The Cowboy Challenge

I found the information board that directed me to Salon E, where the Cowboy Challenge competition I was registered for, was being held. There, I see my name on the list, Tory Durand and I fervently wish that I had not agreed to do this.

I arrive with plenty of time to spare. I’ll take my small victories. Despite taking trailer hauling lessons, I battled hooking up the trailer for twenty minutes and then my horse decided to refuse to load in a trailer that he gladly loaded, many times before. Once he agreed to load, I had a three-hour drive through heavy city traffic. The stress of getting here was enough to rattle the Boston Strangler.

Salon E is massive. I find the registration booth and get my competition number and don the armband that allows me to compete in my group. I peek into the salon and the competitors riding at the moment look fierce, determined and confident, everything I am not. Shaken and now fully panicked, I head for the only saving grace that I can think of, food. I grab a table in the huge cafeteria, plunking my backpack and helmet on the table to save the seat. Grabbing a tray, I join the line-up for the somewhat confusing smells that emanate from the steaming food counters. Concentrating on the feast ahead, I jump when someone touches my arm.

I turn to look into the most startling, blue eyes I have ever seen. I can see the mouth moving but can’t hear anything because of those eyes. Finally, I see Mr. Blue Eyes hand me something.

“Excuse me madam, you dropped your keys,” as he passed the strangely warm keys into my hand. My mind creates a flash of an image, he is kissing me. I stammer something unintelligible and look down to hide my reddening face. I am overwhelmed with a feeling impossible to ignore. I watch him walk away with a swagger I can’t help but admire.

I try to shake off the sudden feeling of having lost something important, by loading my tray far past its plastic capacity, and head for my table. My backpack and helmet are not there. I look around in confusion and then check my bearings in case I am at the wrong table.

Banishing the voice of reason that is calling desperately to start an all-out search for my lost possessions, I furtively glance around the room looking for Blue Eyes with no success. What is happening with me? I should be looking for my bag, not some random, kind stranger. I take a deep breath and check my watch. I have an hour before my competition. I won’t be able to compete unless I find my helmet. A deep ragged sigh of disappointment emanates from me, causing a few people around me reserved concern. I catch one lady’s eye and smile to let her know I was fine. She had riding breeches on, just like I did, so I take a chance and approach her.

“Hi, I left my backpack and helmet here to get some food and now they are gone. Did you notice anyone taking them, I wonder?” I shyly ask.

She cocks her head, “No, I just got here and didn’t see a backpack when I sat down. But you can check customer service or the lost and found, they might have your stuff.”

“Oh, thanks.” I reply, as I head in the direction she indicated, carrying my rapidly congealing food.

After standing in line for what felt like an eternity, the attendant confirms nothing had been turned in today. Stepping away from the counter I sit down on the closest bench. Well, that’s that. There isn’t much in the backpack to worry about, since I had taken my wallet with me to pay for my meal, and have my keys in my pocket, thanks to Mr. Blue Eyes. I do sincerely regret the loss of my helmet and the ridiculously expensive hair spray in my bag, though. A lot of good nice hair is, if I can’t compete. My $200 entry fee is down the drain as well. I’m sure I’ve had my fair share of bad luck by now.

I look up, as I feel, rather than see someone approaching. Mr. Blue Eyes hands me my backpack and helmet.

“Are you looking for these? I saw a couple kids push this under the table as they sat down, so I grabbed it for you.” He looks at my armband and says with an open smile, “Maybe I shouldn’t help a competitor, but my guess is that you are a worthy opponent. Best of luck to you, see you on the course.” He mockingly salutes and walks away for the second time in one hour.

Beyond grateful, and feeling excited for the first time, I try to eat my cold, tasteless burger, but my nerves got the better of me and I throw the food away. I rush to get my horse saddled, and we arrive in the arena just on time.

This competition is all about how calmly your horse accepts challenges he might face when out on a trail ride. Mr. Blue Eyes, whose real name I found out is Ryan, is clearly a better rider than I am, but is riding a younger less experienced horse. Even so, when they announce the marks for each obstacle, and we are neck in neck. My horse Ryker is having fun, I can tell, because he is trying to stay one step ahead of me on the obstacles. For our first competition, he is doing so well. I feel my heart bursting with pride for him.

On the very last obstacle, the water bridge, Ryan’s horse balks at the crossing. I watch with admiration as Ryan softly calms his young steed and gives him the courage to cross it. The crowd cheers when he steps out of the water, safely on the other side. He loses two marks on that obstacle and lost the competition to me. As I receive the winner’s ribbon, I catch Ryan beaming a smile at me that took my breath away.

The third time Ryan walks away from me, I feel as though the sun has just imploded and it is the end of the world as I know it. As I leave the arena, many people reach out to congratulate me on my win. I am still having trouble believing that we won our first competition. I bring Ryker back to his stall and start cleaning it, to prepare to leave. As is customary, I hang the ribbon outside on the stall door and continue to thank people that pop by to congratulate me. I really feel that Ryan should have won, he is definitely a better rider than I am.

I jab a huge pile of dirty straw with my pitchfork and dump it onto the already overflowing wheel barrel. I struggle to push it over to the disposal bin down at the end of the hall. When I start to dump the load, it starts to tilt sideways. As it starts to fall, I feel the wheel barrel pulled from my hands saw it steadied by someone. I saw manicured boots out of the corner of my eye as I scramble to get my balance back. Ryan dumped the contents into the bin and stood there grinning at me.

“It seems like once again you are in the right place to save me from myself,” I squeak, feeling the blush steal over my face.

“Well, it appears so, but actually I came by to ask you if you would like to join me for dinner? As I recall you had a rather sketchy lunch. There is a great steakhouse close to here and the parking lot will easily hold two trucks with horse trailers.”

Although my heart is pounding so loud that I am surprised no-one is looking for the ticking bomb that surely is in the vicinity, I calmly accept his invitation. We agree to meet in an hour in the parking lot to load the horses. Once he walks away, I leap up and dance a happy jig. I startled a couple walking by and Ryker watches with a concerned look on this face. Wise soul that he is, he sees the happiness underneath the crazy and goes back to eating.

I rush to get packed, because I know myself too well. I am usually the last one ready or the last to leave, time just has a habit of getting away on me. I lead Ryker to the trailer and of course he knows he is going home, so he just walks into the trailer. Just as I close the trailer door, I see a huge rig drive towards me, and Ryan leans out of the window.

“I watched as your horse loaded like a pro! Great job! The restaurant is two blocks from here, so just follow me. As you can see, my rig is easy to see.”

I follow his five-horse rig with my single horse trailer to the restaurant. True to his word, there is lots of room to park. Anyone not comfortable pulling a trailer will understand why this is so important. I check Ryker to make sure he is okay, and we head into the restaurant. I gratefully slide into a booth seat in the nicely cooled restaurant and accept the tall glass of ice water put before me.

Ryan’s ice blue eyes are unsettling, gorgeous, but other than that, our conversation is as smooth as if we had known each other our whole lives. His eyes actually twinkle when he laughs.

We both order a Merlot at the same time, when the waiter comes by for the drink request. When it arrives, Ryan pours us each a glass. He raises his glass and toasts, “Here’s to new friendships and new adventures.” The fifth time Ryan walks away from me, is with a kiss and a promise. There was never a sixth time.