A Wild Red Rose (18 page)

Inside the painted rosebud mouth, Renee smiled showing her perfect, white teeth. “Snuffy says I can shower and clean up in his motorcoach. Hey, he paid me forty dollars for today’s work.” Renee fished two twenties out of her cleavage.

“And I’ll bet he enjoyed paying you, too. Come on, let’s get ready to eat.”

“Great. I’m ravenous.”

****

He must be strict. No sex tonight. Tomorrow at eight p.m., Clint Beck had to be in top form for the PRCA Xtreme Bulls Event, well-rested and centered on his duties. So, they sat out on the private deck and watched the sun go down over the Cascades. Renee decided to get up early to eat more pancakes and see the Yakama Indians in full war bonnet regalia ride into the arena. She wanted to participate in the tribal dancing and win prizes on the midway. He wanted a long nap in the afternoon before he went over to the rodeo to stretch and warm up. Still wearing the hoop earrings with a sliver bucking bull on the loops that she’d bought with her clowning money, Renee fell asleep in her chair.

Clint carried her inside and striped off the inn’s thick robe. He laid her beneath the covers and, tossing his own robe aside, took his place next to Renee in the large bed. She automatically fitted her hips against his crotch. Clint put one hand over her protruding belly. He didn’t feel any movement. His mother and Mabel and the woman in Walmart could be wrong.

Regardless, when his rodeo duties were over, he’d get a gourmet picnic lunch from the Inn and take Renee for a hike up to Long’s Pass. With one of the most beautiful views in the northwest for his backdrop, he planned to get down on his knees in the grass and propose. He’d offer the ring from the parure of Zuni jewelry he’d kept hidden for so long and had transferred to his bag of bullfighting gear for the flight. The old Renee would have demanded a diamond the size of both her former engagement rings combined. This new Renee, the one who put on a clown face to entertain children, would desire a ring with meaning and some history behind it now. He’d tell her he wanted both her and the child, no matter who the daddy really was, even if it drove a wedge between him and Bodey. The best laid plans don’t always work out, but he felt fairly sure of the outcome of this one.

Chapter Seventeen

The bright lights of the arena filled the big night sky with their glare, fading out a view of the Milky Way that stretched from horizon to horizon. A breeze ruffled through the stadium. From his spot down by the bucking chutes, Clint watched Renee put on the denim jacket he’d insisted she buy that morning against an evening chill. When the wind pushed the fabric of the wild and swirling top that seemed to be her favorite up against her belly, she did look pregnant, he had to admit.

A dark-haired woman in cowgirl attire glittering with rhinestones took a seat next to Renee. Norma Jean Scruggs, he thought it was. The women put their heads together, not paying much attention to the action in the ring. Maybe, they compared notes about Clinton O. Beck. Women did that. He couldn’t worry about it now. The chute would spring open in the next few seconds, releasing another two-ton terror of a bull into the ring.

Next up came Mellow Yellow who always gave a rider a chance for a high score despite his stubby legs. Once free of the man on his back, though, Ole Yeller was fairly docile and had been around long enough to find the exit from the arena with very little help. Clint relaxed. He had the urge to get Renee’s attention.

Mellow Yellow’s rider hung on for five seconds and went spinning wide out of danger before the buzzer sounded. The mottled old bull looked around for the gate and found Clint Beck instead. Clint took a running leap, and as soon as his hands caught hold of the horns, he wished he’d paused to dust his palms with dirt. His grip slipped, and he came down on the bull’s hump rather than behind it. Mellow Yellow lowered his head to shake off the burden, and Clint slid toward the horns and hooves waiting below. He planted his hands, swung his leg wide over the right horn, vaulted off the side of the animal, and stuck a great dismount. The crowd loved it. Clint waved in Renee’s direction while the other bullfighters swatted the puzzled Mellow Yellow into the pen. He didn’t see her.

Rejoining the group by the chutes, he apologized. “Sorry. I was showing off for my girl. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have. I think she fainted,” one of his bullfighting buddies said as Clint dusted off his hat and put it back on his head.

He found Renee now. Norma Jean had hauled her up and pushed her into her seat, her head lowered between her legs.

“Break’s comin’ up. Why don’t you go see to her, Clint? Women in the family way are almost as much trouble as these here bulls,” the third bullfighter added. “Got three kids of my own. I should know.”

