By the time I got to the ranch's main road, another mile farther along, I was holding tight to the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. I hadn't been in a ring in almost twenty years, and I'd had only a few barroom scuffles since-nothing like a flat-out fight in the sober light of day. The experience hadn't gotten any prettier.
It brought another memory of Celia that wasn't pretty, either.
After she'd teased me at the creek that time, it hadn't taken me long to figure out who she'd been practicing for. Pete Pettyjohn, Reuben's oldest son, was a nineteen-year-old golden boy-good-looking, popular, and the heir apparent to his family's empire. When I was a little kid, I'd had a serious case of hero worship for him.
But as I'd gotten older, I'd come to understand that there was something off about Pete. Usually he was friendly, but then out of nowhere he'd turn stone-cold or even menacing. He'd already started drinking pretty hard. Still, it was obvious that Celia had her sights set on him, and while Pete played it cool, he seemed to be around her a lot. It bothered me for selfish reasons-I was childishly jealous, afraid she'd cut me out.
One afternoon soon after the swimming incident, I wandered down to the stables to visit with her. She was alone in the corral, working with a young mare that she'd been grooming for barrel racing. I was happy just to watch her. I stopped a distance away so I wouldn't interrupt, thinking I'd say hi when she took a break.
But before she did, Pete came driving along in one of the ranch trucks.
As he was passing by, the mare started to buck, tossing up rear hooves and hopping sideways, trying to throw her. It was so unexpected and fast that I stood poleaxed for a couple of seconds. Then I started running for the corral, but Pete was way ahead of me. He vaulted the rail, caught the horse by the bridle, and wrestled it down to where Celia could slide off the saddle. She sagged against him like she was badly shaken. He walked her to the gate with his arm around her waist.
I started to get a glimmer of just how good a rider she was.
They hadn't noticed me yet, and if I'd had any sense, I would have backed quietly away. Instead, I kept trotting toward the corral. I guess I wanted her to know that I'd tried to help.
As they came out the gate, I called out to ask if she was all right. Her head swung toward me and her eyes flared, like she'd been caught doing something wrong. But she bounced back in a heartbeat-gave me her brilliant smile and said, "Little boys ought to know better than to sneak around spying on people."
It cut me to the bone. I stammered a denial and started to leave, but Pete came striding toward me. I figured he was going to show off for her by shoving me around. There wasn't much I could do about it-physically, he was a grown man who outweighed me by fifty pounds.
But when I saw his face close up, I knew he'd taken one of those spooky turns. He looked furious, almost manic. He balled up his fist and hit me in the belly so hard that I doubled over with the wind knocked out of me. He clobbered me again on the side of the head and tripped me as I staggered back. Then he started kicking me while I lay on the ground. Celia came running over, screaming at him and trying to pull him away. He spun around toward her with his fist clenched. I still couldn't breathe, and I watched helplessly, certain he was going to smash her face.
She stopped yelling, but she didn't let go of him or back away an inch-just stared at him. She'd gone from looking upset to excited, and it stuck in my memory that her tongue quickly wet her lips.
Pete lowered his fist, but they kept looking at each other for a few more seconds. Then she let go of him and knelt beside me, petting my forehead and apologizing for what she'd said. Pete helped me to my feet and apologized, too. He was sincere and he looked confused, like he wasn't sure what had happened. I promised them I wouldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't have, anyway.
The beating hurt for days. Celia's treachery hurt far worse. But worst of all was my own weakness-my failure in her eyes. In spite of how she treated me, I wanted desperately for her to think of me as a man she admired instead of a pissant kid.
I made up my mind that I was going to learn to fight. I started taking martial arts lessons, and over the next months, I fantasized a million ways I'd step in and rescue her from harm.
I never got the chance.