Every late night wondering where his father was, why he hadn’t called. Every birthday and Christmas and summer vacation without a gift or a card or even a call. All of that hatred poured from him, releasing the rage that would otherwise strangle him.
Monster Mash was off the ground again, flying in a circle, kicking his backside up into the air, but Cody wasn’t going anywhere. He leaned back, staying with the ride, holding center. A buzzer sounded and suddenly it was over.
With a flick of his wrist to release his riding hand, he kicked his feet over the side of the bull. But something was wrong. His hand was hung up, and with the animal’s next arch of his back, Cody flopped like a rag doll alongside the bull’s belly.
This had happened before; Cody didn’t panic. No matter what the bull did to him now, he was the winner. He’d already won the battle. From both sides he felt the bullfighters rush in, one of them grabbing at the end of the rope, trying to free his hand. The other waving something to distract the bull. The men might be dressed like clowns but they were willing to sacrifice their own bodies to keep a cowboy from danger. Cody was still caught up, still trying to free his hand, his body still being jerked along the side of the bull.
That’s when he heard it.
A snap in his riding hand. At the same time, Monster Mash whipped his head back at him. The hump on his back caught Cody square in the jaw and that was all he remembered. When he woke up, he was lying on a bench with the rodeo doctor staring at him.
“Cody…” The man was in his mid-thirties, the first one on the scene of any wreck on the Pro Rodeo Tour. “Can you hear me? Cody?”
“What?” His head hurt, but his heart and soul reveled in the release. He’d stayed the course, ridden Monster Mash for eight, and nothing could change the way that felt. He massaged his fingers into the sides of his head. “What was my score?”
The doctor chuckled. “On the knockout or the ride?”
Cody gave his head a slight shake. “Forget the knockout. I’m fine.”
“You got an eighty-nine.” The doctor shone a small flashlight into his eyes. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better.” Cody ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Eighty-nine?”
“Yes.” The doctor frowned. “Lift your hand.”
Cody tried to move it, and that’s when he understood the doctor’s frown. He winced, and supported it with his left hand. “It’s just sprained.”
“X-rays will tell.”
Half an hour later, Cody had his bags packed for a two-week visit to his mother’s house. A small bone in his hand was fractured, and he had a mild concussion. The doctor ordered two weeks off the bulls—minimum. Cody was given a splint for his hand and instructions to lay low.
He was on his way out of the training room when he spotted Ali Daniels.
Every other time they’d passed each other—for two years straight—they barely looked up. Today, though, Ali paused.
“Want some advice?” She took another step toward him, a bridle flung over one shoulder.
Too stunned to answer, Cody stopped and sized her up. She was five-foot-six, maybe five-seven, and up close her eyes shone like summer lake water. He leaned against the nearest wall and grinned at her. “Okay.”
“If you can stay on eight, stay on nine.” She smiled and started walking again. “At least until your hand’s free.”
She was gone before he could recover, before even a single comeback formed on his tongue. Was she kidding? Did she think she had information that might help Cody Gunner ride bulls better? And why did she talk to him now, after so many events where they had never connected?
Cody had no answers. Maybe it was a delusion; concussions could do that to a person. He watched her leave and let the comment pass. He didn’t have time for Ali Daniels or any of the other girls who would be waiting for him outside the arena. He had something far bigger ahead of him—two weeks to talk sense into his mother. That way, the next time his father called she could do what she should’ve done the day before.
Hang up on him.
Chapter Five
Mary Gunner loved having her older son home.
Out on the road, riding a slate of bulls every weekend, meant that bad news was always just around the corner. Mary knew the sport well enough to know the possibilities, and they terrified her. So when Cody showed up with his hand in a splint needing two weeks of rest, she was grateful.
Quietly grateful.
Cody wouldn’t have it any other way. His anger at her hadn’t dimmed from the days after Mike left. Never mind that his blaming her made no sense. The moment he entered the house he looked around, his expression tense.
“Where is he?”
Mary held his eyes for a moment, then she turned toward the stairs and cupped her mouth. “Carl Joseph! Your brother’s home.”
The sound of pounding footsteps came in response. “Brother!” the voice bellowed from an upper room.
“I’m down here, buddy!” Cody went to the foot of the stairs and looked up.
“Coming, brother!” Carl Joseph was fifteen now, still attending a special-education program where they were teaching him menial tasks. Most days Mary was grateful for Carl Joseph’s Down syndrome. It meant that at least one son would always love her. One son would keep her company the way Cody never did.
Carl Joseph barreled down the stairs and gave Cody a long bear hug. When he pulled back, his eyes danced. “How’s the bulls, brother?”
“Well…” Cody held up the hand that bore the cast. “Not so good this weekend.”
“Ooooh!” He touched Cody’s cast and shook his head. “You be careful, brother. You be careful.”
Cody chuckled. “I will.” He put his arm around Carl Joseph’s neck and led his brother into the next room.
For two weeks straight the two were inseparable. They played checkers and backgammon and watched videotapes of bull riding on TV. The morning after Cody left, Carl Joseph found Mary reading a book in the living room.
“Mom, I have a question.” He came a few steps closer.