Her condition had become so obvious even these men could tell. Clint went up into the stands, nodding and slapping hands held out to him, but not stopping until he reached Renee.

Her first words uttered: “Don’t fuss. I’m fine. I stood up too quickly. You nearly gave me heart failure.”

“Sorry, I made a dumb move. Let’s get you over to Mobile Sports Medicine and let them check you out.”

“Just to be on the safe side, honey,” Norma Jean prodded.

Set up for rodeo participants right down to having cardiac life support, the medical unit wasn’t intended for fainting fans, the doctor in charge pointed out immediately. Lean as most of the cowboys, he was just as terse.

“I have one rider back here gathering his chickens after a pretty bad concussion and another with a broken ankle, Clint. Haven’t done a gynecology rotation since med school. Take her into town.”

“Got more work to do tonight. As a favor to me, Doc, please.”

Heavily put upon, Doc Wiley checked her pulse, blood pressure, and flashed a light into the woman’s eyes. Satisfied, he told Renee to get up on the table and unzip her pants. He palpated her abdomen, listened with his stethoscope. “How far along are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Renee stonewalled.

“When was the date of your last period?”

“Late May, I guess, but I’ve been traveling since then. Lots of strange food and water. Sometimes, I’m irregular if I exercise a lot. My mother died suddenly. It was a shock to my system. Could be a tumor.” She rolled off a list of possibilities that sounded as if any of them would be preferable to a pregnancy.

Doc Wiley shoved his glasses back up his nose. “That ultrasound machine free?” he shouted to a technician.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get a view of her uterus up on the screen for me. Pronto!”

Doc Wiley took Clint aside. “How long you been together, Clint?”

“Little over three months.”

“By the size, I’d say she’s close to five months gone. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Every baby should have a daddy. I’m ready to take that on.”

“Clint, Clint!” he heard Renee call.

He came running. The tech continued rubbing slick goop over her belly.

“Don’t let them do this to me,” she pleaded.

“Ma’am, if this is a tumor it’s a mighty big one. I’d feel guilty letting you go without knowing,” Doc Wiley said.

Clint took Renee’s hand and kissed her fingers. “I promise it’s going to be all right, Tiger.”

The tech began moving the imagining device over the mound of her stomach.

“Hold it! Would you look at that,” the doctor said.

“What! What!” Renee shouted.

Ignoring his patient, the doc looked at Clint. “Congratulations, son. You’re the father of twins. One has its back turned right there, but the other seems to have a teeny-tiny penis. I’d say they’re just past the first trimester, but find a real obstetrician, would you?”

“Can’t be my son if the penis is teeny-tiny,” Clint said, absolutely deadpan. Then, he and the doc started whomping each other on the back and laughing.

“I swear, Clint, I haven’t been with anyone else. I’ll take a test. Anything.”

“Joking, Tiger.” He smoothed a tear from the corner Renee’s eye.

“Wipe her off and get her up,” the doctor ordered. “And you, young lady, don’t stand up suddenly. Pregnancy involves changes in the blood pressure. I remember that much. Eat right. See a real ladies’ doctor, okay? I got a head case to check.”

Clint grabbed a bottle of water and drank it as he walked Renee back to her seat. He should have been riding the exercise bike to keep his muscles warm like the other guys, but some things had to come first. After centering her face with his hands, he said, “I love you, Renee. Everything will be fine. Do you believe me?”

She nodded, speechless and worried. He shared the news with Norma Jean and left Renee in the care of the barrel-racer who exclaimed as he headed for the chutes, “Twins. Now ain’t that a double blessing.” Clint knew for a fact Norma Jean had raised her four brothers and had no desire at all for children, but she was a good ole gal, and he appreciated her effort.

Lonnie Capshaw, a rising star nineteen years old, stopped Clint before he reached his destination. “I drew Tsunami Sam. I know he’s a bad one.”

“No way to predict what Sam will do. Only been ridden twice in the past three years, but don’t let that shake you. Once you’re off, head for the hills. He’s a rank one.”

“Thanks, Clint.” The boy’s dark eyes looked large in his fresh, unscarred face. He brushed the curly black hair out of his eyes, put on his hat, and went off to the chutes dragging his bull rope.

Clint took up his position by the gate. The other bullfighters already stood in place. Out in the center of the ring, Snuffy would be working the barrels. All good men to work with. Clint stretched. He felt a little stiff and off-balance. Twins. Who would have imagined twins?

