Along Came a Cowboy

by Christine Lynxwiler

  “Well, why not? You can do anything you put your mind to,” Dad says. There’s no telling how many times he said that to me and Tammy when we were growing up. And even after I disappointed him beyond redemption, I clung to those words. They got me through the grueling schedule of chiropractic college and every tough time since.

  “What about Mom?” Jenn asks. “Did she barrel race?” A shadow crosses her face again, and I know she’s remembering that she’s adopted.

  Mom stares at the trophy as memories flit across her face. She smiles. “Tammy was more interested in being Miss Rodeo Queen than barrel racing. She liked horses, but only if they didn’t wrinkle her outfit.”

  “Or clash with it,” I add. Mom’s eyes widen in surprise at my joke, but we laugh together, and Dad’s soft chuckle rumbles underneath.

  Jennifer clunks the trophy down onto the table and sits up straight. “I want to ride bulls.”

  My mom chokes, and my dad leans up to beat her on the back. “Sorry. Cake went down the”—she gasps—“wrong way.”

  I can totally sympathize.

  “Girls don’t ride bulls,” I say quietly.

  Jennifer looks at me, her mouth set. “I saw a really cool article about girl bull riders on Yahoo. Some associations don’t let them ride, but there are plenty that do.”

  I stare at her. She knows how to shake things up, doesn’t she? I can sit this one out, though. My parents will never stand for their precious and only granddaughter climbing on a twisting, snorting, stomping bull.

  “I really want to ride bulls,” she says, her big green eyes trained on Dad. “You said I could do anything I put my mind to.”

  Dad looks at Mom then back to Jennifer. “Have you ever seen anyone ride a bull? Other than on TV?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Then that’s your first step.”

  She smirks. “You think if I do I’ll chicken out, but I won’t.”

  “Chicken out?” Dad says, disbelief in his voice. “No granddaughter of mine is going to chicken out of anything.”

  Mom leans forward in her chair. “Of course, if you decided you didn’t want to do it, no one would—”

  Dad reaches over and puts his hand gently on Mom’s arm, and she stops in midsentence. “You’ll need a padded vest and a helmet,” he says to Jennifer.

  “And a spare brain,” I mutter. I cannot believe he’s seriously considering letting her do this. Even in the best of situations, she could break a bone.

  “I know just the person to help you,” Dad finishes as he walks over to the desk, picks up the cordless phone, and dials a number. Then he holds up a finger as he apparently waits for an answer on the other end. “Jack?” he booms. “Alton Donovan here. My fifteen-year-old granddaughter is visiting this summer, and she wants to learn to ride bulls.”

  Jack? As in Jack Westwood? Great.

  “Yes, she’s here with me now, and she rides horses, but she thinks riding bulls sounds like fun.”

  Jennifer is watching Dad, who is apparently listening intently to Jack, but I catch Mom’s eye and lower my eyebrows. Has he lost his mind?

  She shrugs.

  That’s comforting.

  “Mm hm, mm hm. You will? I sure appreciate it.”

  He hangs up the phone and beams at Jennifer. “My neighbor will be glad to show you a few things about bull riding.”

  “But I—” I stop. I don’t even know what to say.

  He looks at Jennifer in her shorts and sandals and then looks at me. “You mind running her home to get some jeans on? Maybe she can fit into a pair of your boots. Jack said if you’ll bring her by this afternoon, he’ll introduce her to a bull and see what she thinks.”

  Jennifer is already heading toward the door.

  “But what will Tammy. . .” I stand.

  He puts a hand at my back and gives me a very gentle push toward the door. “You girls go on. I’ll call Tammy and explain.”

  I nod. When my dad makes up his mind, there’s no room for argument. I’m sure he sees himself as a master of psychology. I just hope it doesn’t backfire on him.

  What’s the deal with you and the Grands?” Jennifer asks on our way to the Lazy W.

  “What do you mean?” I play dumb, like adults always seem to do when they’re uncomfortable with a question. Something I never thought I’d do. But it beats handing her the iPod that’s lying on the console between us and suggesting she find some good music to listen to. Which appears to be my other option.

