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1
Sipping her beer, Lynelle looked up at the team entering the chute. A well-muscled dun was crow hopping his way into the ring. The young woman onboard was mitigating well; she never got unseated, but it was clear she was using all her strength to keep him from taking off on her.
“Looks like she’s got her hands full,” she remarked absentmindedly to John, watching as the gelding shot through the chute and into the ring.
“That might be tonight’s winner,” he chuckled.
The horse and rider decided to take the right barrel first, cutting the turn precisely enough to keep the time down. Lynelle watched as they headed for the second barrel. They were quick, but the dun was too focused on speed to swap his lead in the back, making the turn around the second barrel too wide.
“That’s gonna cost her. Looked like he needed help picking up his shoulder. I’ve done that. Cost me a few races,” she said, sucking in a breath at the performance.
At this, about half of John’s employees and all of his children craned their necks to look at her expectantly.
“What?” She asked while John laughed knowingly.
“All due respect, governor, but you seem like the last person to know their way around a barrel race.” Kayce laughed, eyebrows raised.
“Well, it’s been a long time since I was in the ring and I don’t talk about it much.”
“You any good?” Kayce asked casually in between sips of his own drink.
“I won the 2D in Bozeman 3 years in a row, you tell me,” she told them, smirking.
Kayce raised his eyebrows and his glass.
“Not bad for a politician.”
2
A few nights later, she’d followed John down to the river for a nightcap after work and found herself thinking about their conversation at the rodeo. They settled onto a shared blanket with two glasses of whiskey in hand. John casually looped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into the contact.
“I can’t believe it’s been so long since I raced,” she mused.
“I remember those days. You and that crazy ass mustang you rescued, leaving a trail of dust everywhere you went. What was that thing’s name again?” John asked, eyes crinkling.
“Tornado. He was massive. I loved that damn horse,” she says, smiling.
“Never seen a mustang that big,” John agreed.
“Sixteen hands. I always wondered how in the hell he got that big living on the high plains with nothing to eat in the winter until I got him.”
“He probably ate the other horses to survive. Horse was crazier than shit,” John laughed.
She found herself laughing with him— John was right; her old mount had been wild as the Montana countryside itself, but he was the best horse she’d ever had. Even when she had first learned to ride on her father’s steady old bay as a child, she could never remember trusting another animal the way she’d trusted her barrel partner.
“He was. God love him, though. Never did find another one like that.”
“To Tornado,” John said, raising his glass. Lynelle clinked her glass with his before taking a sip and leaning her head on his shoulder, looking up at the stars.
3
On a balmy morning later that week, John had been making his way to the arena to help sort when Lloyd had ridden up beside him.
“You know you’re really in for it, dating a barrel racer. Right, boss?” Lloyd asked, laughing.
“How in the hell do you know who I’m dating, Lloyd?”
“Been seeing a lot of the governor around, just sayin.’”
John frowned. He was in no mood to take shit from the bunkhouse this morning.
“Christ, can’t a man enjoy himself in his own home anymore? And how do you even know she was a barrel racer?”
“Word gets around, man. Good luck,” Lloyd said, laughing, and then rode away to join the other cowboys.
4
At Sunday dinner, it seemed that everyone had finally moved past Lynelle’s sordid past. John sat down at the head of the table just as everyone was getting settled. Beth came in last and sat down to his right, Rip pulling her chair out for her from his seat.
“Daddy,” she greeted. “You’ve been doing a lot of bed warming lately. Do we need a favor from the state or are you just horny for barrel racers?” She asked, failing to conceal a laugh.
“Beth, what in the hell are you on about tonight?” Rip beat John to the question.
“You haven’t heard? My new stepmommy used to be the local rodeo queen.”
“Good God, Beth, she’s not your—“ John began, exasperated, but was cut off by Rip’s incredulous laughter.
“That true? The governor used to be a barrel racer?” He asked, still chuckling.
“I don’t understand why it’s such a big fuckin’ deal to everybody on this ranch,” John said, face drawn into a frown.