Mary held her hand out to him. “What, honey?”
“How come Cody doesn’t like you?” Carl Joseph cocked his head, his mouth open. “How come, Mom?”
The question tore at Mary’s heart, but it was an honest one, proof that Cody’s bad attitude wasn’t only her imagination. She cleared her throat, searching for a way to explain the situation. She couldn’t mention Mike. Carl Joseph didn’t remember his father, and if Mike wanted back into their lives—the way he said he did—she didn’t want to taint Carl Joseph’s image of him.
“Cody loves me.” Mary bit her lip, fighting tears. “But sometimes his heart doesn’t work the same as yours.”
“Brother’s heart doesn’t work right?” Carl Joseph thought about that for a minute. “You know what I hope?”
Mary slid to the edge of her seat, her eyes damp. The compassion in Carl Joseph was every bit as intense as the hatred in Cody. “What, honey?”
“I hope that Cody’s heart will get better, just like his hand.”
Mary hugged her younger son. “So do I, honey.” He couldn’t know that’s what she’d hoped and prayed for years, what she prayed for even now—that one day Cody would meet someone who would teach him more than horses and rodeos and bull riding. Someone who might teach Cody the most important lesson of all.
How to love.
CODY WAS BACK on the tour, riding as if he’d never hurt his hand at all. Yes, he was using a lot of tape, wrapping his hand and forearm tighter than before. But a little pain was nothing. It made the battle that much more intense. Fighting not just the bull, but pain and injuries, too.
He was in second place in the standings, ten points below first despite two missed weekends. Regaining the lead was as sure as morning. His nighttime hours were different, too, fewer beers and women, cleaner, the way they always were after a few weeks with Carl Joseph.
His mother called twice in the next few weeks.
; “Your father’s been by,” she told him during the first phone call. “Carl Joseph likes him. They played football in the backyard.”
Football? The idea made Cody’s gut ache. Mike Gunner, big former NFL player, loses thirteen years of his kids’ lives and then shows up and tosses a ball around? Like nothing ever happened?
“He’s asking about you, Cody,” she told him the next time. “He wants to watch you ride.”
“Tell him no.” Cody was in the locker room. He dropped to the bench and gripped the edge of it, his voice low so the other cowboys passing in and out wouldn’t hear him. In the background Lynyrd Skynyrd was singing “Sweet Home Alabama” over the arena speakers.
“I won’t do that, Cody.” His mother sounded impatient.
Cody pinched his eyes shut. What was the feeling tearing at him? Hatred, right? More anger and fury? But it didn’t feel like only that. It felt like little-boy sadness, too. A sadness that didn’t make sense because he’d banned it from his heart the day the yellow cab drove away.
“Cody, when can he see you?” His mother sounded tired, as if she knew his answer before he said it.
“Never.” He pursed his lips. “I have nothing to say to him.”
Whatever his mother wanted to accomplish by calling him, the end result was a good one. That weekend and the next, he took first and second, and now he had the lead heading into the final go-round in Houston at the Reliant Center. The barrel racing was under way, and Cody took his spot on the fence, stretching the insides of his legs and the muscles that lined his groin.
As always, he watched Ali’s race. She was every bit as fast as usual, but this time something was wrong; her face was red and puffy. He looked around but no one along the fence looked worried, as if maybe he was the only one who saw that she was in trouble.
He was off the fence, jogging toward the tunnel before she crossed the barrier. He stepped into view just in time to see her hop down from her horse and lower her head between her knees.
She was coughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Cody stared for a minute. Was she sick? Was it asthma? Maybe she was choking. He grabbed a cup of water from a nearby cooler. With no one around, Cody wasn’t sure what to do. He took tentative steps closer until she looked up.
“Ali?” He closed the distance between them and held out the cup.
She hacked again. “Thanks.” She took it and downed it in a single swig. A few more coughs and the redness in her face started to fade. She leaned against her horse, clearly exhausted from the struggle. “I’m okay. I… I guess I have a cold.”
“I guess.” He took a step back. “I’ve never heard anyone cough like that.”
She folded her arms in front of her and stared at him, eyes wide. Then she nodded her chin toward the arena. “Your ride’s coming up.”
“Yeah.” He tipped his hat to her. “Get better.” He trotted off for the chutes, surprised by one thing.
Ali Daniels wasn’t superhuman after all; he’d seen a vulnerable side of her. It was all he could do to shut her image out of his mind while he rode. The first bull that night tripped and fell to his knees, giving Cody a re-ride. He lasted eight on the second. His score wasn’t great, but it was enough to win, and less than half an hour after her coughing episode, Ali Daniels stood next to him in the arena while they both accepted their championship buckles.
They were headed back down the tunnel when Cody fell in beside her. “Hey… wanna go out? Get something to eat?”
Ali hesitated. She met his eyes but only for a few seconds before staring straight ahead. “I can’t; I have plans.”
“Plans?” Cody allowed a smile into his voice. It wasn’t that he doubted her, but she traveled with her mother, and the two of them were in her trailer before ten o’clock every night. What plans could she possibly have?
“Yes, Cody Gunner.” She angled her face, teasing him. Her eyes didn’t look quite right, maybe the cold she was fighting. “I have a hot date, okay?”
