Rough Ride Read online

  A Camel Press book published by Epicenter Press

  Epicenter Press

  6524 NE 181st St.

  Suite 2

  Kenmore, WA 98028

  For more information go to:

  www.Camelpress.com

  www.Coffeetownpress.com

  www.Epicenterpress.com

  www.paullahunternovels.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Scott Book

  Design by Melissa Vail Coffman

  Rough Ride

  Copyright © 2022 by Paulla Hunter

  ISBN: 978-1-94207-864-7 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-94207-865-4 (eBook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  I would like to dedicate this book to God, St. Philomena, My Husband Roger Schreiner, and My Daughter Stacie Keiter all of whom have been on my fan bench for decades.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  Acknowledgments

  If no man is an island that goes double for a book. To all of my Beta readers over the years for all their suggestions, to my two critique groups who all have eagle eyes and kind hearts, to my husband whose knowledge of rodeo was invaluable, and to all my family and friends who never lost faith. And finally I’d like to thank Jennifer McCord, Executive Editor & Associate Publisher Epicenter-Coffeetown-Camel Press for being so patient with me since this was my first rodeo.

  CHAPTER 1

  Darcy Moreland parked at the dusty north end of the Cheyenne Rodeo Days midway and got out of her well-used baby blue Audi 2000. The hot July sun slipped toward the western skyline. She had been in Cheyenne less than a week and her apartment looked like a disorganized warehouse with open cartons of clothes, books, and other essentials for herself and her dog Mac spilling onto the floor.

  It didn’t seem possible that she was back home again in Cheyenne, Wyoming. The small city was the capital of Wyoming, filled with whole blocks of government buildings. It was over a mile high and inserted on an unremarkable rolling prairie in between two mountain ranges the Rockies to the south, and the Snowy Range to the west. Originally, it was a supply town for the Union Pacific Railroad and dubbed “Hell On Wheels” because it had more saloons than railroad workers. A slight exaggeration, but the drinking culture still flourished especially during Cheyenne Rodeo Days.

  She had lived here all her life except when she left to go to the University of Wyoming in Laramie and took her first job at a Kansas City, Kansas TV station. She had liked the work and was delighted when her boss moved her from doing the weather reporting to investigative reporting which she loved. Coming back home and working for the one, small, TV station seemed like a step back.

  She mentally ticked off the usual reasons for returning home, romantic failures, loss of job, though technically she quit. In her four years at the Kansas station she still didn’t feel like part of a community. She tried. She really tried. But Kansas wasn’t Wyoming.

  When she called her old college friend Zach Horton to tell him she was leaving Kansas he asked her to come work for him at KCWY TV News. The annual rodeo was gearing up and he knew she had cut her teeth on Cheyenne Rodeo Days. Her dad, a retired Electrical Engineer, had been a rodeo volunteer for over thirty years and worked his way up to being the Rodeo Chairman, one of the ten major committees that oversaw the 2,400 volunteers each year. The rodeo was almost 125 years old and still a favorite for cowboys looking for a high pay day and raising their chances of going to the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas.

  She took a moment to gaze at the brilliant sunset trailing gold and pink streamers across the endless horizon. When she used to live here, she took for granted the multicolored, pastel, or brilliant gold, red, and purple sunrises, and sunsets.

  She smiled, took off her new straw cowboy hat and put on her laminated press pass which dangled from a lanyard, and replaced her hat. “Good to go,” she said aloud.

  Beyond the gate, she spotted the videographer she had heard of but not yet met. Bill Netters slouched against a post, cell phone plastered to his ear, and camera bracketed between his feet. Seconds after he saw her, he jammed his phone into his back pocket.

  “Is the glare going to be permanent every time we work together?” Darcy asked when she reached him.

  “As long as you keep screwing up my time off.” He bent down to jerk up his camera.

  Darcy took a deep breath. “Netters, I requested you because I heard you’re the best. It’s as simple as that. I’m new at the station and I want to show them what I can do. I didn’t know you had a date tonight or I wouldn’t have asked for you.” She waited for some cooperative sign. She needed to have a good work relationship with this guy.

  Netters shrugged and shouldered the unwieldy camera. “Let’s get this done.”

  Relieved, Darcy smiled. “How ’bout we shoot a sweeping wide shot focused up the midway to catch all the lights and the crowd and a medium close-up for my spiel?”

  “Okie-dokie.”

  She caught the not-so-subtle sarcasm. “Is that code for, ‘Bite me, Darcy Moreland? That’s a lame-ass, cliché shot?’” she smiled. “I can take constructive criticism you know.”

  Netters shrugged, but his mouth twitched into a grin.

  “Dazzle me, Mr. Videographer. What would you suggest?”

  “A short master of the crowds and lights, then a subjective, traveling shot as we near the Ferris wheel. The ‘You Are There’ feel. I’d do a Dutch angle to make the wheel look even higher than it is.”

