I Am Chris Read online

  I Am Chris

  Synopsis

  When your life falls apart, couldn’t you just be someone else? Especially if that someone else was you all along anyway?

  Seventeen-year-old Chrissy Taylor is orphaned to a stepmama who squandered their sizable inheritance on drinking and drugging. Now, with their ranch lost, they squat in a run-down, rented trailer on the outskirts of small-town-podunkville where Chrissy cares for her nine-year-old half sister, Luce. But landing on the wrong side of the tracks puts them on the radar of the local sheriff and social services.

  There’s one saving grace to losing everything and moving away. Nobody knows her. Chris can now live who he truly is.

  As Chris Taylor, he knows he’ll have to cowboy up to make enough money to keep his stepmama out of jail and his half sister out of foster care. There’s only one way a kid growing up in the shadow of a world champion bull rider can earn that kind of cash. But Chris never expected to chase a championship title of his own, even with a lifetime of training on bulls.

  I Am Chris

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  I Am Chris

  © 2021 By R Kent. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-905-7

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: April 2021

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  eBook Design by Toni Whitaker

  By the Author

  The Mail Order Bride

  I Am Chris

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks for encouragement from Steven, Tom, and the rest of the cowboys I work with, laugh with, and learn from. And for turning my “here, hold this” back on me too many times when the lariat wasn’t long enough and I was destined to come up short. Good times.

  Mike.

  Gratitude to Bold Strokes Books, and Rad, for taking a chance on a cowboy in publishing The Mail Order Bride (2020) even knowing that the Western dime novel has long since passed. A dream come true for me. Thank you.

  Dedication

  Mom

  Brian

  Chapter One

  August 21, 1994

  “Chrissy, stop! You can’t do it again. It’s too dangerous.” Lucine clawed at my glove where the tape strangled it to my wrist. “Chrissy, listen.”

  “Don’t call me that.” I spun around and shook my fist in her face. The bull rope in my grip flopped like a rag doll. Its bells clanked the ground in complaint.

  She was a pretty kid, if she weren’t my nagging little half sister. I dropped my fist to inspect the wide tape cinching my wrist. “You want to eat, don’t you?” Her eyes grew big. I swear her bottom lip quivered.

  “Luce, I gotta do this. You know I gotta.” I softened my tone.

  “Not for me you don’t. I don’t need to eat. Chris, please?” She had a pout that was going to melt hearts one day.

  But today, it was irritating.

  “Let’s just go home,” she pleaded.

  Home. Her mama lost our home. Now we squatted on the edge of a run-down town in a collapsing trailer. All of our possessions and all of our money had gone up that skank butt’s nose.

  My daddy never approved of drugs past ibuprofen. He didn’t even drink but a beer or two during the week. Never on weekends. Never at rodeos. “Drinking or drugging can ruin your balance and timing,” he always said. “It’ll ruin your life.”

  Guess my stepmama hadn’t taken note. No sooner was Daddy gone than she sucked down enough booze to keep a liquor store in business. Then she snorted everything that wasn’t nailed down. Hell, I once caught her licking the wallpaper in our formal dining room. When we still had a formal dining room. She said it was candy. Whatever.

  Some man she dated came and went but always left her wanting more—more drugs. I never saw him. I think when the money ran out, she got less interesting. So he ran out too.

  “Stay here, Luce.” I left her by the pens where I could see her until my ride.

  I climbed the chutes with my rope, then eased the bells over the side of the Brahma bull. When the bull felt the rope drop past his heart girth, he tossed his head. Frothy snot blew from his nostrils to splatter the panels. He was a crapshoot—unproven. I was unproven too. We both had a lot at stake.

  The only way I even rated a ride at this rodeo was because the announcer, Red, knew my daddy’s name.

  The hook went through and brought my rope under the bull. I climbed in the chute to secure it around him. After it was set, I got back out because I’d have a wait before my ride.

  Everyone behind the chutes moved off to watch a known cowboy. He was the favorite to win, the darling of West Texas. I was hot on his tail with last night’s points. But nobody took me seriously. “A fluke ride,” they said. Though they saw me take a licking to stay on board for the eight.

  “You drew the Bunny,” a kid about my age, seventeen, said in a matter-of-fact way. He was below the chute platform looking up at me. His eyes constantly darted toward the next bucking chute over. I could see his face was tense, though he was trying to play it cool.

  “Thundering Bunny,” I corrected him. “He’s badass.”

  “He’s a bit small. No one’s seen him buck.” He chucked me on my plain, working Wellington boot, making the worn-out rowel of my spur jingle. “Luck on the Bunny,” he shouted as the crowd roared.

  “Thundering Bunny.” I poked a tuft of my hair back under my cowboy hat. “Don’t listen to anybody. You be you. You were born to it. It’s in your genes.” And I didn’t know if I was talking to the bull or to myself. Thundering Bunny bobbed his lopsided head and rolled his red-ringed eyes upward, as if the pep talk was all he needed.