Cody wanted to laugh out loud, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know her well enough to assume she was kidding. Instead he shrugged and winked at her. “Suit yourself.”
He held the door open for her and they headed into the night—her to her mother’s trailer and whatever hot date she had that night, and Cody to the nearest bar to meet up with the other cowboys.
But it was another early night for him.
Dinner was good, the beer was flowing, and half a dozen girls made themselves available. But he wasn’t interested. No matter what they looked like or how they presented themselves, or what they had to offer, Cody couldn’t help but compare them to Ali Daniels.
And since they all fell short, he did the right thing. When he turned the key of his hotel room that night he was by himself, except for the place in his memory filled with the blonde, blue-eyed barrel racer.
A girl whose level of mystery had doubled in a single conversation.
Chapter Six
The hot date was a private plane ride to Denver General Hospital.
Ali had been expecting the visit since the second week of the season, and it frustrated her. This was the year she didn’t want to miss a single event, the year she planned to keep herself healthy so she wouldn’t need any downtime in a hospital bed.
But her body had other ideas.
It was Monday night now, and her mother was in the chair beside her bed. Dr. Bryce Cleary was due any minute, the same doctor who had treated Ali since she began riding horses. The visit wasn’t any surprise, really. Since early in the season, her coughing had been more intense, the spells closer together.
The lives of cystic fibrosis patients are directed by test results. Bacteria analysis, lung function, nutritional deficiencies, enzyme levels. All have to be closely monitored. When one or more of Ali’s readings fell into their respective danger zones, it was time to see Dr. Cleary.
In the hospital she would be on constant oxygen and intravenous antibiotics. Her body would get the rest it needed, the infection she was fighting would clear up, and after a week she could get on with living. At least that’s how it had always played out before.
Ali rolled onto her side and studied her mother. “You look worried.”
“I’m not much for hospitals; you know that.” She reached out and took Ali’s hand.
“Me either.”
They were quiet for a minute. Ali knew what her mother was thinking—the same thing she was thinking. Anna died in a room like this one, her body trying to find the way back to daylight. They both know cystic fibrosis patients weren’t admitted to the hospital unless their situation was serious.
There were no guarantees, no certainties that this would be merely another tune-up, another pit stop between rodeo appearances.
Her mother leaned back in her chair. “After your win the other night”—their eyes met—“why was Cody Gunner talking to you?”
A smile lifted the corners of Ali’s mouth before she could stop it. “He asked me out.”
“Cody Gunner?” Her eyebrows lifted, creasing her forehead. She still held Ali’s hand, but now she loosened her grip. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t breathe; I guess I was distracted.” Her smile softened. For a minute she could see Cody’s face as he walked next to her. “It’s okay, Mama. I’m not interested.”
Her mother hesitated. A slow breath came from her. “You know I have hopes and dreams for you. That you’ll live long enough to be loved, that when the time’s right you’ll meet someone. Someone who’ll sweep you off your feet and take you away from horse dander and dusty arenas and damp hay.” She looked at the ceiling. “But heaven forbid it be someone like Cody Gunner.”
Ali laughed, and the effort brought on a wave of coughs. “Mama… I told you I wasn’t interested.” She gulped, catching her breath. “Wish for my health, but don’t wish that I’ll meet someone.” She stroked her thumb along her mother’s hand. “I am loved—by you and Daddy. I have the life I want—me and Ace, winni
ng on the rodeo tour, flying across arenas in every city on the schedule.” She felt her expression soften. “That’s all I need.”
Her mother looked at her, a look that went straight to her soul. “Ali, before you die, I want you to be loved the way your father loves me. Loved by a man who would give anything for you.” She paused. “Horses can’t compare to a love like that.”
Ali didn’t respond. Her mother was wrong, of course. Horses were enough; they had always been enough. But there was no changing her mother’s mind. They had this discussion at least once a month. Ali believed her mother was less interested in her meeting a man than she was in her leaving the rodeo tour.
She bit her lip. She’d already told her mother the way she felt about falling in love. She wouldn’t do it. She’d dated once, the year before she joined the PRCA. After a series of colds and a hospital stay, the boy told her he couldn’t handle her being sick. And he didn’t even know about her cystic fibrosis.
The experience convinced her that dating was a waste of time. She didn’t want to disappoint someone every time she got sick; and in the end, any relationship would end too soon. That was the way of life for a cystic fibrosis patient.
Riding Ace was enough; it was all she wanted. Her mother could dream twenty-four hours a day, but nothing would change Ali’s determination. She would stay on the Pro Rodeo Tour until her body gave her no choice but to quit. Then she would live with her parents until the end. No sad good-byes other than the ones she would have with them and Ace.
There was a knock at the door and Dr. Cleary entered the room. “Hi.” He had a manila file in his hand. “How’re you feeling, Ali?”
“Better.” She rolled onto her back and released her mother’s hand. “My lungs are still full, though. I can feel them.”
“Yes.” The doctor came to the foot of her bed and looked at her. “Your numbers could be better. You’ve lost some weight, so I’m increasing your enzymes.”