“Sir, I mean this in the most respectful way possible, but aren’t you a little old to be foolin’ around with a barrel racer?” Rip asked, then laughed until he wheezed.
“Why is that so damn funny?” John asked, inexplicably smiling himself.
“Well, sir, you’re not exactly the type of man to…. Look, when I think of the kind of guy that dates barrel racers, I think of Jimmy, and you’re a hell of a lot smarter than him. Just concerned for your safety, Sir,” Rip laughed.
John rolled his eyes and went back to his steak.
5
John woke up the next morning to a horse trailer he couldn’t place in the barn driveway. He was on his way to yell at whoever decided to park there, but Rip had evidently beaten him to it.
“What the hell are you two doin’ here?” Rip barked, crossing the driveway to the trailer.
There were two women standing on the other side of the trailer. The barrel racers from the last rodeo. Laramie and Mia. Why were they on his property?
“Goddamnit, this ranch needs to have a security booth at the rate we’re goin’,” John remarked, exasperated.
“Sorry Mr. Dutton. We heard the governor spends a lot of time here and we were hoping to drag her out of retirement for a charity race in Bozeman,” the blonde one told him; was that Laramie?
“Why don’t you just call her office? Doesn’t anybody have any common sense anymore?”
“We did, but we got an automated voicemail from her assistant. We figured it would be easier to track her down in person for something like this. Seeing as it’s not government-related and all,” the other one (Mia?) explained hastily.
John rubbed his hands over his face, frowning and sighing.
“I’ll call her,” he relented.
+1
Two weeks later, John found himself hauling Lynelle, Kayce’s mustang, and a whole load of 25-year-old tack to Bozeman. They sat in the front of his truck, trying to pass the time talking about nothing and listening to the radio playing Tim McGraw hits from 15 years ago. He suddenly felt old, admiring the Lynelle of a bygone era.
“Is that the same show shirt you wore last millenium?” John joked.
She looked down at her outfit. She wore a black pearl snap shirt with embroidered red roses. She’d pulled her gear out of permanent retirement/decoration for this, but only because Laramie and Mia swore it was for charity.
“What else was I gonna wear, John?” She asked, snickering. “Besides, you’re too distracted by the view to realize how old I’ve gotten anyway.”
“You haven’t aged a day, ‘Nelle, you know that.”
His voice came out quieter and steadier than he’d expected. He watched out of his peripheral vision as her eyes crinkled and she couldn’t stop the blush that crept into her cheeks.
“Stop it,” she laughed, “or we’re gonna have to pull over and we’ll never make the rodeo on time.”
“Well, I’d hate to disappoint charity,” he chuckled, and reached for her hand.
She took it, then leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she put her feet up on the dashboard and settled back in for the drive, still smiling.
John stole a glance at her boots. They matched her shirt— the leather was dark, with red roses. They looked well-conditioned, he noted, despite at least two decades of storage. He would have to keep a horse around for her, he realized. If her boots were that well taken care of, she clearly still valued her rodeo career. Maybe he could even convince her to go on the next gathering with him in the spring. Now he was dreaming.
He forced his attention back to the stretch of highway before them and gently stroked her hand, which was still settled in his. She responded in kind, her smaller hands ghosting over his.
An hour and twenty minutes later, they pulled into the rodeo, Lynelle having drifted off somewhere along I-89. She was still holding John’s right hand, so he’d driven almost the entire trip one-handed.
“Lynelle?” he asked quietly, trying to wake her up gently. When she shifted but failed to open her eyes, he tried again. Taking his right hand back, he brushed her hair out of her face.
“‘Nelle, wake up. You got a race to win.”
She stirred and opened her eyes at this. She smiled at John before sitting up and opening her truck door.
“Come help me unload!” She called simply to John as she strode towards the back door of the trailer.
Once they had the horse out of the trailer, John decided he would let Lynelle take charge. That mustang hated him, he swore.
Besides, the view was much better from where he was standing. He stood and watched her tack up, sipping a coffee he’d brought with him. He stared as she lifted the saddle onto the mustang’s back with a practiced ease; she never seemed to have lost her strength or skills.
