Coulda Been a Cowboy

by Brenda Novak

  “How’s your father doing?”

  “Fine. Good.” Or maybe not so good, considering Skelton would scarcely talk to her. Even though Mrs. Duluth and Terrance Bennett both told her his condition seemed relatively unchanged, he’d been complaining more than ever about his health. Was he trying to make her feel guilty for leaving him?

  “I’m glad.” He peered at her a little more closely. “Looks like the bruising is gone.”

  “It didn’t last long.”

  “He hasn’t acted up again, has he?”

  “A couple days ago he got drunk before Terrance arrived and tried to bar Terrance from coming in, at which point he stumbled and knocked over a lamp. But Terrance seemed to gain control of the situation okay. Dad was sleeping off his bender when I checked on him the next morning. He wasn’t hurt.”

  When Tyson didn’t respond, she looked up to see why. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was frowning at the pile of laundry where she’d thrown his sweatshirt. “Would you rather I wash that first?” she asked, uncertain of his expression.

  Crossing the room, he picked it up. “Is this blood?”

  He indicated a large red spot on the inside sleeve, and Dakota’s stomach lurched as she realized it was from the knife wound on her arm. She’d taken off the bandage before her shower, and when she pulled on Tyson’s sweatshirt, she’d been in too big a hurry to remember how inflamed and infected it was getting. “I’m so sorry,” she said, mortified. “I can get it off. Here, give it to me. I’ll use a laundry stick and—”

  “What’s it from?” he interrupted.

  She didn’t want to say. She couldn’t believe she’d helped herself to his clothing, then soiled it with something most people would be afraid to touch for fear of acquiring an infectious disease. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking. She’d grown too comfortable here in the cabin while he was gone, living as if it was all hers. “My arm. I…scratched it out-outside and didn’t know it was bleeding when I put on your shirt. But I can get the blood out,” she repeated.

  “When did it happen?”

  “This morning.”

  “That’s a deep scratch if it’s still bleeding in the middle of the night.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was suspicious or simply stating the obvious. “It’s nothing.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take a look at it.”

  She kept her focus on what she was doing. “Not right now. It’s too hard to reach.”

  “You’re wearing a T-shirt under that sweatshirt, aren’t you?”

  If she continued to protest, he’d know something was up. Hoping the injury didn’t appear as angry now that she’d had a shower, she peeled back the zip-up sweatshirt, removed the bandage and flashed the wound at him. She tried to cover it up again right away—but he caught the hand that held the bandage and dragged her into better light.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered when he saw it and, for some inexplicable reason, a lump rose in Dakota’s throat. Her father had done this to her. The man who’d raised her. The man she was trying so desperately to stand by.

  “It might be a little infected,” she managed to say, wishing her heart would stop its crazy pounding. Or that Tyson’s face would clear and he’d simply take her word for it. Or that he’d realize it was stupid for him to care. He was a short-timer here. What did it matter to him if she had a cut on her arm?

  “That’s deep, all right. Especially for a scratch,” he said. “How’d you get it again?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes, was afraid he’d read the truth if she did. “On a-a tree branch.”

  “Pretty clean cut for a jagged tree branch.”

  That was definitely suspicion. And he was watching her too closely. For the first time since she’d come to the cabin, she wished she was in her room at home, where she didn’t have to worry about anyone prying. The situation with her father was humiliating, and she felt foolish—even childish—for lying. But the truth would get her father into more trouble than she could get him out of. And he hadn’t meant to do it. Not really. “Looks different now. Wasn’t much to start with.”

  “That so.”

  It wasn’t a question. “Yes, of course.” She managed to jerk her arm away. “I’ll get your clothes clean. Don’t worry about that, okay? Good night.” She tried to slip past him, but he inserted himself between her and the doorway.

  “Dakota, that scratch is more like a cut.”

  She said nothing.

  “And it looks like it’s been there awhile,” he said softly.

  She hated the sympathy in his voice. You have your own problems. Quit poking through mine. “I’ve been putting antiseptic on it.”

  “That isn’t enough. You should see a doctor.”

  She was tempted to argue. It was nothing; it’d heal. But she knew contradicting him would only push him into taking a stronger stand, and she certainly didn’t want him getting involved.

  So she capitulated, thinking he might forget about it if she did. “If it doesn’t improve by tomorrow morning, I will. Get some sleep, okay?” The brief smile she offered him seemed to struggle against more gravity than normal, but this time he let her go.

  * * *

  TYSON PACED his room for almost an hour, then went downstairs to see if Dakota was still up. They were forty minutes from the closest town—he had no idea where a doctor was beyond that—but he didn’t want to wait until morning to see something done about that cut. There were red streaks going up her arm, which meant the infection was spreading. He was afraid she’d end up with blood poisoning if they didn’t act soon. But he doubted she’d listen to him, even if he offered to drive her to a hospital. She hadn’t been very receptive before. And when he ventured into the hall to talk to her, he found the music off, the place dark. She was already in bed.

