Taken By The Bull

“Did you like the hat?”

“It looks cute on me, yeah.” Something about his amused grin was infectious; all white teeth and good humor. She couldn’t help but smile back, although her own expression showed a good deal more embarrassment than his did. “I hope it’s not too unexpected, our stopping by like this.”

“Not at all.” He placed something on the floor at his feet and moved around to the side, mounting the short wooden steps, approaching with his hand extended. “It’s good to meet you again, Miss – Wilder, wasn’t it?”

“It was, still is, always will be.” She accepted his proffered hand and shook it. Firm, not too firm. Show you mean business, but you’re still a lady. A lady who just happens to mean business. “Staci Wilder, JMN News.”

“Still a pleasure.” There was a gentleness to his touch, a warmth to the way that his blue eyes rested on hers for a moment – but not for too long.

Cornflower blue, she thought. A nice color. Though for some reason I had it in my head that he had brown eyes. Real dark ones. But – I like blue. Blue eyes and dark hair always look so good on camera. That’s what made my mother’s generation fall in love with Tom Cruise, after all.

It wasn’t until Steve dropped her hand and spoke again that she realized that she’d left an uncomfortably long lull in the conversation. “You said ‘our stopping by’.” He glanced around in an exaggerated manner. “But, you seem to be alone. Might you by one of those ‘multiple personality’ people I’ve heard about on TV?”

“Mikey – my camera-man – is still at the van.” Her cheeks flushed with blood. “I’m sorry, I’m just so used to talking as if I’m part of a team. Even when the others aren’t with me.” She paused, reaching for the next thing to say, feeling that she needed to direct the conversation elsewhere. “You know, they call it ‘Dissociative Identity Disorder’ now?”

Really? That’s what I came up with?

“Do they now? The human condition is surely a fascinating thing.” He didn’t seem at all bothered by her sudden change of topic; but then, he seemed like the kind of man who was rarely bothered by anything. “I have a fence to finish waterproofing. Unless you have an aversion to talking with a man while he rounds off his morning’s work, then you’re welcome to tag along while I finish up there.”

That’s good, Staci thought. Maybe I can catch him off-guard, while his mind is on other things. Some kind of career talk. “So, what’s your secret, Steve?” I’ll ask, and he’ll say “Well, I’ve trained all the PBR bulls to do whatever I say.” Or, “They’re all robots that I hand-built myself.” Oh, that would be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?

“That’s no problem at all!” She offered her brightest smile, slipping back into the persona of the professional reporter as naturally as if it were a pair of comfortable shoes. “Would it be okay if I ask you some questions while you work? I have my voice recorder with me.”

“Hmm.” There was a slight pause while he considered this, before he leaned over, disappearing from her view, only to stand up straight again with the metallic ring of a steel bucket. “I guess, we both have a little work to be getting on with this morning. So, this isn’t just a social call?”

“A reporter’s work is never really done. There’s a story in just about everything, providing you can find the right angle to look at it.”

She followed him as he walked across the yard and across a wide expanse of flat land, green grass dotted here and there with a dry clump of yellowed foliage. The summer had already been long and hot, and there was no sign of rain on the horizon. Always one half-step behind, she had to move quickly to keep up with his long stride.

She pulled her phone from her pocket as she walked, and texted a short message to Mikey with a practiced thumb; ALL DONE, TALKING NOW, HURRY UP. S.

The warm, low drawl of Steve’s voice called her attention back to the present moment. “So, I have a question of my own for you, Miss Wilder.”

“Of course!” She stuffed the phone back into the hip-pocket of her jeans. “But please, call me Staci.”

“I was wondering, exactly what angle you were taking while looking at me.” He stopped by a point in the fence that looked no different to her than any of the others, and glanced back over his shoulder. “In the sense of… News, and reporting, naturally.” The bucket came to rest on the ground and he took up the long-handled brush resting inside. “Doesn’t seem to me like there’s anything that interesting in my story, not that the folks up in the city would care about anyways.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. People are always looking for something that calls them back to a simpler time, something a little – a little romantic, you know what I mean?” Quietly she slid open the zipper of her bag, and extracted the tablet computer inside. “And a real cowboy still walking the world, that’s a story that someone can really lose them inside.”

“Ain’t no ‘real cowboys’ left in America, Miss Wilder.” He corrected himself immediately. “Staci. But it’s just as well, for it wasn’t any kind of ‘romantic’ thing, at all.”

“Do you mind if I record, while we talk?” Did that sound too over-eager? “I mean, no guarantees that any of it would be relevant, but – it’s fascinating stuff, and you’re a good speaker.”

“Go ahead.” He shrugged, half-turning away as he set brush to the fence-posts, coating the wood in long strokes of glistening dark lacquer. There was something a little awkward about his tone; the flattery she’d baited her request with hadn’t been too effective in putting him at ease. “Seth’s the real expert on these matters. He looks it all up on the internet, checks his facts, gets it straight. Me, I mostly just talk through the kinds of stories my dad used to tell. Ain’t no guarantees that any of it is accurate.”

“It’s not like it’s a documentary.” She set the tablet’s software to ‘record’, snapped the jack for the microphone into place. “A narrative account isn’t all about facts. It’s more about the speaker.” Setting the tablet back in her bag, she clipped the microphone to the front of her shirt. “All about the story he or she is telling.”

“There’s not much of a story in the truth.” He paused, eyes on the fence post in front of him, oddly still. “Or at least, in the truths that folks are happy to share with others.”

An expression of puzzlement creased Staci’s features at these words and she wondered: What’s going through his mind, as he says that?