Once she had him tacked, they were on their way to the arena. John trailed behind Lynelle and the mustang on their way to the warmup pen, hoping to scope out her competition. He spotted a lot of decently fast quarter horses and a few gangly and quick thoroughbreds, which made odds a little tougher; then again, none of them had ever seen Lynelle race. He leaned over to her.
“You’re gonna kick their asses,” he whisper-laughed.
“I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”
“It’s like riding a bike. Need a leg up?”
“No, I got it,” she proclaimed and promptly hoisted herself into the saddle, despite her small stature.
He watched as she warmed up the grullo, letting him stretch his legs and lengthen his stride in preparation to run. All the grace and balance she’d had years ago had immediately returned. He hadn’t seen her race much, but he knew she was usually much tougher than people tended to think she was, and she was always like lightning in the ring. When she began walking towards him, he joined up with the mustang’s left shoulder and walked beside them.
“He looks good. You’re gonna win, you know that, right?” He asked, half joking.
“We don’t know that. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s for charity,” she said, but even as she said it, a proud grin broke through.
“Nobody is gonna see you coming, so they won’t bet on you. You’ll be the biggest earner for this fundraiser, mark my words,” John laughed.
She rolled her eyes.
He walked her to the chute as the announcer called for any of the fundraising contestants to line up at the gate. Lynelle had elected to go last in an effort to try to up the fundraising gains if she won. They talked idly while the other contestants ran, waiting to hear the time Lynelle would have to beat.
“Time to beat: 16.2,” the announcer’s voice boomed just after the second to last run.
They walked the mustang to the chute and did their best to keep a lid on his excitement as Lynelle shifted in her seat, getting ready.
“Good luck in there, cowgirl,” John said simply, before reaching up and squeezing the hand that wasn’t encumbered by the reins.
“Good luck to any of the people who went in before me. When I come out of that arena it might be on fire,” she snickered. She tipped her black hat at John before riding into the chute.
The mustang shot into the arena and past the tripwire at breakneck speed. Lynelle gave him his head until she had to pull him up to make a quick turn around the right barrel, sending dust flying as his hind end tucked down around the barrel. They sped towards the left one, swapping leads in the middle, and repeated the process, leaving a trail of dust.
She pointed the mustang at the last barrel, then got off his back and focused on speed. At the last minute, she pulled him up and made her final turn with precision. Then she sent the stallion flying back through the gate, leaning forward to give him his head.
She stopped the mustang next to John, who was already grinning and laughing.
“Time to beat: 14.5. First place goes to Governor Perry by almost 2 seconds. Remember, we are still taking donations even if you do not want to bet on the events,” the announcer explained.
John reached to high five Lynelle as she beamed. She had beaten numerous local contestants, plus Laramie and Mia. She would never live this down at John’s.
“You’ve still got it, Governor,” John chuckled.
She climbed down off the mustang, still holding her reins in one hand. With the other, she took her hat off and slipped it over the saddle horn. Once her hat was secured, she reached for John and kissed him quickly but soundly, squeezing the arm she held onto.
“Thanks for this,” she offered simply. “I needed to get away.”
“Anytime, ‘Nelle.”
They headed to the trailer, arm in arm, Lynelle eager to get the sweat off the mustang. She picked up her hat before she quickly tied the mustang to the trailer with one rein. Then she began untacking. She passed off the saddle, pad, and breast collar to John, who stowed them away in the trailer’s tack room.
She peeled the mustang’s sweaty boots off, then grabbed a stray hose to rinse him off. She rinsed him quickly, eager to get back to the ranch. After sweat scraping him, she led him back into the trailer, swapping his bridle out for his halter, and headed towards the passenger door of the truck.
John was already waiting for her in the driver’s seat. He beckoned and she climbed in beside him.
He watched as Lynelle settled in for the drive, immediately resuming her earlier relaxed position with her feet on the dash and her head leaning towards the window against one hand. This time, she kicked off her boots and deposited her hat up on the dash.