  Two gates over, the latch was pulled back with a tormented squeal. The gate was hauled wide. The penned bull made his leap to freedom. I didn’t watch. The crowd let me know that the cowboy was making his eight-second ride. The buzzer sounded. Noise grew deafening.

  Chute men trickled back toward me.

  I straddled Thundering Bunny from the safety of the chute’s rails and chewed on my mouth guard. Once I dropped down, it’d be all business.

  I checked on Luce. She still stood where I had told her to. I had explained a couple of nights ago that I couldn’t worry about her wandering off. Had to keep my head in the game. She knew. She knew quite a lot for a little kid. A lot more than any kid her age should know.

  Having a drug-addled mama was making Luce grow up too fast. I was sorry to see her childhood slipping away this past year.

  “You taking this ride, son?” the spotter asked like I was scared and might back out.

  I wasn’t backing out.

  I crept down onto the bull. Thundering Bunny lurched, slamming hard enough that the spotter grabbed my vest. I was wearing my daddy’s vest. He had been a tall drink of water, like me. And lanky. I looked much like he had when he was my age. Though he matured broader—I could probably fit two of me in his vest. If the two of me were slow
dancing on prom night.

  I used black duct tape to snug the protective vest to my torso as much as possible. It wasn’t tight, but it had stayed put so far. And the black tape didn’t show on the black vest, ’cept close up. The spotter looked at me as if he disapproved.

  A trickle of sweat rolled from high between my shoulders. My binding absorbed it. I wiggled inside the vest because now the binding felt too tight. Focus.

  The rope puller held the tail of my rope taut so I could work the rosin. He gave me a smile which looked a bit sad.

  Focus. I asked to have more slack pulled out before taking a truck and trailer wrap through my palm. That particular wrap did not encircle my hand, which would trap me to this wildcard until I pulled the rope’s tail. I wasn’t ready to be that tied down.

  My stepmama always said I lacked commitment. But that was said about boys. If she only knew I wasn’t interested. I was one. I didn’t want to date one. And I didn’t seem to have time for them anyway.

  My stepmama was always pecking at me.

  Focus. I tossed my rope’s tail over the bull’s hump and gave my gloved hand a last punch to tighten the grip.

  That’s when the announcer, Red, derailed my attention. “Ladies and gentlemen. Getting ready to make his debut win is Chris Taylor.”

  I was sure no one believed I had a chance. To them, I showed up out of nowhere just last night and had “a fluke ride with a generous score.” They were waiting for me to choke on this one. “Never gonna make the eight,” I heard repeatedly behind my back.

  “He’s the son of Buckshot Taylor, two-time champion bull rider.” The announcer recited my daddy’s winnings and lifetime earnings, which were both considerable. Then he told of my daddy’s tragic automobile accident.

  Today was the one-year anniversary of his death.

  My stomach somersaulted. For a fraction of a second, my head was lost to that night.

  Red and blue lights flash in the dark. Sirens wail. The flipped truck burns. My stepmama’s see-through, skimpy nightie clings to her every curve as she runs toward the inferno. Firefighters drag her away from the wreckage.

  Luce clutches my waist. Her tiny face burrows into my side. She cries. So small. She is so small. And so inconsolable.

  No time for my own grief. No time.

  My stepmama falls to her knees on the side of the road. Daddy’s lifeless body is wheeled to the ambulance. The sheet flutters from his battered face. His hand drapes to the side. Luce climbs me like a suffering monkey. My arms wrap tightly around her. I promise never to let go.

  Cowboy up. For Daddy. For Luce.

  I would never leave Luce.

  “Son?” The spotter hanging onto my vest shot a worried look to the flank man.

  “Let’s have a big show of support for this young cowboy,” the announcer hollered over the loudspeakers. The rodeo crowd loosed their enthusiasm with clapping, stomping, and hooting. They were locals. But I didn’t know any of them.

  The bull lurched again at the raucous noise. I punched my wrapped hand.

  Slide and ride. Winky to my pinky. I got up over that bull and nodded to clear the haunting images from my head.

  The latch screeched. The chute flung open.

  Thundering Bunny took a huge leap, belying his size. He came down on all fours, stoving my spine into itself. I was sure to be two inches shorter if I walked away.

  He spun into my hand. I found the sweet spot. My body took over. That’s when everything got real quiet in my head.

  Daddy always said, “You could read a bull, but that would slow your reaction time. It’s best to feel of him.”

  I set my spur solid. I hoped Thundering Bunny wouldn’t come out of his spin.

  It worked. For two seconds.

  His short back and quick steps allowed his bulk to move around unnaturally fast. I thought I could hang in for the ride, but the revolutions were brutal.

  I prayed he’d mix it up before I got sucked down into the well.

  I don’t know what possessed me, but I took to marking him out with my outside leg. Truth be told, I needed Thundering Bunny to break his blistering spin. I was going to hurl.

  So I started pecking at him with my rowel. Much like a petite girl booting a recalcitrant pony.

  No. Bulls do not pay any heed to directions. Neither do spoiled ponies.