  He hesitated at her closed door, tempted to wake her. Then he retreated. No doubt she had her own reasons for not seeking help. He suspected he knew what those reasons were and was torn as to whether or not to support them. Regardless of her love for the old man, her father had to be stopped. But then, as long as he was around to keep an eye on her, Tyson supposed he could let the Skelton situation slide. For now. He’d have to make a more permanent arrangement when it came time for him to leave.

  Meanwhile, maybe he could call in a few favors and get her the help—along with the privacy—she needed.

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF Tyson’s voice, coming from downstairs, woke Dakota the next morning. For a minute, she thought she’d overslept, that Tyson was talking to Braden, but she could hear the baby playing in his crib across the hall. He’d shriek every now and then because he was getting restless, but he hadn’t yet broken into a full “come get me now” cry.

  Tyson didn’t have the baby, which meant her employer was probably on the phone. It was going to be strange living in such close proximity, Dakota decided. Especially after having the place to herself for more than a week. It felt like he was moving into her house, instead of the other way around.

  Getting up, she started across the hall, then remembered what she’d gone to bed thinking about—what had happened in Tyson’s room last night—and paused in front of the mirror. Tyson had wanted her sexually. Just for a brief second. But he’d wanted her.

  This morning, with her hair mussed, and the pattern of her blanket imprinted on her cheek, she could easily believe that the incident had been more fantasy than reality. But her breasts weren’t bad. And she was almost positive he’d been looking there.

  She lifted her shirt to take a candid peek at herself. It had been a long time since she’d evaluated her own sex appeal. She’d let the years when a young woman usually experimented and dated slip by unfulfilled. Now she felt middle-aged—probably because most of the people in her life were a generation older.

  But she hadn’t felt old last night. Standing in Tyson’s room with him staring at her like he was two seconds away from carrying her off to bed made her feel y
oung and vibrant and very much alive.

  “Dakota?”

  Letting out a startled yelp, she pulled down her shirt. Tyson was at her door. Her heart pounded at the thought that he might’ve poked his head in, expecting her to be in bed, and spotted her gawking at her bare chest. It was bad enough that she’d embarrassed herself last night by being caught in his underwear.

  “Yes?” she said, struggling to keep her voice level.

  “Get up. We’re going into town.”

  “We?”

  “You want to check on your father, don’t you?”

  She did and she didn’t. But whether she wanted to or not didn’t matter. She’d do it anyway. “Yes.”

  “Great. I’ll take you.”

  “In the Ferrari?”

  “Why not?”

  “Where will we put Braden?”

  There was a slight hesitation, as if he’d forgotten his son. “I guess we’ll have to take your car,” he said at last.

  She couldn’t imagine Tyson Garnier in the Bomber. Was it even clean? She doubted it. It didn’t look any better when she washed and waxed it, so she rarely bothered, and it was usually only she and her father who ever saw the inside. “What about Braden’s breakfast?”

  “We’ll eat out.”

  “Do I have time for a shower?” Say yes, please!

  “What time does the pharmacy open?”

  The pharmacy? “Ten. Why?”

  “It’s a quarter after eight right now. We’ll leave in an hour.”

  “Why are we going to the pharmacy?” she called, but he’d already walked away.

  Hearing his footsteps recede, she lifted her tank top again and turned from one side to the other. Not bad, she decided. Some women would pay big bucks to have breasts like hers. But…she studied the rest of her body. The four pounds she’d lost wasn’t enough. She needed to keep working out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Grandpa Garnier: If you get to thinking you’re a person

  of some influence, try ordering someone else’s dog around.

  DAKOTA TRIED not to feel self-conscious about the way her car shimmied whenever they came to a stop. She’d managed to hurry out of the cabin ahead of Tyson and throw away all the trash she’d collected in the back seat—mostly wrappers from Arctic Flyer, where she often went for lunch. But there was nothing she could do about the smell. One window didn’t close all the way, so if it rained unexpectedly while she was at work, water rolled in and soaked the seats and carpet. She always did her best to air it out afterward, but the scent of mildew lingered.

  At least the radio worked—or would when they cleared the mountains and could get a signal. For now they rode in silence, except for the Maxima’s overloud motor and the occasional squeal or gurgle from Braden, who sat in the back seat playing with his teething ring. She’d given him a bottle to tide him over until they reached the restaurant, but she knew he’d be getting hungry soon.

  “When’s the last time you had your oil changed?” Tyson asked.

  Dakota had no idea. Oil was way down her list of priorities. She was generally more worried about scraping money together for gas. “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe we should drop off the car while we’re having breakfast. Is there a Quick Lube or something in town?”

  “No.”

  “There has to be someplace to get the oil changed. I can’t imagine everyone in Dundee drives to Boise for that kind of thing.”

  “They don’t. They go to Booker Robinson. He owns the only repair shop.”

  “We’ll swing by there, then.”

  She glanced at him. An oil change cost $24.95, and she didn’t have the money. She’d put all the money he’d already paid her toward overdue bills. But she didn’t want to admit she was that broke, especially to a man who owned a Ferrari. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I just did it,” she said.

  He slung an arm over the steering wheel. “In the past few months?”

