Along Came a Cowboy

by Christine Lynxwiler

  I nod.

  She waves. “See you then.”

  Her cameraman stops filming, takes one look at Jack, and hightails it out of the restaurant. Blair looks as if she wants to say something, but maybe even she has a modicum of sense, because she shuts her mouth and follows him.

  The waitress scoots over to our table, accompanied by the maître d’. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “She got here before I knew what was happening.”

  The maître d’ puts up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Tonight’s meal is complimentary, Mr. Westwood. It’s never our intention for our guests to have their privacy invaded. Please accept our apologies.”

  Jack nods. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  As the two leave, Jack wearily scrubs a hand over his face, sighs heavily, and lowers himself into his chair.

  “That was exciting.” I try for a light tone, hoping to ease Jack’s obvious embarrassment. My voice shakes a little, though, and gives me away.

  “About as exciting as being in a pit full of rattlesnakes.”

  A laugh pushes out of me unexpectedly. “That’s an apt comparison, actually.”

  “I’m going to go down to the station tomorrow and talk to Brad Mansfield. That was inexcusable and incredibly intrusive, even for Blair. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “You know what? I think this is one of those ‘the less said the better’ situations. She may mention us in the morning on her show, but if she does, it’s only going to make her look silly and unprofessional. It’d probably be best to just let it go and not make things worse by calling attention to it. So if you’re going there for me, don’t.”

  The waitress approaches with our food, and thankfully, Jack lets the matter drop.

  “Do you mind if we pray?” Jack asks when she leaves.

  “Not at all.”

  Reaching over and taking my hand in his, Jack bows his head, blesses the food, and then thanks God for this opportunity to renew an old friendship. Is that all this dinner is for him? Good thing I only have a crush, right?

  When he finishes the blessing, he stares at me in the candlelight for a few seconds, still holding my hand.

  I meet his gaze, my pulse jumping, my mouth suddenly dry. What is he thinking?

  He gives my hand a squeeze and releases it, then picks up his fork and begins to eat. After a bite or two, he says, “Even when it’s not some psycho reporter making groundless accusations, you just naturally avoid the limelight, don’t you?”

  Startled, I nod. “I guess.”

  “But you always loved barrel racing. That put you in the limelight. Competing, I mean.”

  I grin. “Barrel racing was one of those rare events that was worth putting up with the limelight.”

  “When you competed, you always looked like you were on top of the world. I never could understand why you quit.”

  I pick up my water goblet and take a sip, my mind racing. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “I didn’t ask why you quit junior barrel racing. But there’s no age limit on the senior division. People older than you enter all the time.”

  Okay. Time out. I take a bite then motion toward my mouth.

  “The old can’t-talk-with-my-mouth-full trick.” Jack points at me with his fork. “I invented that.”

  I finish chewing, swallow, and then smile. “Caught me.” I nod toward him. “What about you? How’s retirement going? Are you missing the limelight?”

  “Not a bit. There is the thrill of hearing the crowd cheer, but for me it was more about the challenge of staying on the bull.”

  “I always thought someone had to be half crazy to get on the back of a bucking bull.” I grimace. “I probably shouldn’t have said that aloud.”

  He laughs. “That’s okay. The thing I always liked most about you, even when we were kids, was your honesty—you always said it like it was.”

  I stare down at my plate. That’s me. Honest Abe. Yeah, right. Slick Larry, the used car dealer, is more like it. If only he knew. I poke around with my fork but can’t bring myself to put another bite in my mouth.

  “You okay?” Jack’s brows draw together with concern. “Something wrong with the food?”

  “No, it’s good. I was just thinking.” That’s honest, at least. “Sometimes, just when you think you know someone, you find out you don’t, really.”

  “You’re thinking about your friend Lark’s situation with the pregnant girl?”

  I shrug. “That’s one example. But how much do any of us really know each other?”

  He caresses the back of my hand with his thumb, and I shiver.

  “I know you, Rachel Donovan, but I’m hoping and praying that we’ll have a long time to get to know each other better.”

