He turned his attention back to the movie. Clint was riding around in that stupid poncho that made him look like a girl. There was a loud hammering noise, and it took him a minute to realize it wasn’t part of the movie. Somebody was at the door.
Probably that Brady character, trying to get at Suzanne again. She’d thrown him out a half-dozen times, but he kept on coming back. Those dumb bronc riders were like that, always getting back on the horse even if it tossed ’em off and stomped ’em near to death. Hell, he’d been like that once.
“Just a minute.” Earl grabbed the edge of the end table with his right hand and the arm of the chair with his left, levering himself up and onto his feet. Pain shot up from his ankles and his knees ached as he straightened them. The kid had better have a good reason for interrupting him this time.
He shuffled over to the door, hating the hunched, bent stance the pain forced on him. Once the blood got flowing, it was a little easier to stand, and he straightened as best he could before he had to stoop again to get past that damned chair.
He opened the door to a woman with a round head set on a body that was a perfect square, with stumpy short legs like porch posts. She had no neck to speak of, and her short, straight gray hair swept across her forehead, almost hiding her lively brown eyes. She wore a shabby black peacoat over white overalls so streaked with paint that it was hard to see the original fabric. The effect was strangely festive.
“Hi,” she said. “I came to see Suzanne.”
Huh. He’d thought he was the only one who called his daughter by her given name. It was always “Suze” this, “Suze” that. He and Ellen had named her Suzanne, dammit.
“You a friend of hers?”
The woman laughed. She might be heavy, but she had a hearty laugh and her eyes flashed and sparkled with good humor. She reminded him of somebody, but damned if he knew who.
“Just her godmother,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t recognize me. I’m a friend of yours, dummy.” She spread her hands as if offering herself for inspection. “Guess it’s been too many years and too many pints of ice cream.”
He stared a moment. Those eyes…
“Gwen Saunders.” Lord have mercy, he felt a smile spreading across his face. And miracle of miracles, his face didn’t crack from the effort. “I knew you looked familiar.”
She gave him a good-natured punch in the stomach. Gwen was always like that, joshing everybody, friendly. It was impossible not to smile when she was around. He hadn’t seen her since Ellen’s funeral, but it was like no time had passed at all. He felt his smile softening, his eyes tearing up a bit. He couldn’t help it. He’d always liked Gwennie. Liked her a lot.
He’d heard she was living in Wynott. Became kind of a recluse, apparently, living in a junkyard behind a big, high fence. He’d have gone to check on her sometime, because that didn’t sound like the Gwennie he knew. But he knew seeing her would remind him, painfully, of Ellen, and all the mistakes he’d made.
He looked at Gwen and waited for that stab of pain, that flash of memory that hurt so bad it made him want to die and join his wife in the grave.
But there was nothing. He was just glad to see her. Imagine that.
She followed him into the house.
“Don’t mind that chair,” he said. “Got stuck.”
She struggled under it, obviously embarrassed by her bulk. But Earl knew he didn’t look much better.
“Looks like you lost as much weight as I gained,” she said. “You okay, Earl?”
“Fine,” he said. “Suzanne’s upstairs.”
“Really?” Gwen turned and scanned the staircase. “She can get up and down stairs already?”
“No, and she makes me run and fetch everything for her. Drivin’ me crazy.”
“I heard she has some handsome cowboy running errands for her.” Her eyes sparkled, as if she thought it was funny that the damned cowboy was hanging around as if his daughter was a cat in heat.
“She can’t stand the sight of him,” Earl said.
“Really?” She shook her head, still smiling. “That’s not what I heard.”
She looked him up and down, and he shifted, uncomfortable. He knew he’d changed. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror. Somewhere along the way, his features had all drawn together into the center of his face and turned small and mean. His brows arrowed down over eyes that seemed to have grown darker with age. His nose was more hooked, his mouth a short, grim line. If Ellen were still alive, she’d never look at him twice. He was just a mean old man.
Then again, if Ellen were still alive, he’d be a different person. When she was alive, he was tall, dark, and handsome. She’d said so herself once.
“You never got over her, did you?” Gwen asked.
He shook his head.
She nodded, then headed up the stairs to see her goddaughter. He supposed he should be grateful that Gwen had turned up, but he felt ashamed of himself, of the way he’d let everything go to hell.
He felt ashamed of the way he treated Suzanne too—but Gwen was the one person in the world who might understand why. She knew the truth about him and Ellen, and the truth about Suzanne.
He hoped she wasn’t up there spilling the beans. He hadn’t faced the truth when Ellen was alive, and he didn’t want to face it now.
Chapter 39
Suze was just finishing her sandwich when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
“He’s back, Dooley!” The little dog jumped off the bed and barked, whirling in a circle.
“I’m an idiot,” she said to the dog. “Why did I assume he was gone for good? Brady wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t let me go hungry.”
Maybe he hadn’t been able to find the peanut butter. Maybe he’d wanted a different kind of jelly, or they needed some more milk. She hobbled to the window, so relieved she wished she could turn a cartwheel.