  “You kept apologizing. And when y’all talked”—she picks up the iPod herself, apparently growing tired of the conversation already, thankfully—“it was just weird. Nothing like when we’re here for Christmas.”

  She’s right. It’s amazing what a buffer two extra adults can be. But without Russ and Tammy there, the awkwardness is palpable. Which is why, even though I drive out to the barn and ride several mornings a week, I don’t go up to the house often.

  Oh, I drop by on their birthdays. . .Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. . .and stay long enough to give them a generic-sounding card and equally generic gift. They mail me a card with a check in August for my birthday. And Mom usually calls. One time a few years ago, she got my machine and she and dad sang “Happy Birthday” complete with “and many mooore.” I didn’t delete that message until Christmas.

  I open my mouth to try to explain, but the earbuds are in place, and her eyes are closed. One could quickly learn to love technology.

  When we turn into the Lazy W driveway, I glance over at Jennifer, whose eyes are still closed, and slip my lip gloss from my purse. It’s a light pink, barely noticeable really, but maybe it will help me not to feel so frazzled. I slow to a crawl and keep one eye on the road and one on the mirror as I quickly trace my lips with the wand.

  “You know this guy?”

  I jerk and make a shiny line on my cheek, then fumble for a napkin. I wipe it off and meet her level green gaze. She’s not a little girl anymore.

  “We were neighbors growing up, so of course I knew him back then. Not so much anymore.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s. . .” Smooth. A tad arrogant. Sometimes infuriating. Unbelievably good-looking. “Nice.”

  “Really?” Her brows draw together. “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “Jenn, why do you want to ride a bull?”

  She shrugs. “I just do.”

  “To prove that you’re as opposite your mom as you can be?”

  A shadow crosses over her face, and I know I nailed her motivation.

  She folds her arms in front of her. “I really want to ride a bull. Do you think Granddaddy is just messin’ with me?”

  I shrug with my hands still on the steering wheel. “I quit trying to read his mind years ago.”

  “Do you still barrel race?”

  “Not competitively.”

  “Why?”

  I struggle to phrase an answer. I slip out to the ranch several times a week in the early morning hours and ride, but anything more than that would require days like today. And I’m sure not up for that. There are other, deeper reasons, but that one is enough. “I’m pretty busy with my practice.”

  She may not be a little girl anymore, but today she’s asking as many questions as a five-year-old.

  When we get out of the car, Jack and Dad are standing out near the barn talking. Dad waves us over. “Jack, this is my granddaughter, Jennifer.”

  Jack makes no indication that he picked Jenn up hitchhiking last night. Instead, he doffs his hat and smiles, his dimples deepening. “Jennifer.”

  She blushes.

  Maybe she’s embarrassed because he’s the one who picked her up when she was on her way to my house, but it could just as easily be his good looks. It doesn’t matter what age females are, he apparently has the same effect on them.

  He smiles at me, and I pray I don’t blush. “Rachel. Good to see you again.”

  I nod. “Small world.”

  Dad laughs a
nd looks at Jack. “Remember what I told you the other day when we were fixing that stretch of fence that runs by the main road?”

  Jack nods. “When we’re working by the road and hear a car coming, I should just give a quick wave over my shoulder and keep on working. It’s most likely either someone I know or someone who knows me.”

  “Or both,” they finish together with a laugh.

  Jennifer has wandered over to the horse stalls while Dad and Jack are male-bonding. Dad excuses himself and goes over to introduce her to Jack’s horses.

  I’m amazed that I feel a flare of jealousy that Dad is so at home here, and with Jack, in general. Before I got pregnant, I did everything I could to be the son Dad never had. Is Jack filling that bill now?

  When I look back at Jack, he’s watching me, his eyes scrutinizing my expression.

  I raise an eyebrow. “So do you have a plan?”

  “Excuse me?” he asks as if he didn’t hear me.

  “A plan. To keep Jennifer from actually riding a wild bull.”

  He shrugs. “Your dad has a plan. We’ll see how it goes.”

