The Cowboy's Homecoming

by Brenda Minton

  “Might, if we can get participation from outside Dawson. Wyatt is going to work on it.”

  Ryder pulled gloves out of his pocket. “I’m going to get back to work. Sara is on her roof over there, nailing down tarps. Their kid is helping, but I think he’s only ten.”

  Jeremy followed the direction of Ryder’s gaze. Sure enough Sara Matheson had climbed up on the roof of her old farmhouse. She had blue tarps stretched over the roof that covered the back rooms of her house.

  “Later, Ryder.”

  Ryder nodded and walked off. Jeremy went back to work with the wheelbarrow.

  After hauling a few more loads from the house to the burn pile, Jeremy pulled off his leather gloves and headed for the table that had been set up with cold drinks and coffee. He poured himself a paper cup of sweet tea and took a long drink.

  Vera walked over to stand across the table from him. The owner of the Mad Cow seemed to be everywhere, helping everyone.

  “Vera, I don’t know how you do it all.”

  She took his cup and refilled it. “You do what you have to do, Jeremy. You know that. We know how to survive here in Dawson. We’ve been through more than one tornado. We’ve been through more than one crisis. Folks always find a way to bounce back.”

  “Yeah, but you’re giving away more than you’re taking in right now.”

  “Now, Jeremy, you know that God will take care of me. He always has. Remember when my house burned down years ago? My neighbors were there before the fire trucks. They helped me clean up and rebuild.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” He hadn’t been very old, maybe thirteen. He and some of the boys in town had helped her out at the Mad Cow for a few days after the fire.

  Vera winked and handed him a sandwich. “Most of us understand about the church, Jeremy. We don’t want it gone, but we understand.”

  He hadn’t expected that at all. Sara Matheson walked up though, ending the conversation.

  “You doing okay, Sugar?” Vera poured Sara a cup of iced tea.

  “We’re going to make it, Vera.” Sara took the tea and smiled at Jeremy. “Thanks for all your help today.”

  “I’m sorry you all got hit this hard.”

  She’d shrugged it off but a tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away and smiled. “It could have been worse, Jeremy. We weren’t here. None of us were hurt. I even found my wedding ring. Actually, Wyatt found it in the yard this morning.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Jeremy tossed his cup in the trash. “I’m going to get more work done before I have to leave. Let me know if you need anything.”

  As he walked away, Jackson followed him, his hat pulled low and dirt streaking the front of his T-shirt. Once, years ago, they’d been told they looked like brothers. At sixteen, Jeremy had laughed and said he wasn’t near as ugly as Jackson.

  But when he’d looked in the mirror that night, he’d seen what that other person had been talking about. It had spooked him back then, made him wonder things about the dad he’d never known, the guy his mom had told him had just been passing through.

  It had been tough, growing up, being the man of the house from the time he could pull on his own boots. It had been tough, trying to model himself after men in the community that he’d looked up to, men like Tim Cooper. Man, he’d been modeling himself after his own dad.

  “This is a mess.” Jackson picked up a piece of sheet metal and tossed it in the wheelbarrow Jeremy pushed across the lawn.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Dad wants to talk to you.”

  Jackson as the family messenger. Jeremy would have put Blake, the older, more mature Cooper in that role. Jackson, though, he was easy to talk to. Blake had his own life, his own problems.

  “Nah, I don’t think I want to do that.” Jeremy toed his boot into the dirt and looked off to the west.

  “You should. This isn’t going away, Jeremy.”

  At that, he laughed. “The only thing that doesn’t seem to be going away is you. Every time I turn around you’re there. It’s getting kind of old.”

  Jeremy started to walk away. A hand grabbed his arm and stopped him. He turned, looked at the hand that held him without giving. He shook loose but Jackson didn’t back off.

  “Jackson, I don’t need more history lessons. I’m tired of the past.”

  “Then why are you acting like you’re still living there?”

