Pink Ribbons

Pink Ribbons

Mace scuffed his feet along the concrete concourse. It was still a good hour before they were due to start and the coliseum was mostly deserted; a few bored teenagers were manning the concession stands where tired hotdogs made their slow journey around the  rotisserie. Down below on the arena floor, two John Deere tractors whirled and churned, smoothing the dirt into neat lines. Mace climbed down the stairs; a twinge of pain shot through his ankle as it momentarily bore the brunt of his weight. Down against the arena fence, the smoke from the tractors was thicker, and the air had the distinct taste of diesel fumes. Mace's eyes tracked the cowboys lounging against the chutes and the few rodeo workers making last minute preparations or drinking a final cup of coffee.

No one waved to him or invited him across the crowd barrier. It had been almost five years since he'd been on the other side of the fence. Many of these guys probably didn't know him; he looked like any other curious city dweller who dreamed of big skies and beautiful horse flesh. They didn't know that he had once stood among them, leaning on the fence and making stupid jokes while trying to tamp down the pre-ride stampede of nerves in his stomach. Mace had played the game; he'd known the risk, and he'd done it anyway. The ache in his ankle reminded him of the results. Mace turned to climb back up into the stands. He shouldn't have come; he'd stayed away for five years for a reason.

"Mace. Mace Dewey!"

Mace turned to see who had shouted his name. A tall man hurried in his direction, his hat pushed back to show his straight blond hair; a wisp of a mustache hung over his lip.

"Drew, Drew Berry." Mace put a smile on his face and took a steadying breath. Drew had been the pickup rider, the man who had tried to drive the horse away and the man who had reached Mace first before the EMTs and their mind clouding drugs. Drew had visited Mace in the hospital once, but he worked for the rodeo, and he had moved on.

"What are you doing here?" Drew asked his smile genuine.

"I live outside of Boston; I thought I'd come down for a bit of nostalgia." It was as good as lie as any. Mace didn't know why he'd come. This life was gone. Trent had asked him the first few years if he wanted to go to the rodeo finals in Vegas or even to the local county fair to see the horses and the play rodeo. Mace had refused and Trent had quit asking. Trent hadn't even mentioned this rodeo when the ads ran across the television screen. They’d both pretended not to see. Mace had been on a horse a few times since the accident, all quiet and half dead, the sort of horse that tourists rode. It wasn't the same; it wasn't even a miserable substitute.

"You ride at all?"

It was a fair question, but not a question Mace wanted to discuss. He shook his head and grimaced. "Walking is about all the leg will take."

"Bummer." Drew didn't need to say more. They all knew the risks, and at least Mace was walking. "Hey come on down. The guys will want to see you."

Mace doubted it. When he'd been riding, he hadn't wanted to think of his frailty and the fleeting nature of his life. Devil's Mark had made him think of all those things, but let them enjoy their world without the brutal reminder of a limping ex-cowboy.

"I'm only a spectator," Mace said, waving his ticket stub.

"Get down here. No one will complain when you're with me." Drew held open a small gate.

Down on the floor it all felt like a trip back to the family home, both right and strangely foreign. Mace was now used to the smell of spices and yeast and the feel of flour sifting through his fingers, not the odor of fresh manure and damp cattle and the feel of the rough metal of the livestock fencing. A horse banged on a temporary metal fence panel. Several cowboys, whom Mace didn't know, leaned against the fence and studied the horses milling around the tight coral. Drew walked fast through the short tunnel and out onto the back parking lot which had been turned into a temporary stables and campground. Mace remembered his tiny home on wheels; he'd traveled in the low rent variety and at the mercy of the fairgrounds or arena for showers and more electricity than a tiny bare bulb. As a bronc rider, he hadn’t needed his own horse, but the pickup men along with the competitors in roping, steer wrestling, and barrel racing traveled with horses. Mace wondered if Drew still favored that Appaloosa of his, ugly thing but a crowd pleaser with his dramatic blanket of spots.