  She stared at the scenery flying past her window. “Yeah.”

  Either he didn’t believe her or he didn’t care because as soon as they arrived in Dundee, he spotted Booker T & Son’s Automobile Repair on Main Street and turned in.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He whipped the Maxima into a narrow parking space between a van and the police chief’s Blazer. “Having the oil changed.”

  She lifted her chin. “But I don’t want to have the oil changed.”

  “Why not? This old thing is going to give out on you if you don’t do a little maintenance, Dakota. That pinging in the engine isn’t good.”

  How could he hear the pinging above every other harbinger of a potential breakdown? “I’ll do it later.”

  He leaned in front of her, as if determined to claim her undivided attention. “There’s no reason to refuse. In case you’re worried about the expense, I’m planning to pay for it. I won’t even take it out of next week’s wages.”

  “I don’t want you to pay for it,” she said.

  “It’s twenty-five bucks. Not even enough to argue about.”

  She spotted one of Booker’s repairmen making his way over to them. “It’s my car, and I want to go. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Now!” she snapped.

  He mumbled something about her being too stubborn for her own good, but he finally waved off the repairman and backed out of the space. “I don’t know what your problem is,” he said.

  Of course he didn’t. There’d probably never been a time when he didn’t have twenty-five bucks in his pocket. And she wasn’t about to explain what the experience was like. “What do you want from the pharmacy?” she asked instead.

  “I’m picking up a prescription.”

  Steroids? She hated the thought of that. He was too healthy, too fit to take anything that could eventually destroy his body. But what could she do? She was merely the hired help. “It’s one block down, across the street from the Arctic Flyer.”

  He followed her directions and parked in the back lot. “Stay with Braden. I’ll only be a minute.”

  He returned before Braden could get too impatient about being left in his car seat and tossed a brown bag in her lap.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Antibiotics,” he replied as he climbed back behind the wheel.

  “For what?”

  “For you.”

  “Me?”

  “Who else is suffering from an infection that’s turning into blood poisoning?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You don’t know that it’s turning into anything.”

  He put on his seat belt. “I know if it doesn’t clear up within three days, you’re seeing a doctor whether you like it or not.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Says who?”

  His expression told her he knew he was perfectly capable of enforcing his words. “Says me.”

  Dakota could’ve kept fighting. Tyson had no right to force her to do anything. But deep down it felt sort of good—maybe even very good—to have someone looking out for her for a change. To cover the fact that such a small gesture, made by a temporary employer who’d be part of her life for maybe two months, could affect her to the point that her throat suddenly clogged with unshed tears, she kept her face averted and grumbled, “You can be a real pain, you know that?”

  He shrugged. “I’m your boss. That’s what I’m here for.” And with that the transmission gave a loud clung as he shifted into reverse. It probably did that whenever she moved the gearshift, too, but every noise, lurch or shudder seemed so much worse with Tyson in the car. “This baby needs some major work,” he muttered.

  She focused on the medicine as she battled that brief, unexpected welling of emotion. “How’d you get this without a prescription?”

  Another clung signaled their arrival into first gear. “I did have a prescription.”

  “How?”

  He brought the Maxima to a grinding stop at the exit and waited for traffic. “I kn
ow an M.D. who’s…shall we say…friendly to professional athletes.”

  Which would explain why Tyson’s name was on the package even though the medication was meant for her. “You mean he dispenses performance-enhancing drugs.”

  He angled the car onto Main Street and headed toward the diner. “For a rather large fee.”

  “You told me you’re not on steroids.”

  Impatience etched lines on his forehead. “Criminy, Dakota, you’re almost as bad as the press. I’m not on steroids, okay?”

  “Because they’re illegal—or because they can cause birth defects?”

  “I’m not planning on having children.”

  She felt a hard lump somewhere in her midsection. “You mean more children.”

  He glanced into the back seat, and she imagined him thinking, Yep, still there. “Right.”

  “So it’s the legality. You’re afraid of what might happen if you get caught.” Jerry’s Diner came up on their left. She pointed to make sure he’d seen it.

  “Of course. I don’t want to disillusion all the kids out there who are buying and wearing my jersey, and the only sure way to avoid destroying my image is to steer clear of steroids entirely.”

  She thought of his most recent picture in the paper, and the interviews and articles that portrayed him as a callous womanizer. Surely those rumors and interviews with Rachelle didn’t set him up as an ideal role model. But she wasn’t about to point that out. So far, he’d been pretty decent to her. He’d even cared about the infection in her arm enough to contact a black market steroid dispenser, acquire an illegal prescription and bring her to town to pick it up. Heck, he’d even paid for it. The pharmacy had charged him seventy bucks, she saw. Who knows how much he’d had to promise the doctor?

  “If you don’t typically buy from this doctor, how do you know him?” she asked.

  “I have some friends who don’t mind the risks as much as I do. Mostly linemen.”

  “Why didn’t your doctor friend put the prescription in my name?”

  “I thought you might not want anyone at the pharmacy asking questions. There’s got to be a reason you’re trying so hard to hide that thing, right?”