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

wheelchair. The men gave him space, holding themselves at a respectful distance and turning enough to see but not to stare. Grandpa opened the door. I got behind Ben on the seat and put my hands under his armpits. Grandpa took his hips and we lowered him to the running board. Then, a couple of Ben’s friends broke out of the group and jogged over to help. One held the chair and the other one worked with Grandpa to get Ben off the truck and eased into the wheelchair. I couldn’t see Ben’s face under his hat, but his hand tensed up on the arm of the chair and the veins stood out.
    Darrell Wallace said, “Hey, Ben.” He knelt down to get eye level with Ben. “It’s good to see you, man.” His voice trembled.
    Ben took his hand.
    “Okay, then.” Darrell jumped up, grabbed the chair,tipped it back, and spun it around. “Let’s see if you can do eight seconds in this,” he said. “What took you so long? We figured you’d just crawl over to see us if you had to. I never knew you to be away from the bulls for more than a day. So why you ignoring us?”
    Ben reached back with his hand and grabbed Darrell’s again. He held it for a few seconds, squeezing. Then he pushed his hat back, smiled, though his face was flushed, and said as clear as I’d heard him talk since he’d been home, “I figured you guys was too mean…and ugly. And I’m already broke. Don’t need no bull…to do it again.”
    Andrew Echevarria came over. He and Darrell were the only ones around here who could beat Ben in the ring—sometimes. “Well, we could tie you on and see if you stick. Some of these yahoos would like to try that themselves.”
    Darrell pushed the chair toward the ring. The men made a knot around Ben, talking and asking questions. Ben answered as best he could and laughed. Grandpa and I tagged behind, tasting the dust they kicked up. They parked Ben parallel to the chute. This wasn’t a pro ring, with its six chutes and fancy advertisements hanging on the gates. It was a one-chute deal, with a couple of holding pens in the back. The men took turns helping the rider flank and rope the bull, settling him in the chute, and playing bullfighter when he got thrown. Most days nobody kept time, but when there was a jackpot or a bet on the line, then the timer wasn’t a big digital clock, but Grandpa Roy or some other old guy with a stopwatch. There was nothing fancy about the Salt Lick bull ring except the wins these cowboys made. Salt Lick had its share of winners.
    I realized I hadn’t been here myself since Ben left for the Marines. If I looked at Ben just the right way, I could forget the wheelchair and pretend he was home on his last leave, getting ready to ride himself. I closed my eyes and replayed Dad’s tape of Ben’s championship ride in my mind. I smelled the manure and the sage and fixed on the sun warming my back. It felt good.
    “Cam, check out…the bulls,” Ben called. “Tell me—can Darrell stick on one?” He laughed some more.
    I walked past Ben and climbed the rails by the chute for a better look. There were four smallish long-horned bulls and a big Brahma in the holding pen. “I’d put him on the little red one,” I said. “That looks like his speed.”
    Darrell shouted, “The kid’s got a sense of humor. That looks more like your bull, Cam O’Mara.”
    “No bull is my bull,” I said. “I’ll take you on at the skate park, though.”
    “And I’d beat you there, same as here,” Darrell said.
    “Don’t think so,” Ben said. “You should…see him skateboard.”
    “Well, I think it’s time to see him on a bull.” Darrell mussed my hair. I pushed his hand away. “It’s time you live up to that O’Mara name your daddy gave you.”
    “I don’t ride,” I said again.
    “When you’re ready, you let me know. We’ll go head-to-head, bull to board. And I’ll win.”
    “’Course you will,” one of the men said. “The kid’s only in junior high.”
    I looked at Ben and Grandpa. They