Mace followed Drew, stepping over the banked straw that prevented floods in the temporary stabling and winding through the narrow aisles. As always radios competed with each other: a mixture of country western, rock, and occasional hip hop. Drew spoke to several people whom Mace didn't know. A woman applied a hearty dose of hair spray, tucked her artificially blond hair under her cowboy hat, and smoothed her turquoise shirt. She smiled at Drew and waved.

"Karen, do you remember Mace? He used to ride bucking horses before taking a real job in the big city and all."

She studied Mace, her eyes widening in surprise and recognition. "Good to see you around. That accident was horrible." She looked down with the usual embarrassment of healthy athletes looking at a now broken warrior. "Life treating you right?"

"Fine, thanks," Mace said neutrally. This wasn't his anymore; he was fine.

"You've seen Stew or Chase around?" Drew asked.

"Nope." Karen gave Drew an odd look which Mace didn't understand. He'd known both of the guys. Stew had been a good horseman and a fun guy; Chase had been more wild than Mace, but he'd ridden bulls also. It took a special courage or a special insanity to ride several tons of horns and hooves. Chase could drink, but he held his liquor, not that Mace hadn’t brought him home a few times. Cheap whiskey did that. Was Chase drinking more? Was that the reason for the peculiar look? Neither had been great riders; even back then Mace had wondered how they paid the bills, and this was a young man’s sport.

"Do you remember Nat Carver?" Drew asked as he slid back the door of a stall, seeming to have forgotten about Stew and Chase.

Of course Mace remembered. They'd fought it out all year for the bronc riding title; it had been a good rivalry, tough but fun. Mace had missed their friendship, their casual banter as they leaned across the fence and the stupid jokes in the early dawns, but without rodeo there had been no mortar to keep them together. 

"Shot. Rumor is that it was a drug deal gone bad--prescription pain killers. He's in a wheelchair."

Mace rubbed the sorrel horse’s nose. They'd played with a sport where even a win had them dusting dirt off their jeans, and Nat had been felled by a bullet. "He had a wife and kid."

"Still does as far as I know." Drew shook his head and patted the horse's neck.

"What's with the ribbons?" Mace asked, desperate to change the subject, and, well, pink ribbons in a horses mane just weren't normal. This was rodeo where the men were tough in all the stereotypical ways--at least on the outside. They didn't plait pink ribbons into their horses' manes.

"It's my little girl's birthday today. She's three and into pink princesses." Drew smiled and rubbed his calloused hand down the horses neck. "It's for her."

"Time flies, I guess. Daughter and everything. You'll look dashing in pink. It's your color."

"I should thrash your ass for that, cowboy," Drew said with laughed. "Most of the ribbing hasn't been that kind, but for little Stella I can be tough."

"Congratulations, three years late. All domestic now. I guess it happens to the best of us."

Drew snorted. "Domestic hardly. I have my little girl, but the rest... Let's say it wasn't the textbook marriage. You?"

"Domestic. Married." Mace hadn't hidden his sexuality, but he hadn't advertised it either. If Drew didn't know, no use telling him.

"Guy or gal?" Drew asked, trying to appear casual, but not hiding his sudden awkwardness.

"Guy. It's not a secret," Mace said lightly. He'd become used to the complete openness of Milton's madness and life in a liberal college town. 

"I thought you batted that way." Drew looked over at Mace's hand. "I take it you've been more successful than I was"

"Yep," Mace said, drawing out the single word. He might not have the horses or the excitement, but he had Trent and family. Mace’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the caller ID. “Trent.” Mace didn’t bother with hello.

“Where are you?” Trent asked, his voice sharp with irritation. This was a busy time of day for them, and Mace had just upped and disappeared.

“At the rodeo.”

“You OK, partner?” Trent’s voice had softened, and Mace could imagine him leaning on the counter looking all intent, the furrows in his brow deep with worry.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine now,” Mace repeated and stepped away from the stall. “I love you. I’ll tell you later, OK?”

“You better, boy,” Trent said with a growl that would never match Milton’s. “I love you too.”