  I figure I might as well cut to the chase. I square my shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “Don’t let her get on a bull.”

  “Don’t worry.” He flashes me a grin. “She won’t be the one getting on the bull.”

  “You still ride bulls? I heard you retired.”

  “You heard right. But I’m doing this as a favor. And Alton rarely asks for those.”

  “You spend a lot of time with my dad?” I ask, hoping for a casual tone.

  He shrugs. “Define ‘a lot.’ He’s a good friend.”

  Call me suspicious, but he’s also a man with “a lot” of premium property. And he makes no secret of the fact that he and Mom are planning on selling in a few years to get something smaller. What better way to get the prize than to bump the estranged daughter out of line and take her place. Okay, now you can call me paranoid. “I guess I was surprised because he’s never mentioned you.”

  He lowers his eyebrows. “He mentions you often, but I don’t get the impression he sees you much.”

  Maybe I started it, but we’ve crossed over into way-too-personal territory, and I’m not willing to go there. Since his words feel like a reprimand, though, I can’t resist one little retort before I walk over to join Jennifer and Dad. “That must be why he forgot that this same psychological ploy backfired on him when I was fourteen and determined to tame a wild filly. Against Mom’s protests, Dad let me try. Instead of breaking the horse, I broke my collarbone.”

  “Actually,” he calls softly enough for my ears only, “I remember that was the summer you ended up barrel racing with your arm in a sling.”

  I pause. He remembers that? Unfortunately, it’s in the past. One more place I can’t go with him. I just keep walking.

  “But you riding that wild filly is also one of the first things your dad reminded me about when I moved back here.”

  I spin around. “Really?”

  He nods.

  Curiosity draws me the two steps back toward him. I want to ask what else Dad “reminded” him about me. Instead I say, “I know he and your dad were friends, but how did you two get to be. . .close?”

  He shrugs. “We’re neighbors. We go to church together.”

  I knew Alma attended with Mom and Dad at the little congregation I grew up in, but I didn’t realize Jack did. That explains part of the closeness. With fewer than fifty members, everyone is close.

  “And he’s been patient with a greenhorn like me.”

  “The great Jack Westwood, a greenhorn?”

  “Nobody’s good at everything.” He shoots me a wry grin. “I know rodeos, but ranching is a completely different story. I left home for the circuit before I really learned the ranching business. Your dad’s help has been immeasurable.”

  I look across the barn lot at my dad, noting for the first time that his once auburn hair is spattered with gray. “He knows a lot about cattle.”

  “He knows more than cattle,” Jack says and walks slowly over to Jennifer and Dad.

  I stand there for a minute and stare after him, thinking about his last words. Dad does know more than cattle, I’m sure. But unfortunately, he doesn’t know me.

  Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

  I don’t know how I ended up by myself with Mom. I guess subconsciously, when faced with the choice of watching Jack climb onto the back of a bull up close and personal or this, I considered leaving Jennifer with Dad at the Lazy W and driving the half mile to my parents’ house the lesser of two evils. Now that I’m here on the doorstep, staring into Mom’s startled face, I’m not so sure this was the best decision.

  “I thought I’d go ahead and get that box out of your way,” I say with a nervous shrug. “I’m sorry I didn’t find it when I got everything else.” When I moved back from Georgia eight years ago, Victoria came out and helped me get my things. She’d been unfailingly polite to my parents while I’d packed without really speaking. But I thought I’d gotten everything.

  “They weren’t in our way, Rachel.” Mom stands back to let me in, but her voice is tight. “I just thought you might want them. Why not display them in your office?”

  Right. Then people will say, “Oh, I remember you back then. Didn’t you disappear from Shady Grove in the middle of your senior year? Where’d you go anyway?”

  “Thanks.”

  Mom leads the way down the hall to my old bedroom and motions to a big cardboard box on the bed.

  “Oh wow. There are a lot of them. I didn’t remember.”

  “Horses were your first love.”