But it wasn’t Brady’s Silverado parked in the turnout. It was some old rattletrap truck she’d never seen before.
A heavyset woman eased out of the vehicle. She patted the front fender, as if she was thanking the truck for the ride before she waddled to the front door.
Funny. Suze did that herself sometimes, treating her pickup as if it was a faithful old horse.
Suze heard her father’s low voice talking to the visitor and wondered who it could be. Her father sounded almost cordial, and she thought whoever it was must have come to see him, but then footsteps started up the stairs—heavy, lumbering steps, and heavy breathing as well. It sounded like a bear was coming to visit, but the person who appeared in her doorway was a stout little gray-haired woman with laughing brown eyes. She lumbered into the room and sat down on the desk chair without invitation.
The visitor put a fist to her chest, catching her breath, all the while staring at Suze.
“Criminy,” she finally said. “It’s like seeing a ghost.”
Suze glanced around the room. She didn’t see any phantomlike apparitions, although judging from her visitor’s breathing, the woman might cross to the other side at any moment.
“You, I mean.” The woman leaned forward and took a deep breath, then sat up and smiled. “You look so much like your mother, it’s scary.”
“Thank you,” Suze said. “I used to hear that a lot, but not so much anymore.”
“People forget.” The woman shifted her weight. “New champions come along, and they forget the old ones.”
“I always feel bad about that,” Suze said. “Sometimes I think it’s me that’s erasing her memory. When I won my second championship, I beat her record at Thomas & Mack arena. When I found out, I wished I could take it back.” She shook her head, hard and fast. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all that. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I’m here to see what I can do for you. And the first order of business is to tel
l you not to worry about your mother’s memory. It’s your turn now.”
“I guess. It just bothers me sometimes.”
“Don’t let it. She’d be proud.” The woman eased off the chair and reached for the photo Suze kept by her bed, pausing before she touched it. “May I?”
Suze nodded and the woman picked it up. Her eyes scanned it almost greedily, her smile widening.
“Did you know her?” Suze asked.
“Know her? I was her best friend.”
Suze gasped. “You’re Gwennie?”
“Gwen Saunders, in the flesh—and plenty of it.” The woman set the photo down and held out her hand. Suze shook it, then clutched it in both of hers.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you! I remember you. You used to bring me little horses. Fetishes, you called them.” She started to rise, wincing as the pain kicked in. “I still have them. Over there, in the top drawer of the desk.”
Gwen opened the drawer and took out a tiny silver pony, then a bronze one, and another carved in stone. They were all tiny, maybe a half-inch long, small enough to fit in a pocket and bring good luck to a girl barrel racer who’d hoped to ride in her mother’s hoofprints.
“I still carry one when I ride,” Suze said.
“And you still win.”
“I know.” Suze smiled. “I thought you were a witch.”
“Maybe I am.” Gwen gave her an impish grin.
“You’re a good witch, then. I really thought the horses were magic.”
Suze reached over and took the silver pony from Gwen’s palm. Turning it over in her fingers, she smiled. “Maybe I need to hold one now.”
“Not that one. Not for right now.” Gwen snatched away the silver pony and handed Suze the stone one. “Stone, for strength.”
Suze clenched it in her palm until the cold stone warmed. “You think it’ll help?”
“Sure.”
Suze tucked the pony under her pillow. “I’ll keep it with me.”
Gwen nodded. “I hear you’re keeping a cowboy with you lately too. What’s going on there? Is it serious?”
“You know about Brady?” Suze could feel her face heating and wished she could control herself better.
“People talk,” Gwen said. “Especially in a town the size of Wynott. You and those Decker boys are the pride of the county, so when you get together with one of ’em, it’s big news.”
“You live in Wynott?”
Suze couldn’t believe Gwen lived that close and she hadn’t known.
“I own what they call the junk shop.” Gwen started to bounce one leg, as though that made her nervous. “Although I don’t know why they call it a shop, since I don’t sell anything.”
“You’re the sculptor,” Suze said.
She never would have thought, in a million years, that the mysterious recluse who owned the junk shop in Wynott was Gwen. In fact, most people thought it was a man that lived behind the high fence. The place was guarded by spooky figures, men and ogres made of all manner of machine parts, but there was a rumor that the sculptor was a respected artist who sold welded conglomerations of machine parts to big art galleries.
“Why didn’t you ever come over?” Suze asked.
“I was ashamed, I guess. A man broke my heart, and I decided to eat my way to happiness. It didn’t work. I just loaded on the pounds, and then—well, I didn’t want him to see me.”
“He lives around here?”
“You might say that.” Gwen parked herself on the rolling desk chair.
“I’m sorry.” Suze pictured herself years from now, living in some secluded house, mooning over Brady and living on Oreos. She couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t be able to ride if she got that big.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Gwen said with mock seriousness. “Don’t let that cowboy get away.”
“You really are a witch,” Suze said. “You read my mind. But he already got away, I think, so never mind about that. It’s my dad I need help with.”