  Talk about a catch-22. In the past, it was my honesty he always liked the most. Yet if I was honest about that past, he would most likely run as hard as he could in the other direction.

  Running the other direction is exactly what I should be doing, instead of walking up onto my softly lit porch with Jack. Hand in hand with Jack.

  I can’t let him kiss me. I’ve already decided that. I know there’s no guarantee he wants to, but just in case he does, I’ve thought it through, and he can’t.

  “Thank you for a wonderful night,” I say when we reach the welcome mat. Inside, the dogs go bananas barking.

  He smiles at me and examines my face as if searching for clues. Then he leans down and drops another kiss on my forehead. “I’m so glad you went with me. I hope we can do it again soon.”

  I nod, relieved and disappointed at the same time. Just a crush. A crush. “Only without Blair.”

  “Definitely without Blair.”

  I slide my key in the lock, and he stands motionless while I unlock the door; then he turns to go. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Jack. Drive carefully.”

  Once safely inside, I peek out the window before I turn on the light, and he’s sitting in his truck, just looking up at the house. I’d love to know what he’s thinking. Then again, I’m too chicken even to guess.

  By the time I’m ready for bed, Jack’s truck is gone. With Jenn at Mom and Dad’s for the night, the house feels so empty. I’ve gotten used to her presence in the few short weeks she’s been here. My daughter. In my house. The two of us—a family. Thankfully, my Bible catches my eye. I pick it up and flip to Proverbs. I’m feeling desperately in need of some wisdom. Regret and hindsight are two useless paths that won’t lead me to a decision about whether to tell Jenn the truth.

  As I finish my reading and climb into bed, my anxious thoughts about Jenn subside, but my mind turns to another question I’d like the answer to. I lie in the darkness, thinking about what Jack said on the porch. I hope we can do it again soon.

  I know that could be taken for just politeness, but I don’t think it was. Because I feel the same way. And I’m not being polite. But how can I go ahead with this relationship when I know I’m not going to tell him about the past?

  Finally I say my prayers and settle in to sleep, but the moon shines in the window. I turn first one way then the other. Around midnight, Cocoa pads into the room and gets up on the bed, and Shadow jumps up on the other side.

  “You guys love me, no matter what, don’t you?” I pat first one then the other and drift off to sleep with my hand on Shadow’s head.

  When the alarm goes off at five, I sit up and stretch then smile at the dogs still flanking me. Some nights they sleep on the floor, but last night they knew I needed them close. If only all relationships were so easy.

  As I drive out to the ranch to meet Jenn for our morning ride, I rehash last night again. What if he was just being polite? What if he never calls me again? I slam my hand on the steering wheel. Rachel, get a grip. If he never calls again, that’s just a complication avoided.

  My heart isn’t fooled by that reasoning for a minute, though, and I find myself slowing down as I pass his driveway. In the dim li
ght of the early morning dawn, I’m almost positive I can see a figure up on the hill sitting on a craggy rock. Is that Jack up there? Did he need time alone to think this morning? To think about this crazy thing we’re doing?

  Or is he taking inventory of his cattle?

  I shake my head at my ridiculous thoughts and pull into the barn lot just as my cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “I had a great time last night.” Jack’s deep voice sends shivers up my spine even over the phone. I’m hopeless.

  “Me, too.”

  “So the Fourth of July is Friday. Do you have plans?”

  “We’ll go to the lake, I guess, for the town celebration.”

  “Would you like to go together?”

  “Sure.” I glance toward the barn. “Jenn will be with me.”

  “Is it okay with you if I bring Dirk along then? Or would you rather I didn’t?”

  I sigh. There’s just no getting around some things. If I say no, Dirk will probably show up on his own. It’s a public event. This way I can keep an eye on him. “I’m sure she’d be thrilled. But they’ll have to stay with us.”

  I climb out of the car and head on foot toward the barn. When I’m almost to the door, I hear voices. My pulse speeds up as I recognize Jenn’s giggle.