As they pulled away, leaving Bozeman in the rear view, John mused about how different their lives had become since the last time she’d won a barrel race.
“Hey, brought you somethin’,” John said, extending his hand.
When Lynelle looked over, he was holding a two-toned blue ribbon with “Gallatin County Fairgrounds Benefit Rodeo” printed on it. She couldn’t help but smile as she gingerly took it in her own hands.
“This is my first blue ribbon probably since I was 25,” she laughed.
“Maybe you should get out more,” John suggested drily.
She laughed as she bent the metal backing on the ribbon back and hung it on the truck’s visor for the ride home.
“Maybe I should keep this one in my office in Helena.”
“It is a nice ribbon,” John remarked absentmindedly, still incredibly distracted by the reappearance of cowgirl Lynelle.
As they pulled out of the fairgrounds, Lynelle reached for his right hand. She squeezed it briefly, then reclined in her seat again, her eyes sliding closed.
“I wish he were here to see this. I can’t imagine what he would think,” she said, breathing in a sigh, then laughing quietly.
“Be glad nobody can tell him that he better watch out dating a barrel racer,” John joked back.
“People say that?” She asked, genuinely sounding surprised.
“You would not believe the hell I caught since the bunkhouse found out.”
She laughed loudly at this. Governorship be damned, barrel racer was the label that defined her to cowboys.
“How long do we have left?” She asked, noticing the time.
“We’ll get in around midnight,” he replied with a frown. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Me too, John. I don’t think I can feel my legs,” she said, laughing.
John decided to cut to the chase.
“You stayin’?”
“Why not? Helena can have me on Monday. Fuck it,” she said, smiling.
They spent the hour of the drive that was left alternating between comfortable silence and singing along with the radio’s 90s country hits. When they pulled up to John’s barn, they made quick work of settling the mustang in for the night. They unhooked the trailer in less than five minutes, then settled back into the truck and headed up to the house.
John got out first and opened her door for her. Lynelle took his hand and stepped out of the truck, heading towards the front door of the lodge. John opened the house door for her, once again the picture of cowboy chivalry. She toed her boots off at the entrance, then headed up the stairs to take a shower.
John followed closely behind her, walking into the bedroom just as she reached the shower. He changed into a t shirt and boxers, then knocked on the door.
“Lynelle, do you even have clothes?”
“I took one of your shirts,” she yelled back.
John chuckled at her improvisation.
“Alright, you know where to find me.”
John slipped into bed, pulling the covers over his lap. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of the bathroom wearing a denim button down that fell to her knees, steam billowing from the shower. She smiled tiredly, then climbed into bed next to him.
She shifted closer, and John slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She laid her head on his chest, sidling up to him, enjoying the warmth on her cold post-shower skin.
“I haven’t seen you ride in a couple decades. It’s a good look on you, you know?”
“John, I could be wearing a burlap sack and you’d still say the same thing. Quit it,” she brushed him off.
“I’m serious. You should come join me for more trail rides, ‘Nelle. Maybe we could catch a sunrise on horseback or somethin’,” he said, quietly serious.
“I’d consider it, but you’re gonna have to bring some Advil,” she joked.
“Deal.”
She could tell he was still serious.
“I’ll think about it. I’m getting too old for this shit too, John.”
“I promise you won’t have to race me,” he challenged sarcastically.
“You’re just afraid I’d win,” she countered.
“In your dreams, Governor.”
“Oh, well now I’m gonna have to take you up on that. I’m gonna win,” she laughed.
“Is that so?” He teased.
“Mmm-hmm,” she answered before bursting into quiet laughter.
Their eyes met, and John suddenly felt sentimental. He leaned over and kissed her, slow and sweet.
“What was that for?” She asked.
“Nothin’,” he replied, gruffly, then leaned back in to kiss her forehead.
“Goodnight, rodeo queen,” he told her. “I don’t know how to thank you for indulging them.”
She smirked.
“I can think of a few ways.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I thought we were too old for this shit.”