The Ranch

“I saw you,” Mary Stuart said, and their eyes met. Her friend was smiling. “Be careful,” she whispered into Tanya's ear, but as they were talking, half a dozen people approached them and asked Tanya to sign autographs. And since she had made a willing spectacle of herself, she didn't think she could refuse them. It was like that all night, through the team roping, the barrel racing, the bareback broncos, the bulls, and then finally, she saw him. He was riding a fierce, bucking bronco with a saddle. And the thing she hated most about saddle broncs was that the cowboys taped one hand into the horn on the saddle. They had to come off specifically on one side, and be able to get their hand out. And if they didn't, they could be dragged around on their head for ten minutes before the pickup men could catch them. She had seen some horrifying accidents while she was a child in Texas, And she found herself terrified as she watched him come out of the gate on a vicious brown horse that did everything it could to get rid of its rider. His feet were in the air just as they were meant to be, his legs straight forward, his head and torso tilted far back, and he didn't touch the saddle with his free hand. And he seemed to ride forever. He rode until the bell, he had stayed on longer than anyone, and he made a nice clean jump to the ground, while the pickup men went after the bronco and got him. He got an almost perfect score and waved his hat and his taped hand in her direction and then strode across the ring back to the pens, with his chaps and his boots, looking glorious. It had been a real victory for him. And he had done it for Tanya.

They stayed until the last event, a final round of bulls, followed by fourteen-year-old boys on young steers, that made you wonder about the boys’ parents. It was certainly not as dangerous as the bulls, but close enough, and Mary Stuart was outraged.

“Those people should be put in jail for letting those boys do that.” In fact, one of the youths had been stomped, a boy of twelve, but he was on his feet again within a few minutes. Zoe and the others had been watching closely.

But in spite of some of the barbarism, and the sheer hokiness, Tanya had to admit she loved it, it was everything she had always loved as a child. And as they left, the others couldn't believe the number of people who asked for autographs on the way out, who snapped her picture, and tried to touch her. But the grand marshal had very kindly sent the security and the real police over to her, anticipating that, and she managed to get back to the bus without any real problems. There were still about fifty people standing outside the bus when they left, waving and shouting, and running alongside the bus as it drove away. It was an amazing phenomenon. It was the adoration that always came before the hatred. If she stayed long enough, they would have torn her limb from limb, in order to get a piece of her or maybe some lunatic would really hurt her. It was the kind of atmosphere that always made her very nervous in crowds, or out in public.

“Tanya, you're amazing,” Hartley said to her as they pulled away. He was filled with admiration. She was gracious to everyone, while still maintaining her dignity, and trying to give them what they wanted, and yet keep a reasonable distance. But through it all, one sensed constantly how precarious the balance of the crowd was. “I would be terrified of even a little crowd like that,” he said sensibly. “I'm an inveterate coward.” But she was used to doing concerts in front of as many as seventy-five thousand. Yet even in a crowd like the one tonight, someone could easily have lost control and killed her. And she knew it. “You also have a voice straight from God,” he said. “Everyone around us was crying.”

“Me too,” Mary Stuart said, smiling,

“I always cry when you sing,” Zoe said matter-of-factly, and Tanya smiled, touched by all of them. It had been a remarkable evening, and Hartley sat with them for a while when they went back, and then he and Mary Stuart took a walk, and he brought her back around eleven-thirty. They had stood in the moonlight for ages kissing, and Tanya and Zoe thought they were cute and incredibly romantic.

“What do you think will happen?” Tanya asked Zoe as they sat in the living room, talking.

“It would be nice for her if things worked out with him, but it's hard to tell. I have the feeling in a place like this it's a little bit like a shipboard romance. And I'm not sure she's worked it all out in her head with Bill yet.” It was astute of Zoe to notice.

“He's been such a bastard to her all year, I hope she leaves him,” Tanya said, sounding harder than usual, but she was angry at Bill, and she felt sorry for Mary Stuart.

“But he's been in pain too.” Zoe was more familiar with the strain a death in the family put on otherwise decent people. It turned some of them into saints, others into monsters. And Bill Walker had definitely been the latter.