  “I’ve got to go for now, Jack. I’ll call you back.” I walk faster.

  “Great. Don’t forget the committee meeting tonight.”

  “How could I forget?” Blair and her cameraman. Joy.

  We say good-bye, and I flip the phone shut as I walk into the barn.

  Jenn is leaning against the rough board wall, and Dirk is standing in front of her, smiling broadly. She looks up at him and laughs at something he says then catches sight of me.

  Her grin fades. She murmurs something to Dirk. He picks up a bucket and goes toward the stalls without looking my way.

  She walks toward me. “We were just—”

  “Talking. I know. I saw.” I force my mouth to relax into a smile. “Last time I checked, talking was allowed.”

  She shrugs. “Sometimes it’s hard to know.”

  I feel a pang. Tammy’s right, and so is Jack. I’ve got to loosen up a little about Cowboy Junior. Then a sudden thought hits me. “Did Dirk come over last night?” I strive for casual, even though my nerves are jangling as bad as a cowboy’s spurs.

  She nods. “We played Scrabble with the Grands.” “Sounds like fun.”

  “It was.” She blushes. “Granddaddy walked Dirk to his truck when we were done.”

  Maybe my parents did learn something about teenagers. “I’m glad you had fun.”

  “It was just a spur of the moment thing.” I look up, and her green eyes are serious. “Granddaddy asked Dirk for supper. As a surprise I guess. And he ended up staying awhile.” She picks at an imaginary piece of dust on her shirt. “I just didn’t want you to think I was going behind your back.”

  “Jenn, I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you. I’m struggling a little with letting you grow up.”

  “Now you sound like my mother.”

  I can feel all the color rush from my face. I bend over and grab Lady’s saddle blanket and offer a trembly chuckle. “Aunts, mamas. . .either way, it’s hard for us to see our little girls get to the old-enough-to-like-boys stage.”

  She laughs, and I relax a little. “Believe me, Aunt Rach, I’ve been at that stage for a long time.”

  “Well, since a certain someone has already saddled your horse, why don’t you get on Sweetie and let’s see your stuff on the barrels this morning, kiddo?” I toss the saddle blanket on Lady and reach for the saddle. “I’ve got to be at work before too long.”

  Jenn mounts Sweetie and grins down at me from the saddle. “Get ready to be impressed!” She gently nudges the mare and they head toward the barrels.

  The sun is still a low orange ball barely peeking over the horizon when we take the horses out to rinse them off and brush them down.

  “You’re getting faster every day.”

  “And we didn’t knock the barrels over once this morning, did we, Sweetie?” Jenn pats the mare on the neck.

  Dirk comes around the side of the barn. “Want me to finish grooming for you?”

  I glance at my watch and nod. “That would be great, thanks!”

  “Thanks,” Jenn echoes. I notice their hands touch when she hands him the reins.

  Oh boy. “Why don’t you run on up to the house and get your stuff? I’ll drive around and wait for you in the car.”

  She frowns. “I thought you’d come in with me. Grandmom was making scrambled eggs and bacon, and I told her to make enough for you.”

  “I’m all dirty. . . .”

  She rolls her eyes. “Like they care. This is a ranch, remember? They’re used to it.”

  I know she’s right, and I can’t think of another excuse. “Okay, but we’ll have to hurry. I still have to get in the shower before work.”

  As I drive around to the front of the house, I keep the windows down. An early morning breeze flutters through the pines, and high in their branches, birds cry out greetings to the new day. I would so love to have a clinic out here. It wouldn’t be a far drive for my patients, and the peaceful countryside would be a balm for them and for me.

  “Come on,” Jenn says, waking me from my daydream. I barely have the car in park before she’s jumping out. “Breakfast will be cold.”

  She bounds up to the front door and yanks it open. “Grandmom? We’re here.”

  I smile as I follow more slowly. It doesn’t take that kid long to feel at home somewhere. I feel a twinge of guilt. She should have come to stay a summer here long ago.