  Darcy’s gaze slid to the wheel. She arched her head back, held onto her hat, and took in in the sheer height of the 30-foot ride. “You’d have to lie on the ground to do that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah. So?” Netters cleaned his lens, then stuck the soft cloth into his back pocket.

  Darcy braced her hands on her hips. “So, I thought you had a date. You don’t want to get all gunked up just for a fancy shot, do you?”

  “Is ‘gunked up’ a professional term?” Netters sighted in the angle.

  “You know what I mean.”

  He barked a short laugh. “Don’t worry about my non-existent love life. I was just talking to Cheryl when you walked up. She said she’d meet me downtown.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Darcy ambled along beside him as he got in position.

  “No. It means ‘catch me if you can.’” Netters looked down at her from his gangly six-foot height. “How long has it been since you’ve been downtown during Rodeo Days?”

  “A while.” Darcy realized she hadn’t been home the last four years for Rodeo Days. At first, Darcy was the newbie at the Kansas station and hesitated to ask for an extra week of vacation. Later, she got buried in her work
and didn’t vacation at all. She couldn’t count the number of times her parents had asked her to come to Cheyenne in the summer or to their winter home in Prescot, but something always came up.

  “Let’s just say, a little ‘gunk’ isn’t going to be a problem.”

  Netters sauntered farther up the midway switching his grubby Bronco’s cap, so the bill rested on his back and neck He turned around and walked backward for a couple of steps, gauging the distance.

  Darcy watched Netters and admired his focus. The sounds and the bright lights of the carnival midway did not distract him as he looked through his camera to set up the frame.

  He lowered the camera, motioned her out of the shot, and strode toward the Ferris wheel. People dodged out of his way; the bright light mounted on his camera clearing the path.

  “Now, you.” He waved the end of the camera at her as if it were an assault rifle. Darcy stepped in center shot, and Netters moved close enough to count her fillings.

  “Back off!” Darcy squirmed. “Medium close-up, not microscopic surgery.”

  He laughed but hauled the camera back.

  “Levels?” She placed the mic at chin level.

  “Yeah. Say something sweet.”

  “‘Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.’ Dorothy Parker. How’s that?”

  “Fine. Whenever you’re ready.”

  She raised the microphone and began her narrative:

  “The carnival takes on a unique look and ambience at night. The lights sparkle, and the noises fade to a low hum. There are still a few children out with parents in tow, but the average age of the crowd on the midway has increased and the smell of cotton candy, corndogs, and spilled beer, is stronger, which almost mask the slight barnyard stench from behind the arena and the rough stock pens.

  “Muffled strains of the Night Show in the arena clash with the raucous bells and jangling of the carnival attractions.

  “Excited shrieks pierce the summer night from riders on the Zipper and the Hammer, raised a counterpoint to the overall melody of celebration.”

  She slashed the flat of her hand under her chin. “Okay . . . cut. How was that?”

  “Poetry.”

  Darcy shot him a full-watt grin. “Yeah, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m going to lie down now. Make sure no one steps on me. Think you can handle it?”

  She opened her sherry-colored eyes Kewpie-Doll wide and simpered, “Maybe we should call Zach and have him send out some of those big gaffer guys who work at the station.”

  Netters ignored her sarcasm and dragged his foot in short arcs at the base of the Ferris wheel and cleaned a patch of asphalt. Satisfied, he handed over his camera, got down on his back, and motioned for her to pass it back.

  “Face the other way, so you can stop some drunk from crashing into me.” Netters ignored her irreverent three fingered Girl Scout salute.

  The crowd eddied around them as if they were rocks in a stream. She prodded a large man wearing a Cowboys Can Ride All Night T-shirt to the side It was a charmed summer night on the carnival midway.

  Her mind wandered and even the strident music, whirs, and bells could not dampen her spirit. It was good to be home.

  Kansas had been great for her first job out of college. She liked the station she worked for, but she couldn’t get used to the tornadoes and the heavy humidity. Kansas ranked second nationally for the number of tornadoes per year. Whenever she hovered in the apartment building’s basement with Kevin, her longtime boyfriend, and co-worker, she’d remind him that the worst that ever happened in Cheyenne was a blizzard or a hailstorm. All you had to do was have food on hand and wait until they cleared the streets. Darcy knew it was a total fantasy, but perversely she liked predictability.

  Meanwhile, Kevin had accepted a job to produce the news at a Tampa Bay station, and insisted she move with him. Annoyance turned to clarity, when she realized she didn’t love him as deeply as she should have. They parted as friends and assured each other they would keep in touch, but Darcy had no illusions about a long distance romance.

  If she moved anywhere, she wanted to move home. Darcy missed her mom and dad who would come in soon from their winter home in Arizona.

  She missed the crisp air, the bright blue clear sky, and the incredible view of the Rocky Mountains just a short drive out of town.

  Once she decided to move back home, things moved rapidly. She transferred from a larger market TV station to a much smaller market station with no trouble. She barely had time to call her folks and tell them she had arrived safely, and already had a job as an investigative reporter and expert on all things about Cheyenne Rodeo Days at the local TV station. And yes, she had an apartment, but thanks for the offer for the basement guest room.

