The Girl Who Rode the Sheep

But Bentley got there first. He ducked under the bottom rail before anybody could stop him and ran out into that dirt in his crooked black hat and threw both arms around Emmy so hard he nearly knocked her flat.

“You did it!” he hollered. “You did the whole thing! You held on! You held on all the way, Emmy!”

“Face in the wool,” Emmy said into his shoulder, and hugged him right back, with dirt all over the both of them.

“Face in the wool,” Bentley said, and he did not let go of her. He just held on, the way she had held on to that sheep.

They stood there in the middle of the arena hugging each other, two six-year-olds in a cloud of dust, and the bleachers made the sound a crowd makes when it sees something it is going to tell people about for years.

The announcer did not say a word. He let them have it.

I looked at Ashlyn. She was crying. Not the kind of crying you do when you are embarrassed.

The kind you do when you have been wrong about something and you can feel it all the way down to your boots.

Dane put his arm around her. He did not say anything to her. He did not have to. He just stood there with her, which is what a decent man does, even when he knows his wife was wrong.

I want to be careful about this next part, because I do not want anybody thinking I enjoyed it. I did not. But it happened, and it was hers to stand in, not mine.

They kept all the kids behind the chutes until the go was done. Five more rode after Emmy, and none of them got past the mark.

While we waited, the people along the fence came by one at a time to see her.

An old rancher whose hair I cut every third Thursday came by and shook Emmy’s hand like she was a grown man who had just bought his best bull.

The lady who owns the cafe hugged her. A big boy from the high school football team gave her a high five so gentle it was barely a touch.

And every one of them, sooner or later, looked over at Ashlyn. Not mean. Nobody said one word to her.

But it is a small town, and little boys talk, and Bentley had told half the chute line that morning that Emmy was too scared to ride, because his mom said so.

So by the time Emmy came off that sheep, everybody at that fence knew what had been said in Dane’s kitchen. Every last one of them.

And Ashlyn stood there. She stood there in front of all of them while they shook my daughter’s hand, and she did not hide in the truck and she did not leave.

I will give her that much for the rest of my life. She stood there and she took it.

Dane’s mother came down out of the bleachers and hugged Emmy, and then hugged Bentley, and then turned and looked at Ashlyn for a long moment. “Well,” she said. “Now we know.” That was the whole of it. In our town, that was plenty.

When the last kid had ridden, the announcer called the top three out into the arena for the buckles. Third place went to a boy from out by the reservoir.

Second went to the little redheaded girl. And first, at eleven seconds and the full length of the arena, went to Emmy Roe.