippled or not.
    “I don’t want to,” Ben snapped.
    “You need to see those boys sometime, and Darrell called and told me they’ve got some new bucking bulls they’re trying out. They brought ’em in from Elko. Come on, Cam. Help me get Ben in the chair.”
    “I’m not going,” Ben said. “I’m not s’posed to go out.”
    “Sure you are,” Grandpa answered. He reached for Ben’s helmet.
    “No helmet. Not there,” he said. He looked desperate.
    “Get his hat, Cam. You’ll go cowboy-like today.”
    Now, Ben wasn’t supposed to take unnecessary trips, and the rule was that he had to wear his helmet anytime he moved somewhere. It protected the hole they’d cut in his skull to let his brain swell out of his head when he was first injured. But Grandpa Roy was breaking the rules. I fetched Ben’s cowboy hat. Then Grandpa took Ben’s shattered armand motioned for me to get his good one. Ben groaned when Grandpa touched his stump, but he flexed his elbow and bore weight on his upper arm. He bit his lip and helped us move him the best he could. We held on and he tensed his upper body, and we swung him, stiff-like, into the wheelchair. His good arm and elbow felt hard and warm against my hands. He was like an iron man above the waist. There was no thinking he was a kid or even a teenager anymore, although he was nineteen. When I pivoted Ben into his chair, I was moving a man.
    We did the same drill at the truck. Grandpa drove it up close to the porch where Dad had knocked out a railing. The porch and the cab were almost level, so we could move Ben onto the seat without lifting much. We got him in, and I ran to the other side and climbed in next to him. Grandpa straightened his hat and started the truck. Now, the roads from the ranch to the bull ring are mostly dirt and gravel. And they have enough holes and washboarding to give you a good jarring unless you go fast. So Grandpa hit the gas and I pushed up against Ben enough that he wouldn’t bounce around, and he held on to the door with his only hand.
    It was a bright day and fall was in full swing. The rabbitbrush was fuzzy with yellow blooms, and the willows were already half-bare. We crossed Salt Creek where the water tumbled through the rocks, ice cold from October’s overnight snows and afternoon melts in the high country. Ben rolled down the window and let the wind come through. Grandpa was right. It felt good to get out.
    There was a bunch of trucks and trailers already round the bull ring. You could tell where the animals were, inthe pen behind the arena, by the dust they raised. And, as always, there were cowboys hanging out, talking and giving advice, and there were cowboys working on their bull ropes because they intended to skip the advice and just ride. I can’t tell you how many times I’d been here. When I was real little and it was Dad riding, I was one of the kids who played hide-and-seek around the trucks or carried gear and water to the riders. Later, when Dad took over more chores from Grandpa on the ranch, it was Ben riding. At the bull ring, I was always Ben’s little brother, or Dad’s kid, or Roy’s little guy. Today, I figured I’d be less than that. All eyes were on the truck, waiting for Ben.
    Grandpa Roy pulled in, dropped the gear shift into first, and slid out of the truck in one smooth motion. He went to the back and pulled out Ben’s