It felt good to talk to Gwennie. She’d been there after her mother’s death, a sympathetic ear for a young girl’s troubles. But eventually she’d disappeared.
Kind of like a witch.
“What’s the matter with your dad?”
“He can’t seem to get over my mom’s death.”
“Maybe it’s her life he can’t get over. Maybe your mother was the wrong woman for your father.”
“No way,” Suze said. “He loved her like—well, like she was his life.”
“He thought she was.” Gwen sighed. “I think your dad needs to face some facts before he can get over your mother. He needs to remember the woman she was, not the woman he wanted her to be.”
Suze smiled. “So she wasn’t perfect?”
“No. Is that what he told you?”
“Over and over.” Suze looked down at her lap and shook her head. “I’ve been trying to live up to her legacy for years. According to my dad, she was the most beautiful, the smartest, the best at everything. And I don’t measure up.”
She hated the bitterness she heard in her voice, but it felt good to say it out loud. And Gwen was her godmother. If you couldn’t talk to your godmother, who could you talk to?
“Your mother was an amazing woman,” Gwen said. “She was strong, she was driven, and nobody could beat her around those barrels. But she liked to shine, and sometimes that meant making the people around her feel dull and drab. Everything came easy for her, and she didn’t know what it felt like to lose or to be hurt.”
“So she made my father feel dull and drab?”
Gwen nodded. “She made him feel like he never measured up. He spent his whole life trying to please her.”
And he’s passed all that on to me.
But that meant Suze wasn’t a failure. She wasn’t a disappointment. She was just as good as Ellen Carlyle. Better, because she would never put down someone else to make herself look good.
“I wish you’d come sooner,” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Gwen said.
Suze leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. “Tell me about her,” she said. “And don’t sugarcoat it. I want to know everything.”
* * *
Gwen didn’t know what to think about Suzanne Carlyle.
When she’d walked into the room and seen a clone of her old friend Ellen, she’d expected to find Ellen’s spirit too—her crazy, wild spirit. The spirit that knocked flat every obstacle that dared to oppose her. The spirit that was a little selfish, if truth be told, but nobody minded. Ellen’s charm had always smoothed the way for her.
Gwen had watched Suzanne ride on TV during the National Finals Rodeo, and smiled to see the girl riding just like her mother had. She’d seen how close to the edge Suze rode, risking everything with every ride.
But while Ellen had raced with a sort of hell-for-leather, dang-everything joy, Suzanne must win through dogged determination. Gwen wondered who she was trying to please—her father or the ghost of her mother.
She wished she’d come sooner. She’d settled in Wynott partly because of its closeness to Suzanne and to Earl—especially to Earl.
But she’d told Suze the truth. As the weight piled on, she hated to go out. People didn’t say anything, but she saw how they looked at her. She didn’t want Earl looking at her like that.
She shouldn’t have worried. Looking at him now, she wondered what she’d ever seen in him. There’d been a time when all she’d wanted was to spend time with Earl, even if it meant tagging along while he mooned over Ellen. Then the mooning led to marriage, and that was that.
Now he was just an old man, and not a very nice one, either. It was kind of a relief.
Her goddaughter needed her help, though, and needed it badly. So like it or not, she was going to have to spend some time w
ith the man Earl Carlyle had become.
She visited with Suzanne a while, telling stories about Ellen. Stories were magic, like the little horses—powerful but only if you believed in them. With stories, she could make Ellen the woman she should have been. The woman her daughter believed she was and needed her to be.
Finally, Gwen said her good-byes and puffed back down the stairs—but not until she’d poked around a little bit. She hadn’t heard Earl come up the stairs, so she checked out the bathroom and bedroom to see what kind of house her goddaughter was living in.
Not a very nice one. The downstairs had looked pretty civilized, except for the chair jammed in the doorway. There was probably some explanation for that. But except for Suze’s room, the upstairs was a mess—laundry everywhere, and dust, dust, dust. She’d come back as soon as she could and bring a mop.
But she wasn’t sure they made a cleaning product that would clean up the mess Earl Carlyle had made of his life.
Chapter 40
It wasn’t easy to fit all three of the Decker Ranch cowboys into one pickup, especially Brady’s Dodge. He hadn’t sprung for the extended cab, so the three of them were jammed onto the one bench seat. He hadn’t wanted to pay for an automatic transmission either, so he was feeling up his brother Shane every time he shifted gears.
“You want to watch it with that gearshift?” Shane shifted back in his seat. “That’s getting a little too close for comfort.”
Ridge glanced back at Brady’s empty gun rack. “What kind of posse is this, anyway? We’re not even armed. And who brings a horse trailer to a manhunt?”
Brady grinned. His brothers hadn’t even asked what they were going to do when he told them he had to get up a posse to take care of some business. That’s what being brothers was all about: being there for each other, no matter what.
There’d been a time in his life when he’d only dreamed of having that kind of family, and he treasured his brotherhood with Shane Lockhart and Ridge Cooper—the brotherhood Bill Decker and his wife had pieced together from three lost and broken boys.
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