  I nod and pick up one of the trophies. She’s right. I was crazy about horses above all else. Until the first night I saw Brett Meeks. Then the horses and horse shows quickly became a means to an end. In my daydreams, Brett would be desperate to know my name but too shy to ask. Then I’d win, my name would be announced, and he’d know.

  I pick up a few snapshots lying loose in the box, and my mouth twists into a bittersweet smile. Other than a few lines in my face and a lot more wisdom, I haven’t changed much. At sixteen, almost seventeen, even though I was far from the anorexic shape that was so in fashion back then, I wasn’t at all overweight, and it’s hard to believe I thought I was fat. But I did. I fixed my hair a hundred different ways that summer and even wore blush, hoping for the illusion of cheekbones.

  My gaze falls on a faded navy blue bandanna in the corner of the box. When I see it, I know why this box was in the attic and not with the rest of my stuff. My mind flashes back to the day I packed all my barrel-racing stuff away and took it up to the attic. Where it had stayed until now.

  Bad memories?”

  I stuff the bandanna deep under the mass of trophies and spin around. Mom is still standing in the door, her eyes suspiciously moist. I nod. “Mostly. It’s never pleasant to remember how foolishly I acted.” And how much you and Dad hated me for it.

  “I wish. . .”

  I want to hear what she wishes, but at the same time I’m afraid to. I turn back toward the box and slide the photos into it. “The past is the past. I’ll keep the trophies and throw the rest away at home.”

  “Yes. Looking forward is always best, I guess,” she says, and I hear her shoes clicking down the hallway.

  I don’t see her when I carry the stuff out to my car, but Jack’s truck turns into the drive, and he, Dad, and Jenn climb out.

  It hits me that Dad must have walked over to Jack’s place. I feel bad he and Jenn had to ask Jack for a ride home. I open my mouth to apologize, although it wouldn’t have hurt Dad to tell me that he was depending on me to bring them home. But before I can say anything, Jack rushes across the yard to take the box from my arms. Unless I want to wrestle him to the ground for it, I have no choice but to let him have it.

  “Aunt Rach,” Jenn yells. “You should have seen Jack ride the bull. He stayed on until the buzzer went off, and then he jumped off. Twister alm
ost stepped on him.”

  “Cool,” I call to her then glance at Jack. “Couldn’t bear to ‘jump’ off without qualifying, huh?” I ask softly, referring to the eight seconds that makes a successful bull ride.

  He shrugs as well as he can with the box in his hands. “No sense in bruising my body and my pride.”

  I lead the way out to my car and open the back door. “Thanks,” I say as he sets it on my backseat.

  “No problem.” He nods toward the trophies. “Wow. I’d almost forgotten what a barrel-racing champion you were.”

  “I guess. Back in the day.” I try to laugh.

  He closes the car door and turns to face me. “Did you hear about Ron?”

  Guilt clenches my gut as I shake my head. I meant to call and check on him, but when Jenn showed up, everything else took a backseat. “What’s going on with him?”

  “He’s definitely looking at surgery.”

  “Oh no!” I feel awful for him. And not so great for me, either. I was counting on him being back for the committee meeting next week and me bowing out gracefully. “When do you think they’ll do it?”

  “Early next week. Then six to eight weeks of recovery.”

  I want to whine, but at least I’m not the one who’s having surgery. I told Ron I’d take care of things, and I will. “Think your mom and I can handle it? With your help, of course?”

  He grimaces. “Actually, Mom has gone to Batesville to stay with my sister.”

  “Let me guess. Your sister’s pregnant.”

  He raises his eyebrows and draws them together at the same time. On him it’s a cute look. Trust me. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “I just—” I wave my hand. “Never mind. Is it going to be a long visit?”

  “I don’t know. She’s staying there to be close to Ron, since he has no other family nearby.”

  Of course she is. I hope Ron appreciates it, but somehow I doubt it. “So I guess I’ll be the committee for a while,” I say without thinking.

  He frowns. “You sound like that’s a death sentence.”

  I give a half smile. “Sorry, but you have to admit our first ‘committee meeting’ ”—I put air quotes around the words with my fingers—“didn’t go so well.”