  A thud from behind her punctuated by a loud, “Oh, shit!” from Netters and screams from the crush of people who pushed close, jolted her from her trance.

  She spun around. “Oh, my God!” she gasped. High-pitched shouts for help burst from the crowd.

  Netters lurched to his feet, his face ashen. He scrambled about three yards toward the ground by the Ferris wheel.

  The crumpled body lay face up at the foot of the Ferris wheel. A pale hand rested in stark contrast to the black asphalt, arms outstretched, as if trying to fly. With a lurch, Darcy thought at first it was a small child.

  Netters crouched low and peered at the body. It was a teenaged girl, her face turned to the side, her long light brown hair straggled behind her.

  Darcy couldn’t look away, transfixed by the blood pooled like a small, black lake under the girl’s head, the moist, metallic smell of blood in the soft summer air made her gag.

  “A fall . . . from the Ferris wheel . . . two minutes ago.” Netters shouted into his phone.

  Two minutes? Had it been that long? Darcy’s stomach lurched, and her knees went weak. Don’t throw up! She told herself. Don’t throw up!

  The girl looked about sixteen or seventeen. She wore a pair of putty-colored jeans, a boldly-patterned pink shirt, and a pair of cordovan boots barely scuffed on the soles.

  Darcy forced herself to squat. She snaked her unsteady hand under the girl’s shoulder-length hair. She tried to find a pulse in the girl’s small neck, glanced up at Netters and shook her head.

  “No pulse,” he said into the phone. “That’s right, south end of the midway. Bill Netters . . . yeah. I’ll stay.” Netters stuffed his phone into his back pocket.

  The alarmed crowd swelled to four or five people deep and pushed closer.

  “Stand back, folks. Give us some room. Clear a path for the ambulance.”

  Darcy’s head snapped up. A large man, at least six feet, with massive shoulders and a belly that spoke of excess, rushed toward them, his bulk blocked the glare of the garish lights.

  “What happened? Did you see what happened?”

  He frowned past Darcy and the girl on the ground and spoke to Netters.

  “She fell from the Ferris wheel.” Netters glanced up.

  The man squinted, staring at the now motionless Ferris wheel. The ride had stopped, trapping passengers. “Get those people off that damned thing!” he shouted at the carney in charge of the ride, then turned back to Netters.

  “Are you sure? Could you be mistaken?” The large man had a muddy-beige-tinged face with all the color leached out. Darcy noticed the greasy sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “I saw her fall.” Netters’s stood and his voice shook a little, but he tensed as if prepared for a fight.

  By now, two patrolmen on park assignment began to clear the perimeter. They separated all the people who disembarked from the Ferris wheel to interrogate.

  The shrill yowl of sirens interrupted the exchange and an ambulance pulled up, paramedics jumped out, stooped to check vital signs, then covered the body out of respect, and waited for the Medical Examiner and the
crime scene investigators. Darcy backed out of the way and pulled Netters with her.

  Two police cars flanking the ambulance and one black F150 Ford pickup pulled onto the midway. The big guy’s face turned red. His eyes darted from the crowd, to the body, and then to the cops. He stared at the camera Netters had tucked under his arm.

  “Um, listen. My name is Tom Hayes, and I own and operate this carnival. I’d appreciate a look at that video.” He smiled, but it was not sociable.

  “Sure thing.” Netter’s lips thinned to a slash. “Tune in to the ten o’clock news tonight.”

  Hayes’s jaw turned white. He took a deep breath and forced his voice to sound reasonable. “I’d like to see it before it hits the news. Any chance of that?”

  “I’m more concerned we get that girl out of here.” Netters looked at the assembled crowd and back at Hayes. “Has the Medical Examiner been called?”

  “I’m guessing they ME was called right after you notified the police.” Darcy said

  “Does anyone recognize this girl? Was she with anyone?” Darcy asked, shouting over the crowd noises.

  “It’s Bridget Emerson . . .”

  Darcy spun around and noticed a skinny, teenaged girl, trembling so hard her bones almost rattled.

  The name tugged at the edges of Darcy’s memory. In another time, she had known a little girl named Bridget Emerson, with deep brown eyes and a cap of bouncing curls. This couldn’t be her.

  Darcy seized the girl’s arm. “Not Doc Emerson’s kid?”

  The young girl swiped at the fat tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand and nodded.

  Darcy watched the police take photos, place markers, place the body with care into a black bag. After the Medical Examiner called time of death, they lifted her onto a gurney and pushed her into the back of the Medical Examiner’s vehicle to transport her to the County Morgue. Darcy gazed at the taillights as it pulled away.

  “Damn it to hell!”

  The girl flinched. Darcy softened her voice. “Sorry, sorry. I used to babysit Bridget a long time ago.” Darcy glanced again at the ambulance. How could this happen? She shook her head to clear it and turned back to the girl. “What’s your name?”