  “I didn’t think I was until I came back here and found out how much you people hold on to it.”

  Jackson grinned big. “Yeah, we do have a thing for holding on to the past. Most of us don’t have a dozer aimed at a church.”

  “When did you start caring about church, or about what happened to Back Street?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I never stopped caring about church. I went all my life. I guess I kind of figured I had it handled. I’m okay with God. And that church didn’t do a thing to you.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “Have a talk with him, Jeremy.”

  “Right, I’ll think about that.” And he’d think about jumping in front of Jim Pritchard’s big black Angus bull, too. Never.

  Jackson slapped him on the back. “You know how I know you’re a Cooper?”

  “How’s that?”

  “That stubborn streak. Yeah, that’s Cooper through and through. No way can you possibly be wrong. Am I right?”

  “I guess so, you’re a Cooper.”

  Jeremy walked off with Jackson’s amused laughter ringing in his ears. He tried not to think about growing up alone when he’d had brothers just a mile down the road. Jackson, Reese, Blake, Travis and Jesse. Yeah, it would have been nice to be a part of their lives.

  Stubborn. Yeah, that stubborn streak was a mile wide.

  Wyatt Johnson, present at nearly every cleanup Jeremy found himself at, turned from the foundation that had been a barn until just a few days ago. Jeremy wondered how the guy did it all.

  “Jeremy, how’s it going at Back Street?” Wyatt stepped back and stood next to Jeremy.

  “I imagine as well as can be expected. What about you, Wyatt? Burning the candle at both ends, aren’t you?”

  Wyatt grinned. “Both ends and in the middle.”

  “Don’t you have a pretty new wife at your house?”

  “Yeah and I couldn’t do this without her.”

  “What, run a ranch, pastor a church and tend to the entire town of Dawson like it’s one of your kids?”

  Wyatt didn’t seem bothered by the observation. He shrugged, still smiling. “This is our community, Jeremy. And you feel the same way. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be doing everything to help out.”

  Jeremy turned to watch the group of men, a few women and even kids that had showed up for this cleanup at the Matheson farm. There was a list at the church. Each home or business that needed help was on the list and volunteers signed up to be there.

  “Yeah, this is our town.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Isn’t that a country song? Isn’t there something about a girl whose name he painted on the water tower?”

  “I never painted anyone’s name on a water tower.” Never. And it had never bothered him before. Today, for whatever crazy reason, it did.

  His heart felt kind of like a lonely old dog left on the side of the road. He laughed. That wasn’t a country song, but probably should be.

  “I think I’m going to take a drive.”

  Wyatt tipped the brim of his hat. “Don’t be climbing no water towers, Jeremy.”

  “Why, are you the town cop on top of everything else?” Jeremy managed a smile and even laughed a little at the idea of Wyatt with a badge and a Bible.

  “Nope, not the town cop. But I know the guy who will take you down if you hurt his sister.”

  “Yeah, I’m not planning on going there.”

  But on the way through Dawson his eyes did stray to the old gray metal water tower. He grinned, remembering Wyatt’s words and the reality that he’d never painted anyone’s name on anythi
ng. He’d never thought about settling down.

  And yet, he had a strange urge to buy a can of spray paint on his way out of town.

  Jeremy had been gone for two days. Not that Beth kept track of his whereabouts, but the RV had been strangely quiet. A town that had been without him for several years now seemed quiet and lonely without him there.

  Beth knew that her actions might have driven him away. Maybe not permanently, but at least for a few days. The historical society was still researching Back Street Church and the planning and zoning committee were looking into zoning for commercial businesses. The wheels were all set in motion and Beth regretted her part in it.

  Beth spent day three after the tornado delivering sandwiches to work crews in the area and to families that were toughing it out in damaged homes with no electricity. It had turned hot and humid, making it more miserable for everyone involved.

