An hour later, Greg Hallstead entered the police department's locker room wearing his patrolman's uniform and his new cowboy boots – still noticeably damp – and carried his old shoes. Another officer, in civilian clothes, slammed his locker and walked past Greg on his way out of the room.

The officer noticed Greg's wet clothes. "Tough shift?"

Greg deadpanned, "Coast Guard called for back-up." He yanked open a locker door with his name stenciled on it. On the inside of the door hung three ornate "Best All-Round Cowboy" belt buckles.

The other officer left without another word while Greg pulled Jeans, shirt, and Stetson hat out of the locker. He piled the clothing on a bench and reached back into the locker to withdraw worn cowboy boots. He began shedding his wet uniform.

Three uniformed officers entered and went to nearby lockers. One, whose nametag read "Dierdorf," stopped and stared at Greg.

Greg continued changing clothes as fast as possible.

Dierdorf said, "Hallstead?"

"Dierdorf."

"You worked today!"

"You musta really wowed 'em at the academy." Greg continued dressing, disinterested in conversation.

Dierdorf, increasingly agitated, stepped close and grabbed the front of Greg's shirt. "You know, today's the rodeo!"

"Yeah, it was in all the papers. Who read 'em to ya?" Greg looked down at Dierdorf's fist crumpling the front of Greg's western shirt. Hallstead raised cold eyes to Dierdorf's face.

Dierdorf dropped the shirt as if it had burned his hand. "I already bet a hundred bucks on you winning the buckle for the fourth straight year, and you didn't even bother to show up for the competition? What kinda stunt is that? What are you gonna say to all your fellow officers when they lose their money?"

Greg, now dressed, snatched one of the gold belt buckles off the locker door, clipped it to his belt, stuffed his uniform into the locker, and slammed it.

"Gambling's illegal in this state." Greg tipped his Stetson hat and left the locker room.

Dierdorf turned desperate eyes on his two buddies, but they looked away. No help there. He whomped his locker door in frustration. All he got was a loud noise and a bruised fist.

Dierdorf might have felt better if he had known that Greg wasn't skipping the annual rodeo entirely. He arrived at the open-air, wooden stadium about a half hour after leaving the police department. Several hours of daylight remained, and the 4th Annual South Florida All-Police Charity Rodeo was still very much in progress.

Greg entered through the gate marked "Competitors Only." He walked beneath the grandstands, parting lines of spectators waiting at concession stands.

Several spectators, some of them wearing police uniforms, recognized Greg and shouted greetings. He returned a grin and a wave, and he kept going.

Soon, he spotted his old buddy, Stavros, in the crowd and stopped him with a good-ol'-boy backslap.

"Stavros! What's the deal, buddy?"

Stavros gripped Greg's shoulder in greeting. "Lotta unhappy bookies when you didn't show up earlier, man, but that ain't the only surprise."

"I heard it rained."

"Delayed everything about four hours – thank the Lord – so you only missed steer riding and barrell racing."

"Hah!" Greg slapped his palms together in celebration. "Little boys ride steers, and barrel racing is for girls. Who took 'em? Bronson?"

Stavros slid his hand from Greg's shoulder to his elbow and used it to direct Greg into a semi-private corner under the bleachers. "That's another surprise. Bronson, Wexler, all the regulars are here, but they ain't won didly!"

"What? Why?"

"It's some newcomer from Special Operations – moved into town since last year's rodeo. Name's Terry McCaskill."

Greg took this in for a second. "Seen him?"

"Only from a distance – and it's a mudbath out there. Everybody looks like under a layer of brown mud and matching cowpoop. Kinda skinny is all I can say."

Greg nodded, acknowledging this particular occupational hazard.

Stavros continued, "Listen, if you take the calf roping, sharp shooting, and saddle broncs, you can still take the buckle for Best All-Round Cowboy. Four in a row, man! I'll say it again, thank God for rain delays!"

At that moment, Greg looked over Stavros's shoulder and noticed a lovely young woman wiggling her tight jeans through the crowd. Greg stepped around Stavros.

Stavros looked to see what Greg was seeing. "Oh, geez, there's Cecilia. What I wouldn't give for the chance to come between her and her Calvins."

"What's stoppin' ya?" Greg asked.

"They all quit dating cops after they dump you."

Greg left Stavros standing in his drool and swooped to Cecilia's side, slipping an arm around her waist. They exchanged smiles, greetings, and a quick, friendly kiss. Stavros watched from his corner, eyes full of envy.

Cecilia asked Greg, "Where were you earlier?"

"Just got off my shift."

"Excuse me? The defending champion! I don't believe they made you work today!"

"Volunteered. Louise's last day before maternity leave."

At this, Cecilia's smile froze, and she whacked Greg's face with her open hand.

Stavros could hear the smack from his corner, and he jerked back just as Greg did.

Greg looked confused and pained, rubbed his jaw, and stared at Cecilia. "What's that for?"

Cecilia stepped backward, out of his reach. "That's for all the Montain-mountain-man macho crapola you've smothered Louise with – especially today, I'll bet. And don't play innocent, I know you too well. No jury would've convicted Louise if she had shot you on any one of a hundred occasions. And, I'm sure you were in rare form today. Jerk!"

Cecilia stormed off after giving Greg a look that conveyed, "Eat my dust."

Greg called after her, "Cecilia-- !"

"I hope Terry McCaskill cleans your clock!" Cecilia shouted.

If she said any more, nobody heard it. At that moment the grandstands above them reverberated with cheering and applause. There was even some foot-stomping, and cowboy boots are magnificently loud on wooden tiers.

When the noise abated, a golden-voiced rodeo announcer boomed, "Another fine performance by Terry McCaskill, and that puts Terry in first place so far, in the Calf Roping event. Comin' up next is last year's Best All-Round Cowboy, Greg Halstead."

"Dang!" said Greg, and he sped toward the chutes like a greyhound after a rabbit.