To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before. D. R. Graham

so I’ll probably get involved with speculative investments in that industry. What do you want to do with your engineering degree?”

      “My main interest is water sustainability and regulation. I’d like to work on systems and infrastructure to make sure the world’s water supply is protected and accessible.”

      As she passionately describes why she chose her field of study and enthusiastically shares her future ideas about ground water and aquatic ecosystems, a bunch of childhood memories that I haven’t thought about in a long time flood my mind. Specifically, things about my mom. And the reminder of her takes me off guard. When Della stops to check my reaction, I don’t know quite what to say.

      In response to my speechlessness Della shifts uncomfortably in her seat, then blurts out, “We would die without water.” As soon as the words leave her mouth she hits her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s not a competition. Farming is important, too. We would also die without food, obviously. I wasn’t trying to sound like my career with water will be more important than your career in sustainable farming. They are both cool, or important, or whatever.”

      She makes brief eye contact, probably completely confused by the fact that I’m borderline choked up about the unexpected reminder of my mom.

      “Sorry.” She fidgets with the strap of her purse and stares down at her hands. “I don’t know why I jumped to assume that you disapproved. And it really doesn’t matter if you do. You’re entitled to your own opinions.” She inhales sharply and then sighs as if she’s disappointed in herself for getting defensive. “I guess I’m used to justifying my reasons with my dad and it accidently spewed out. Just ignore me.”

      I study her expression as she turns her focus to the passing scenery out the window. It’s weird, right? What are the chances I’d meet someone who has the exact same passion as my mom? It could be a fluke. Or it might be significant. Why does it feel like a big deal? It’s not. It’s just a random coincidence.

      “Hey.” I reach across the cab and touch her elbow to get her attention. “The reason it took me a long time to react isn’t because I was judging your goals. The opposite in fact. I was thrown off for a minute because my mom was a water protector. It brought up some memories of her as you talked about it. It’s a good thing.”

      “Really?” Della smiles at the commonality. “That’s really cool. What type of water protection activities was she involved in?”

      “She was in charge of community education initiatives for water conservation in Three Rivers. She was also involved in a lot of national advocacy projects and even a few protests.”

      “So, I would have liked her?”

      “Absolutely.” I smile to myself as I check off all the qualities in Della that my mom would have liked. She would have loved her—actually—and not only because of the save-the-water ideals.

      She spins in her seat to face me. “Sorry I misread your silence and jumped into defense mode.”

      “I get it. I had to defend my choice to pursue an MBA with my dad.”

      “Really? Why didn’t he agree with it?”

      “He runs the ranch on a high school education. My grandfather before him ran it on a seventh-grade education. He would have preferred if I skipped the MBA and offered an extra set of hands on the ranch all these years instead.”

      Her eyes track over my face as she decodes my expression. “If you don’t need the degree, then why was it important to you to do it?”

      Got to hand it to her. She has a way of cutting to the core. My real reason for getting an MBA isn’t something I’ve ever talked about with anyone before. My dad likely knows on some level because he’s experienced discrimination and racism his whole life, too. But his understanding of my motivation to gain legitimacy is unspoken, as is most of our relationship. “Let’s just say you and I both have something to prove to people who don’t believe we can do whatever we set our minds to.”

      She smiles and lifts her hand to give me a high five. “Cheers to proving the doubters wrong.”

      “Cheers to that.”

      “Hell yeah,” Chuckie pipes in from the front. “Fuck the doubters.”

      “Language,” both BJ and I say at the same time.

      “Sorry. Screw the doubters. Poo on the doubters. Doubters are dumb.” He throws up his hand to give up. “It loses its impact without the curse word. Sorry, Della, sometimes the F word is the only word that can adequately express how I feel about something. It’s just a word. I personally find the word cellophane offensive, but I ain’t gonna ask people to stop using it.”

      “I didn’t ask you not to swear,” she says in her defense.

      “You wince every time someone does. And these two keep yelling at me for it.”

      “Sorry,” she says quietly.

      “Don’t apologize, Della.” BJ shoves Chuckie’s shoulder. “Grow up, man. She’s a lady. You should be the one apologizing.”

      Chuckie scoffs. “Sorry for being a country bumpkin who offends your sophisticated sensibilities, ma’am. But I am who I am. Get used to it. Or get out.”

      “That’s real nice,” BJ mutters.

      I make eye contact with Della. “Ignore him.”

      She nods as if she plans to try, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the idea of someone not liking her, even if it’s someone like Chuck.

      I lean over and gesture with my finger for her to move closer. “He’s just testing you to see where your breaking point is. Don’t let him get to you and you’ll earn his respect forever,” I whisper in her ear.

      She nods again with the inspiration to do just that.

      Della and I talk for the rest of the ride. Somehow, we move seamlessly from school to politics to travel. She’s smart, well-read, and she’s travelled to five continents. I’ve never been out of the US, so her stories about foreign countries are especially interesting.

      By the time we arrive at the fairgrounds Chuck and BJ aren’t even listening to us anymore—maybe because they really aren’t interested, but more likely because they have a vested interest in Della and me getting close. We drive through the contestants’ gate and park on the grass lot next to the outdoor arena. It’s early, so I give Della a tour through the vendor and concession area while Chuck and BJ go get hotdogs. It’s not quite lunchtime, but she and I also stop to buy pulled pork buns and ice teas, walking through the fairgrounds as we eat. Eventually we make our way over to the pens where the bucking horses are kept.

      “Wow. They’re impressive animals,” she says as she leans her elbows on the fence. “Their muscles ripple like athletes.” She watches them for a while, then turns to me. “What made you decide to be a bronc rider?”

      I step in and lean on the fence next to her. “I didn’t really decide. It was more of a natural progression. Growing up on the ranch I watched my dad and all my uncles break horses. I saddle broke my first horse all by myself when I was eight years old. Since I was getting bucked around every day anyway, getting paid to stay on a bucking horse was a bonus. And it’s fun.”

      She sips her iced tea through a straw and the way her lips surround it makes my heart speed up. “What do love about it the most?”

      “Love about what?”

      She laughs as if she thinks it’s weird that I lost the thread of the conversation. “Bronc riding.”

      “Oh.” I’ve never directly been asked that question before. I push my hat back and watch the horses as I think about it. “Riding bareback on a wild horse is the purest form of horsemanship—it keeps me connected to my heritage.”

      She nods and smiles. “That is a beautiful way