  She had turned off the main road onto a dirt road that led down to the creek where she’d spent a lot of her childhood playing in the cold, clear water. It would feel good, to take off her shoes and wade in the creek, to forget everything going on in Dawson.

  She parked her truck in the grassy clearing and pulled the keys out of the ignition. As she walked down the trail a tiny shard of apprehension slid through her middle. Or maybe it was common sense telling her to be careful. She walked a little farther and stopped. The creek bubbled along, a rushing, energetic sound. In the distance she heard the steady hum of a tractor engine and on the road the crunch of tires on gravel.

  She walked a little farther, closer to the creek, deeper into the woods. The air was cooler and a soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees. When she reached the creek she leaned against a tree to kick off her shoes.

  The sound of shattering glass stopped her. Birds flapped over head and flew among the branches of the trees.

  Beth froze, her breath holding in lungs that refused to cooperate. The sound of metal and glass. And then the sound of a vehicle starting and racing off.

  Her legs shook and refused the order to run.

  She couldn’t run back to her truck. What if someone was still up there? What if it hadn’t been her truck, hadn’t been what she thought? Maybe someone had been in a wreck? Or perhaps tossed something out a window?

  But no matter what, she couldn’t force herself to walk back up the path. She was frozen in that spot, stuck in the past and in memories of Chance’s abuse.

  The old Beth stood there, afraid to move, afraid of what he’d do next. It had been that way for so many years. Always the fear of what would push him to lose his temper.

  She edged down the path, to a spot that allowed her a clear view of her truck and the reality that someone had indeed been there, and she had been the target. The windows were cracked and splintered. A dent creased the door of the truck.

  What now? She wasn’t going to cower. She wasn’t going to cry. She was going to be the new Beth, the one that took charge of her life. The one who didn’t shake in her shoes. If only she could convince her legs of that fact.

  For a long moment she stood on the shadowy path, surrounded by trees and things that scurried in the fallen leaves. She listened for the return of the car or truck that had driven away. Whoever it had been probably wouldn’t return. But she wasn’t going out on that road, either.

  The creek sparkled, clear and cool. She had wanted to wade in the water, to cool off the way she had when she’d been a kid. Instead she remained on the path and kept walking. Several hundred feet down the trail she slipped through strands of sagging barbed wire.

  The sound of the tractor she’d heard earlier was louder now. The field she was walking through belonged to the Coopers. Ahead of her, probably another ten or fifteen minutes of walking, was Back Street. She could make it to the church and someone would give her a ride.

  She slipped through another fence, onto the land Jeremy Hightree had purchased months ago. The grass had been cut and was drying in the warm sun. He must have decided to bale it for hay.

  The sweet smell of clover brought back so many memories of childhood picnics and playing in the field. She walked a little slower, feeling a little calmer now. She was close to people, close to help.

  Ahead of her the tractor circled. The grass, nearly two feet high, fell beneath the blade of the mower. Tomorrow or the next day he’d rake the hay into rows to bale. She looked up, searching for clouds. Rain always put a damper on hay season. Grass had to be dried before it could be baled.

  The big, green tractor turned the corner. She kept walking but the tractor slowed and stopped. Beth waved and Jeremy waved back. And then she realized he was motioning her in his direction. She glanced to the south, saw the steeple of Back Street Church. She shifted her gaze back to the tractor and to Jeremy.

  She remembered him sitting in the park all of those years ago, telling her to be careful, to rethink her decision to leave town with Chance. He’d told her then that he’d give her a ride home. She could pretend it never happened.

  She could no longer pretend. Chance had happened. Her life with him had happened.

  The image of her truck at the side of the road, glass shattered and a dent in the door, reminded her that Chance could still control her life. Even if he hadn’t done that to her truck, the fear she’d felt, the memories it had brought back, were because of Chance.

