Cowgirls Don't Cry

CHAPTER EIGHT - JESSE

I'd known Katie basically since we were born, and whether she liked it or not, I could read her like a book. Every habit, quirk, fear or favourite she had, I could list off the top of my head, along with a dozen memories or references for each. So when she suddenly lost all personality after gym yesterday, something had to be wrong. The thing about Katie was that she was very susceptible to the unfiltered mess of other people's opinions. So if she experienced a fall or mistake in front of the rodeo crowd or people at school, she'd stress over it for weeks afterward. And if anyone said anything to hurt her, she'd be cut down in an instant. It was her fatal flaw.

I'd do anything for Katie, and not knowing what was hurting her was killing me. Her refusal to even acknowledge the topic was even worse, but if she didn't want to talk, well, I wasn't going to force her. Still, her silence as we sorted the horses and gear after school on Friday was unnerving.

"You're all set for tomorrow?" I asked quietly.

"Yep,"

"Got your tack and everything?"

"Yeah, I packed before I rode over,"

It was pretty clear she didn't feel like talking, so I had no choice but to accept the silence, and trust that Katie would talk when she was ready.

We were in our usual spot in my front yard, under the massive spreading oak tree facing the porch, our tack and equipment spread out at the base of the tree like a minefield. When we were younger, we'd use this tree as our home base for pretty much every game we made up, the horses grazing or tethered to the lower branches, and Katie and I climbing high in the canopy.

I remember being seven years old and climbing to the very top of the tree, its fragile new branches bending under my weight, and daring Katie to come join me. Never one to back down from a challenge, she'd scrambled up beside me, and we inched closer and closer to the sky, pushing the laws of gravity to its limit. Needless to say, we both fell as gravity ran out of patience for us, two reckless kids committed to pushing the boundaries.

Our seven-year-old selves had landed right where we sat now, scrubbing tack and polishing spurs almost eight years afterwards. Beside me, Katie took out Marlow's competition bridle and began to rub polish into it. She was rarely this quiet around me, especially when something was obviously wrong.

I left Katie to her silence, and focused on sorting out my rodeo gear. My gloves and ropes were well-worn but functional, their sticky coating of rosin catching under my grip as I checked them over.

My dad and brothers had always been in the rodeo arena, competing in everything from bull-dogging and steer-wrestling, to roping and bull-riding, so I'd pretty much grown up in cowboy boots and jeans. Katie and I would wander around the livestock pens and holding yards as our families competed, so by the time we turned five and were able to compete, we weren't even fazed by the stadium lights, crowds and competition. I'd tried a few rodeo sports before bull-riding, but nothing could beat the thrill of bucking out a massive animal, trying to harness its power for a good score. Starting out on poddy calves and then weaners, I worked my way up, learning more with every fall and ride, until by the time I was ten I could find and match an animal's rhythm within seconds of being let out of the chute. I practised and honed this skill, riding out the steers for longer and longer until I was begging Dad to let me ride the bulls. I couldn't legally purchase a Professional Bull-Riding membership until I was eighteen, but I could ride the bulls in local rodeos for the junior championship at fifteen with parental consent. Technically, I was still fourteen, but since I was going to turn fifteen in less than a month, the committee kinda let it slide.

"Jess?" Katie's soft voice broke into my thoughts and I looked up.

"Yeah, Kat?" I replied, leaning back against the tree we were sitting under in my backyard.