Page 16 of Untamed
A bull ride is over when either the bull rider is bucked off or the eight-second time requirement is met. When a bull rider is still in control of the ride when the eight-second buzzer sounds, he must dismount or get off the bull as safely as possible. To dismount, a bull rider most commonly reaches down with his free hand, jerks loose his riding hand from his bull rope and flings himself off as the bull is kicking so that the momentum of the kick will propel the rider as far away from the bull as possible. When possible, a rider waits until the bull is moving or spinning away from his riding hand, at which time the bull rider dismounts in the direction of his riding hand.
Example: A right-handed bull rider waits until the bull spins left, at which time he dismounts off the animal's right side.
My alarm goes off earlier than I’d like. It usually does. It literally feels like I lie down, and then bam, get your butt up. In reality, that’s probably exactly what happened.
The moment my eyes open and I stare at those bright red numbers haunting my interrupted sleep, I smile, thinking of Grayer. It’s a memory I want forever and I don’t know why. It was just one night, but there was something about him I can’t shake.
Rolling over, I contemplate going back to sleep, but living on a ranch doesn’t lend well to sleeping in. I have chickens to feed, eggs to collect, cows to milk, and stables to clean.
When I’m finished with my chores, I take a shower because I smell like cow shit and I walked around barefoot in a field. I dry my hair, skip any makeup, and pick through the clothes on my floor. I manage to find a purple and baby blue halter dress that’s not too wrinkled, unlike everything else strung across my room. Instead of ironing out the creases in the fabric, I take my blow dryer to it for a few minutes. Works every time.
Just as I’m leaving my room, I reach for my necklace I never go anywhere without. It’s the same one I wore last night, and the same one I’ve worn every day since Grandpa Lee died.
I pad down the hall, bare feet against a creaking wood floor. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Dad’s staring at me, giving me that fatherly disapproving glower he’s so good at.
“Good Morning,” I say, trying to be chipper and friendly. Maybe then he won’t make a big deal out of me going to the river today. Doubtful, but it’s definitely worth a shot.
Just one morning I’d like to not get the look of “What went wrong with you?” Morgan doesn’t get it, but I bet it’s because she’s not out all night doing God knows what. And I know he heard me come home at 4:00 a.m. when I tripped coming up the stairs.
“I got a new guy coming over to help out this week,” Dad says, digging into his breakfast sitting before him. “I’d like you to be nice to him”—ah, yes, here comes the warning—“but,stayaway from him.” The warning is distinct, meant to stand out over everything else he says to me. “He’s just payin’ off some debt Stanton Easton owed me. Fixin’ the barn and doing some work with Hammer. He’s arranging to have Mac shipped to Decatur.”
It makes me sad Mac’s leaving. He’s my favorite horse we have. I give Dad a nod, looking down at his breakfast. It’s biscuits and gravy, the same thing he has every morning. It’s repulsive to watch him eat that slop so I grab an apple and sit down, not because I want to talk to him, but because Haylee isn’t here yet and I’m actually hungry.
Morgan sits next to me, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and smiling like she always is. “Hey, sissy. Sleep well?”
Leaning over, I kiss her freckled cheeks and twirl a strand of her hair around my finger. “I did, Morgy Moo. How’d you sleep?”
“Like a log.”
Morgan’s a morning person. Probably because she doesn’t have to get up at the ass crack of dawn for chores. I do. I bet if I woke her up at five in the morning to clean stables, she wouldn’t be so happy.
Morgan reaches for the oatmeal Mom scoops into a bowl for her complete with seven raisins and two scoops of brown sugar. Much like our dad, Morgan likes her breakfast to be the same every morning. As long as it’s not meat. She’s a vegetarian. Weirdest thing ever when your dad runs a cattle ranch. Which, by the way, is why Morgan Moo is a vegetarian and why I call her Morgy Moo. Long story short, Dad had raised a few cows and they were set to be slaughtered. Morgan found out, she was five at the time, made all the cows going away cards and then found out what really happens to them when they’re slaughtered. She lay down in front of them and refused to leave.
Have you ever lay down in front of a cow?
I don’t suggest it. One nearly sat on her, but in the end, Moo and Martin—the cows being slaughtered that fall morning—were in our freezer a month later and Morgan swore off meat.
Dad winks at her, his tender side showing. I remember when he used to wink at me and treat me like I was his world. I don’t know when it happened, but something changed. Maybe it’s just the natural phasing into adulthood and me not wanting to choose the career he wants for me, or his general lack of disappointment in anything I do or say.
With tense rigid shoulders, Dad glances up at me and then to my dress. His eyes fall away, disappointed. See? He hates me. “Where were you last night?” His jaded hazel eyes never move from his plate.
I don’t respond, but then I notice his stare on me when Mom returns to the table with eggs and bacon on a plate. “I was at Kade’s house,” I finally answer, reaching for the bacon and setting my apple down on the white-washed barn board kitchen table my mom made last winter.
“Until three in the morning?”
I nod, again, even though it was more like four.
Saving me for the moment, Morgan gags at the sight of the bacon on the table. She eyes me when I reach for a piece. “Just so you know, you’re eating Pat. He liked me to readCharlotte’s Webto him and give him marshmallows.”
Ignoring Morgan, Dad looks at me, his rough demeanor never cracking. I will say this about my dad. He’s the hardest working man I know and he provides for his family. Always has. Anything we ever needed, we had. But when it comes to being compassionate or subtle, he’s not. At all.
“Who was there? Was that Peterson boy there?”
That Peterson boy? He has a hell of a lot more to worry about than that Peterson boy.
It’s like this every time I go out. He’s constantly wanting to know who I’m with and what I’m doing. He’s a parent. I get that. And the father of a daughter at that. I should be happy he cares enough to question me. Haylee’s mom, Annie, never asks since her dad died and I know deep down that bothers her.
“Answer me, Maesyn,” Dad says, his voice stern, paying no mind to Mom.