  “Come on in. We’re in here,” I hear my mom call.

  When we walk into the kitchen, my dad points at the small television on the counter. “I think you’re going to be on TV.”

  “Me?” Jenn says.

  My heart sinks. “No, me. Right?”

  Dad nods. “Blair Winchester just said she’d be right back with some”—he frowns—“ ‘very enlightening’ footage of Shady Grove’s favorite chiropractor. I think she means you.”

  I cringe at the thought of her “very enlightening” footage. “I’m sure she does.” Never mind that since Dr. Burt retired, I’m Shady Grove’s only chiropractor. Blair has a way with words. And a way of always landing on her feet. Even when she makes a major faux pas, that woman is going to turn it into profit.

  Mom looks toward the screen where a man is bragging about saving a bundle on his car insurance. “What does she mean? Is this another one of your committee meetings?”

  “Not exactly. She crashed my date last night.”

  The theme song for the “Get Real, Shady Grove” segment of Wake Up, Shady Grove begins, and Mom shushes us.

  We stand in a semicircle around the little screen as the camera pans to Blair’s elaborately made-up face split by a picture-perfect smile. “Good morning, Shady Grove. Last night we got a hot tip from a very reliable source that those camera-shy centennial committee members were meeting at Chez Pierre without telling us.” She frowns. “How can ‘Get Real’ bring you the coverage of the centennial celebration that we promised if our own committee members won’t cooperate? So this reporter took matters into her own hands and went to the meeting.”

  The camera cuts away to a video of Jack holding my hand at our table at Chez Pierre. My mother gasps, and I see a grin flit across Dad’s face. I’m afraid to look at Jenn.

  Onscreen, Blair walks up to the table, and I brace myself for her ridiculous accusations about us spending town money on a French restaurant. While the video shows Jack arguing with her and even me reluctantly telling her when the meeting is, we can’t hear a word of it. Instead, we hear a voice-over of Blair. “Even though our reliable source was mistaken about the nature of the meeting at Chez Pierre, we did find something newsworthy. Apparently what started as collaboration on our centennial committee has flamed in
to a sizzling romance between our good doctor and the handsome cowboy who signed a contract with the city to put on the rodeo for our celebration. Can we say ‘conflict of interest’?”

  “Can we say ‘yellow journalism’?” I mutter.

  My mother reaches over and snaps off the TV. “The nerve of that woman.”

  Dad’s face is dark and stern. “I’ve a good mind to go down there and tell them—”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “Jenn, we’re going to have to go.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Breakfast is ready.” Mom grabs the bowl of scrambled eggs and the plate of bacon from the stove and hurries to set them on the tiny kitchen table. “I thought we’d eat in here this morning since it’s just the four of us.”

  “My bag is already packed,” Jenn says, her eyes pleading. “Don’t we have time to eat?”

  I want to go lick my wounds in private, but short of making a scene, I don’t see how I can get out of this cozy breakfast. “Sure. Let’s go wash our hands and dig in.”

  When we’re all seated around the tiny table, Dad reaches for Mom’s hand on one side and Jenn’s on the other. Jenn quickly slides her hand in mine. Mom and I look at each other for a millisecond then clasp hands. Holding hands at the little kitchen table during prayer has always been a Donovan family tradition. But I haven’t eaten at the kitchen table since I left home almost sixteen years ago.

  We bow our heads, and Dad says a beautiful blessing over the food. I love hearing him pray. He always says what I wish I could think to say.

  Mom releases my hand when he’s done and passes me the eggs. “They may not be salty enough.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur and dip out a small helping.

  Mom picks up the salt shaker and looks at Dad. “I think maybe you should go down to Channel 6, Alton. She should have been embarrassed for ruining Rachel’s date like that, instead of—”

  “She didn’t ruin it.” As I say it, I realize how amazing it is that she didn’t.

  My dad stops in the middle of buttering his biscuit and gives me a level gaze. “That’s good to hear.”

  Heat rushes up my face. “I mean. . .” I don’t know what I mean.