spicy smells assailed his nostrils. Then he ambled toward the bar, noticing the tiny dining room in the back was still pretty full for this late in the afternoon. He knew they weren't tourists, because the place was well off the beaten track—halfway to Sparks—and no one would ever guess the Coney Island Bar served the best Italian food in northern Nevada. He'd been turned on to the place by another bronc rider a few years back when he was still on the circuit.
Rowdy found an empty spot at the bar and slipped onto a stool, making sure to keep his back straight.
"Hey, Rowdy…Rowdy Williams!" The red-headed bartender had recognized him and hurried over.
"Hi, Ron," Rowdy said, shaking the man's hand, "how's it going?"
Ron nodded. "How 'bout you? You haven't been in…how long? Over a year?"
Rowdy nodded. It had been about eighteen months since that last Reno Rodeo…followed by the car accident back home in Salinas. "Yeah, it's been a while, Ron. Not riding anymore, you know."
The bartender nodded, his smile stiffening into kind of an embarrassed look. "Yeah, we saw the paper. Sorry about the wife, man." He made himself busy wiping the already shiny-clean bar with a towel. Finished, Ron looked up and asked, "What brings you back up this way, Rowdy?"
With an effort Rowdy pulled his thoughts away from Sadie, who had been seven months pregnant with their first child, sighed under his breath, then explained, "Well, I just recently finished my physical therapy program in San José—you probably read about my back and all. Anyhow they operated, fused some discs, and I've been going through some heavy-duty rehab." He nodded absently.
Actually, the numbing bout with booze after he realized Sadie and the baby were gone had delayed the whole rehabilitation process. "I'm headed north up to the Lazy R, Jack Ricciardi's ranch near Wild Horse, between Mountain City on the border and Mountain Home, Idaho on the Snake River. You might've seen Jack in here at rodeo time."
"Don't think so, but heard the boys talk about the Lazy R. Provides bulls and horses for rodeos all around here, right?"
"Hell, he provides stock for most of the western states on the circuit," Rowdy explained, glancing in the mirror for familiar faces. "Anyhow, he offered me some temporary fence-mending work if I came up. Help get me back on my feet, you know. Probably last a couple of months. Big spread…"
Rowdy grinned. Big alright—Jack owned 15,000 acres and leased grazing rights to another 65,000 from BLM. "But I thought since I was passing through I'd get me a big plate of Coney Island spaghetti…ain't much variety up there at Wild Horse, you know."
Ron laughed. "I'll put your order in. And a salad, too, with thousand island, right?"
"Hey, you shoulda been an elephant with a memory like that…and I'll drink iced tea."
After Ron returned with his iced tea and salad, he leaned close across the bar and asked, "Say, Rowdy, that Wild Horse sounds real isolated? Off in the boonies? Not many people?"
"Hey, you know it, pal," Rowdy replied. "I think on good days they get one TV channel out of Mountain Home. You got to drive about forty miles of oiled gravel road after Mountain City across the edge of the Western Shoshone Indian Reservation. Oh, there's a big gypsum mine, but other than miners there's only a few hunters staying there during elk season."
"Well, we got a waitress here with a little problem," Ron interrupted, waving to someone back toward the kitchen, "and maybe you can help her, Rowdy. I didn't volunteer nothing, just thought you might listen—" He quickly slipped away to serve another customer down the bar.
Rowdy frowned as the woman came up and around the bar, taking the stool next to him. She said, "Hi."
He nodded, indicated he was listening, and forked up some salad.
"Ron said you're leaving after dinner for someplace up north? And you have a car—"
"Pickup, lady," Rowdy said, correcting her. "I'm driving an old white Ford pickup.
Rowdy found an empty spot at the bar and slipped onto a stool, making sure to keep his back straight.
"Hey, Rowdy…Rowdy Williams!" The red-headed bartender had recognized him and hurried over.
"Hi, Ron," Rowdy said, shaking the man's hand, "how's it going?"
Ron nodded. "How 'bout you? You haven't been in…how long? Over a year?"
Rowdy nodded. It had been about eighteen months since that last Reno Rodeo…followed by the car accident back home in Salinas. "Yeah, it's been a while, Ron. Not riding anymore, you know."
The bartender nodded, his smile stiffening into kind of an embarrassed look. "Yeah, we saw the paper. Sorry about the wife, man." He made himself busy wiping the already shiny-clean bar with a towel. Finished, Ron looked up and asked, "What brings you back up this way, Rowdy?"
With an effort Rowdy pulled his thoughts away from Sadie, who had been seven months pregnant with their first child, sighed under his breath, then explained, "Well, I just recently finished my physical therapy program in San José—you probably read about my back and all. Anyhow they operated, fused some discs, and I've been going through some heavy-duty rehab." He nodded absently.
Actually, the numbing bout with booze after he realized Sadie and the baby were gone had delayed the whole rehabilitation process. "I'm headed north up to the Lazy R, Jack Ricciardi's ranch near Wild Horse, between Mountain City on the border and Mountain Home, Idaho on the Snake River. You might've seen Jack in here at rodeo time."
"Don't think so, but heard the boys talk about the Lazy R. Provides bulls and horses for rodeos all around here, right?"
"Hell, he provides stock for most of the western states on the circuit," Rowdy explained, glancing in the mirror for familiar faces. "Anyhow, he offered me some temporary fence-mending work if I came up. Help get me back on my feet, you know. Probably last a couple of months. Big spread…"
Rowdy grinned. Big alright—Jack owned 15,000 acres and leased grazing rights to another 65,000 from BLM. "But I thought since I was passing through I'd get me a big plate of Coney Island spaghetti…ain't much variety up there at Wild Horse, you know."
Ron laughed. "I'll put your order in. And a salad, too, with thousand island, right?"
"Hey, you shoulda been an elephant with a memory like that…and I'll drink iced tea."
After Ron returned with his iced tea and salad, he leaned close across the bar and asked, "Say, Rowdy, that Wild Horse sounds real isolated? Off in the boonies? Not many people?"
"Hey, you know it, pal," Rowdy replied. "I think on good days they get one TV channel out of Mountain Home. You got to drive about forty miles of oiled gravel road after Mountain City across the edge of the Western Shoshone Indian Reservation. Oh, there's a big gypsum mine, but other than miners there's only a few hunters staying there during elk season."
"Well, we got a waitress here with a little problem," Ron interrupted, waving to someone back toward the kitchen, "and maybe you can help her, Rowdy. I didn't volunteer nothing, just thought you might listen—" He quickly slipped away to serve another customer down the bar.
Rowdy frowned as the woman came up and around the bar, taking the stool next to him. She said, "Hi."
He nodded, indicated he was listening, and forked up some salad.
"Ron said you're leaving after dinner for someplace up north? And you have a car—"
"Pickup, lady," Rowdy said, correcting her. "I'm driving an old white Ford pickup.
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