Forrest didn’t mind his granddad going off and leaving him with a stranger. That was nothing unusual. But the clucking old hen now attending him was. Forrest couldn’t concentrate with her chatter filling the deserted grandstands. He couldn’t do what he needed to before the performance, because despite what he’d told his best friend, Tom, Forrest hadn’t faced his fear.

What would happen when his daddy climbed on his bull? Forrest had never been allowed to attend his father’s competitions and wasn’t sure what his reaction would be. The scenes on television were bad enough. Forrest watched them alone in his bedroom, where he could gasp and scream and hide his eyes all he wanted.

He had thought, now that he was older and soon to ride his own bulls, that he’d love coming to the Palace. He’d planned to dream of his own perfect ride, to fix the place so firmly in his mind that wherever he went, he’d be part of its glory. He’d thought that when he saw his father’s ride, somehow Forrest would ride with him, no longer the son of a six-time world champion, but a champion himself. Somehow, the crown would be passed on to him.

But that changed after the initial excitement of being in the Palace. When he had thoroughly checked it out, Forrest found it was just an arena. Bigger and with more seating than he had ever personally seen, but common dirt made up its floor—dirt that his daddy might be thrown onto, that might suck up his daddy’s spilled blood. Or eventually, Forrest’s.

“Forrest!”

He felt a withered hand stroke his wrist.

“How’d you like to run over to Candlestick Park? You might see a Forty-Niner® or two if we go now. We’ll be back in time for the show.”

Forrest shook his head.

The woman tried again, still touching his wrist. “There’s a mint not too far from here that your granddad liked visiting. Plumb full of money.” She smiled, evidently sure that gold ran in Forrest’s veins, too. Forrest let her know it didn’t.

“Listen, son. Your daddy’s getting’ geared up for his ride. You won’t see him ‘til the show begins tonight. That’s a long time off. Ain’t you hungry? A little shop I know sells the best jerky in—” She stopped herself as Forrest turned away. “And an ice cream parlor, with thick malts and hamburgers this high.” She spread her forefinger and thumb wide to illustrate. “Got to get used to fast food if you’re gonna rodeo, son. Best start now.”

Forrest swallowed, and the woman hauled him off victoriously.

After dispatching one burger and a heap of fries, Forrest slurped his chocolate-banana malt in contentment.

“That’s better now, ain’t it? See, Lorna knows what you need. Glad you came?”

“Yeah.” Forrest ignored his spoon and poured the malt straight from its frigid metal tumbler into his mouth, enjoying the shock of ice cream sliding down his throat.

“I’ve known your daddy since he was a little older’n you,” Lorna said, and Forrest felt more inclined to give her his attention now. “I thought I might be his new mama for a while there, but things…well, sometimes life don’t work out like you figure.”

“Yes, ma’am. You knew my daddy pretty good?”

“Sure did. Like he was my own little boy, almost. I used to come see him lots, bring him presents, teach him songs—”

“You taught him that song?” Forrest set down his malt.

“Well, now, which song you talkin’ about?”

“The one he was singin’ last night. I liked it.” Forrest cocked his head to one side, remembering the scene. Forrest’s granddad had stretched out on the couch in their dark hotel room, and Forrest sat on the soft corner of the bed across from him, his daddy off to the right but between them like the top point of a triangle. The hotel was quiet. Forrest’s father’s voice didn’t break the stillness but moved with it.

The song was slow, accompanied only by strums of Sterling Jr.’s guitar. While the tune didn’t seem sad, it made Forrest feel that way. The words talked about a cowboy’s life, about going down the road, about saying goodbye and moving on. Forrest remembered the chorus and melody holding the words, yodely and solemn, like his daddy’s voice:

Fol-low the ro-de-o star….
Don’t matter much where you are,
One town or the other, so much like another….
Just fol-low the ro-de-o star.

“Now that was nice. But no, I didn’t teach your daddy that song.” Lorna sipped from her glass.

Forrest hadn’t realized he was singing aloud. He looked around him, dazed.

“Haven’t heard it on the radio, neither. No, I bet your daddy made up that one.” Lorna smiled and crumpled her napkin by poking her face with it. “I think we’ll go to the beach now, and then the zoo.”

She leaned over the table to squeeze Forrest’s shoulder. “That should make the day go by quick enough, shouldn’t it?” Lorna dug through her purse. “We can get a bite to eat later on, so you won’t be hungry again when it’s your daddy’s turn to ride.”

To ride. Your daddy’s turn to ride. The words clanged in Forrest’s head like a cowbell as an old, sick feeling rose from the depths of his stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” Lorna clutched her wallet and went off to pay for the meal, leaving Forrest to deal with his renewed terror by himself.