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard the buzzer. I opened my wrapped hand and flew from Thundering Bunny’s back. The audience was on their feet. They stomped the aluminum bleachers to a deafening beat.

  I’d won.

  Daddy, I won!

  While the crowd trickled from the arena, I collected my winnings, then sent Luce off to get us a sweet treat. I promised her a special dinner at Mickey D’s in town, only after she’d ruined her appetite on something yummy from the rodeo grounds. She ran, delighted. Like a kid should be.

  “Red’s the name.” A big man shoved his hand toward me. “I didn’t know ol’ Buckshot had a bull riding son.” By his voice, I recognized him as the announcer. “Years back,” Red continued, “ol’ Buckshot had himself a skinny little squirt running around after him. Dragged his bull rope through the grit. He near tanned the hide off of that kid more than once for it.” Red pulled his open hand slightly back, as if he were no longer sure he wanted to shake.

  He eyed me. “I figured with all of that walloping, it made sense you wouldn’t have taken to bull riding. Had to be some reason we didn’t see you around the rodeos.” He stuffed his hand back out. “Some really good reason you weren’t riding bulls on the circuit already.”

  When I took his hand, he pulled me in close and winked. “Welcome, son. You’ve got some big boots to fill.” He clapped me on the shoulder, which popped the tired Velcro loose, making my vest sag. I’ll add duct tape to that later.

  Luce jogged over carrying way too much in her little hands. “I got them just like you said, Chris. And the man put your change in a paper sack.” She peered around the humongous, swirled ice cream cones. They were already dripping in the relentless heat.

  Luce lapped at the delicious dribble fleeing over her knuckles. “Oh, hello,” she said between licks. “’Scuse me.” A dollop of melted ice cream sat on the tip of her nose.

  “Well, you two enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it.” Red tugged my vest up and mashed the patch of Velcro on my shoulder down. It didn’t stay. “Okie dokie, then. See you next weekend,” he said as if it were a sure thing.

  Next weekend was another local rodeo. The payout was bigger but so was the entry fee. If I was careful with tonight’s winnings, I’d have money enough to enter. And I was planning to enter.

  We walked from the back gate into the parking lot.

  The sheriff was waiting for me. His patrol car blocked the front of my truck as if I’d try to get away. I wouldn’t. I had nowhere to go.

  “Where is she?” I asked when we got within spitting distance. This wasn’t the first time he’d hunted me down. My stepmama was always needing bail money or a ride home.

  Last week I learned the hard way to let the authorities sort her out before picking her up.

  It was near two a.m. that night when I finally found her slumped in a bar across town. The Honky Tonk. As I walked in, two burly men were thrashing out dibs on who was taking her home.

  I don’t think anybody meant to—all I remember is the sound of glass breaking, then a blur slashed across my face. I woke in the hospital as the ER doctor shoved a needle through my swelled cheek like she was embroidering on Grandma’s hanky. I’d have a frightful scar marring my face for the rest of my life. Good thing I’m not a girly girl.

  I wrapped my arm around Luce, hauled her to me, and held her tight. My bull rope slipped from my shoulder to puddle over our boot toes.

  “She’s in the hospital.” The sheriff had a gleam in his eye that told me there was more to it he wasn’t saying. But he was like that. We had only moved to town a couple of months ago and he was already making himself way too familiar with
my family. He was way too familiar with my stepmama.

  Plop. Luce’s soft serve ice cream landed in the dirt. Her thin body shook. She struggled to hold back tears.

  “You’ll have to come with me,” the sheriff said.

  I didn’t trust him. I didn’t like him. It seemed as if he was always trying to run us out of town. Us kids. He threatened to call social services more than once.

  There was nothing social services could do. I made sure Luce was fed. And since my stepmama always came home scratching, I was extra careful to keep Luce clean. She always got to summer school on time. I even helped with her homework when she asked. And we still had a parent. My stepmama was no longer a good parent, but I could prop her up to look like something if a social worker wanted to investigate.

  The rest of the time, my stepmama could just leave us alone. I took care of Luce now. Without her help.

  “I ran those plates. They don’t belong to that old heap. What they should be on is a 1983, one-ton dually your daddy owned. I can’t quite see how you mistook this antiquated, three-quarter-ton rust bucket for an almost brand new, dual-wheel one-ton.” The sheriff walked over to my truck and kicked the dented bumper. It jangled and swung on its coat hanger wire jerry-rigged job. “Piece of crap.”

  He ought to talk. His patrol car had been in a wreck. One headlight had been smashed out in the past. The entire quarter panel was dented around the new light. The paint was flaking. And the cracks in it were seeing some rust.

  Back at the door of his patrol car, he directed Luce to get in. He turned to me and said, “You’re not driving anywhere.”

  I handed Luce my cone and bent to collect my rope.

  The sheriff’s booted feet stepped beneath my nose. “Before you get up, think real careful about your next move.”

  Okay, Barney Fife. I showed him my empty hands while gingerly reaching for the bull rope with my fingertips. When I stood, I slowly plucked at the buckles on my chaps until they came away. “I’d like to stow my gear in the truck.”