The gate swung open, and Tsunami Sam roared out, a dark wave of bull flesh heaving over the brown dirt of the arena. Lonnie hung on, hardly needing his spurs to urge the beast to perform to the max. The longest eight seconds of the man’s life ticked off one by one. The buzzer sounded. The announcer predicted that young Lonnie Capshaw would get the confetti for that ride, even as the cowboy shook loose of his hold on the rope. Not done yet, the bull fishtailed and sent the kid flying toward a hard landing. Stunned, Lonnie struggled to get up and reach the fence. His boots gave him little traction as he stumbled toward the rails with Tsunami Sam on his tail. He couldn’t make it up and over—until Clint Beck gave him a boost.

Clint rolled aside as the bull smashed into the space where Lonnie Capshaw had been, but this time, the bullfighter wasn’t fast enough. One blunted horn and a big, bony head plowed into his mid-section, ramming him against the boards. Fighting incredible pain, Clint felt his knees gave way. He heard Snuffy taunting the bull to come toward the clown. Through blurring eyes, he saw the other bullfighters swarming Tsunami Sam, literally taking the bull by the horns and turning the monster’s head. From the stands, he recognized the sound of Renee’s voice, screaming, right before he blacked out.

Chapter Eighteen

A few of the younger nuns dropped gentle hints to the Mother Superior at Mt. Carmel Academy that Srs. Helen and Inez might be ready to return to the mother house and go into retirement. The elderly Sisters hogged the remote control between the hours of ten to eleven p.m. on a Saturday night when, being so advanced in age, they should be napping before midnight prayers. Their order had allowed the purchase of expanded cable for the television in the common area to view more spiritual and uplifting programs than professional bull riding.

“Oh look, Nessy. I think I see Renee in the stands. There, wearing that loud top. Dear, oh dear, she looks as if she’s expecting,” whispered Sr. Helen.

“Let me get my spectacles on.” Sr. Inez found the wire-rimmed glasses in the pocket of her skirt and balanced them on her nose. She hated to admit her vision was failing, but that was a vanity.

“You missed her. They’ve released another bull.”

“I can see that!”

“It’s Mellow Yellow, short but mighty. Oooh, there goes the rider. Look at Clint. He’s jumping the bull.”

“Nearly got himself gored. If you are right about Renee, he should be taking better care of himself. My, that was tense. Oh, they’re going for a break. I need the bathroom, Sister. A little too much excitement.” Sr. Inez dug her walking stick into the carpet and wrenched herself up from the sofa. She limped off for a pit stop.

“Take your time. You know the interviews will go on and on before the action starts again. I’ll make more popcorn. Anyone else want popcorn?” Sr. Helen surveyed the nuns sitting around the room, reading, sewing, hoping to get the remote control. She pocketed the device and set off for the kitchen. She’d make an extra bowl in case any of the others wanted to join them on the sofa.

Back in their seats, the two elderly Sisters picked around the kernels the microwave always scorched and settled in for the second half of Professional Bull Riders. Sr. Inez overheard one of their more sour compatriots say this wasn’t any better than pro wrestling, but she’d given them a bowl of popcorn as an act of charity and forbearance.

“Mighty bulls, courageous men, fine horse flesh, how could anyone equate this with steroid-swollen hulks faking mayhem,” Nessy muttered to Helen. “It’s the toughest sport on dirt.”

“Tsunami Sam is up next. He’s a PBR top ten bull being ridden by that sweet-faced boy we saw last week, Lonnie Capshaw.” Sr. Helen lowered her voice. “Ignore the other Sisters. They don’t understand.”

The two holy fans held their breath for the full eight seconds and applauded the ride. “I’m sure he’ll score higher than ninety. Oh, no! A bad dismount. Lonnie won’t make it to the barrier. Here comes Clint boosting him over. Dear Lord, be with him! Clint is down.”

Sr. Helen wobbled to her feet and clasped her hands together. “Blessed Mother Leontine, intercede for this man’s life, we pray of you.”

“And be with our lost child, Renee. Show her the right path to follow in her time of need. Amen.”

The elderly Sisters crossed themselves and sank back into the sofa cushions. They would stay tuned until the end of the program, hoping for an update on the condition of Clinton O. Beck.