  She turned in the direction of the tractor. Thirty feet away from her it stopped, and Jeremy opened the door. He stepped out, his ball cap pushed back, giving her a full view of his face, the full effect of his smile. The white T-shirt made his tan look deeper, darker. His teeth flashed white in a smile that nearly made her stop and rethink this decision.

  She was running to safety and for a moment it felt like anything but.

  “You’re pale.” He reached down and pulled her up. “Where’s your truck?”

  Beth glanced back toward the road. From the perch on top of the tractor she could see Back Street. She could see the church and the cars in the parking lot.

  “Bethlehem?”

  She slid into the cab of the tractor. It was cool in there and Jeremy pulled the door closed, capturing them in the tinted interior where the radio played a Brad Paisley song and the engine of the tractor idled, vibrating the big machine.

  “Someone trashed my truck. I parked to walk down to the creek and someone pulled up and vandalized it.”

  “What the…”

  She bit down on her bottom lip and wished the tears away. His expression softened and his arms slid around her waist. Holding her close.

  “You’re okay?” His voice trickled down her spine like warm water. And then it wasn’t a question, it was reassurance. “Beth, you’re okay.”

  She nodded. The tractor wasn’t meant for two so she had to sit close. His arm around her waist held her on the narrow seat.

  “We need to call the police.” He pointed the tractor in the direction of his barn and shifted gears.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  He braked and the big machine rumbled to a halt.

  “Jeremy, I don’t want to start this over again. I’m here. Chance is in California. But I don’t want this to be my life.”

  “He’s in Dawson.”

  Jeremy’s words shook her from the daze she’d been in.

  “How do you know?”

  “Someone saw him drive through town.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it.”

  “You really think that?”

  She glanced out the gray tinted window at the half mowed field. “I don’t want my life to be about police reports and fear.”

  “Then do something about it. Don’t let him bully you. You need to make it clear to him that you’re not afraid.”

  “But I am.”

  “Beth, he hurt you. He was a coward who took you across the country so you wouldn’t have anyone to turn to. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re stronger than that. You have family and friends who will back you up.”

 
More regret. “I can’t believe you’re even talking to me after what I’ve done to you.”

  Jeremy leaned close and he smiled, “Yeah, so am I. You’re going to end up costing me a lot of money because I am going to fight this.”

  “I know.” She wiped a finger under her eyes. “And I’m sorry.”

  “But it’s a battle you have to fight. I get that.”

  The tractor lumbered forward. He steered with one hand on the wheel. His other arm was around her, keeping her next to him. A few minutes later he parked the tractor next to the barn.

  They sat for a second. Jeremy’s arm was still around her. She closed her eyes and leaned against his shoulder. It felt good there, with his arm around her. It felt safe.

  “Jeremy, thank you.”

  “For what?” he whispered. His breath was soft. His lips brushed close to her ear.

  “For being my friend.”

  His arm tightened. He took off his hat and dropped it on the gearshift. He brushed his hand across her cheek, rough and gentle at the same time.

  “Beth, you’re beautiful. Stubborn but beautiful.”

  He leaned, holding her close. She touched his shoulder, afraid to breathe, afraid to interrupt the moment. Her heart had been waiting for this, longing for it. His lips brushed her temple first, and then her cheek while his right hand cradled the back of her head.

  When his lips touched hers, tears slid down her cheeks. His lips on hers were tender, forcing old memories from her mind and replacing them with something new and wonderful. Her heart soared, reaching for his. This kiss took her back and suddenly she was sixteen again, standing on the creek bank with a boy who wanted to be a rodeo star.

  That kiss had been the kiss of a boy. This time she was being held by a man, a man who made her feel everything all at once, and beautiful. His arms held her close and his lips were firm, sweeping her away from reality and into a world where she believed in fairy tales again.

  And then he pulled away, too soon.

  He touched his forehead to hers. “I don’t want to be the next person to hurt you. And I don’t want the church between us this way.”

  “What?” Her voice shook. A moment like this shouldn’t end with words that sounded like him putting distance between them.