Lone Star Woman

by CALLAHAN, SADIE

  The roar of a large truck engine caught the attention of all three men. Brady left the barn to investigate. He saw Jude’s truck, its right side plastered stem to stern with red mud. The passenger door and bed were caved in. A blue-and-white tow truck followed it, pulling a mud-encrusted stock trailer. Brady stopped midstep and stared. Why hadn’t she waited for him?

  Clary came up beside him. “Is that Judith Ann?”

  “Yeah,” Brady answered.

  “Where the hell has she been?”

  Well, Brady couldn’t give the horse wrangler an entirely truthful answer, could he? He was still nervous over the fact that Clary and Jack Durham were friends. “Over by Fort Worth. She went to get bulls.”

  “She had a wreck?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Clary shook his head and sighed. “Well, let’s finish what we’re doing.”

  Following the horse wrangler back into the barn, Brady angled a furtive look back at Jude and saw her scoot out of her truck and talk to the tow-truck driver. Why the hell didn’t she wait for me? he wondered again.

  Jude bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time. She intended to shower Brady Fallon’s scented cream off her body. She could no longer stand smelling like his woodsy scent all day. While she showered for the second time and shampooed her hair, she replayed the phone message the woman had left on Brady’s voice mail. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Surely he would explain what that phone call meant.

  After drying her hair and dressing in clean clothing, she returned downstairs, to the kitchen. Irene was making tamales for supper. Grandpa loved tamales. Windy said Grandpa wasn’t eating dinner, so Jude told him not to bother making the noon meal for just her. She made a peanut butter and banana sandwich. From Windy Jude learned that she and Grandpa would be the only ones at the supper table. She would make a point to walk with him this evening. She should have already offered to help him as Daddy had suggested, but she hadn’t found the right moment.

  After finishing her sandwich, she peeked out the back door. She had seen Brady and Clary and Doc doing something in the barn. Probably collecting semen from a stud. As soon as they left the barn, when they wouldn’t be able to see every move she made, she would hook a trailer to one of the pickups in the equipment storage lot and return to the 6-0 to get the bulls.

  Meanwhile, she went to her new office and pulled up the stats on Spike and Charlie Brown. She had to decide where to put them. But she couldn’t concentrate. The memory of last night filled every pocket in her brain. She couldn’t imagine that Brady would use her and just toss her aside. But because he was so decent, she could also imagine she would lose hands down in a contest between her and his son.

  She tried to refocus on the two bulls’ stats, but all she could think about was Brady reconciling with his ex-wife. If he did that, how would she endure it? But she wouldn’t let herself jump to conclusions. She would continue to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Her cell phone blared the “Aggie War Hymn,” yanking her from her obsessive thoughts. When she checked caller ID, she saw the caller was Fred Whitmore. Her stomach lurched. She let the call go to voice mail. A few minutes later, she keyed into her voice-mail box and listened. “Miz Strayhorn? This is Fred Whitmore. Tried to call you a couple times yesterday.”

  Oh, damn. She remembered ignoring the cell phone while she had been driving in the storm.

  All at once she felt bone-deep weariness. The sandwich she had just eaten lay like lead in her stomach. Living the past twenty-four hours on an adrenaline roller coaster and having no sleep had caught up with her. She had no energy for returning Fred Whitmore’s call. She had no patience waiting for the men to leave the barn. And she doubted if she had the strength to hook a trailer to the back of a pickup and handle two headstrong animals by herself. She couldn’t stop thinking about the woman on Brady’s answering machine. She was at a crossroads of some kind, and her mind was too tired to decide what to do. Her bed upstairs beckoned. She ignored Fred Whitmore’s message, walked out of the office and trudged upstairs to sleep.

  Since his oldest sister was born, thirty-two years ago, and except for the three years he had worked on offshore drilling rigs, Brady Fallon had spent most of his life around women. Yet he didn’t claim to be an expert on female behavior. Not even close. But he had taken one look at the tilt of Jude’s chin and the resolve in her stride as she walked across the equipment storage lot and had recognized that something was wrong. He had knocked and asked for her at the house but was told by the housekeeper she was napping.

  So he had climbed in his truck and headed home, intending to go to bed himself. He had now gotten ten hours of sleep total in three nights. He was running on fumes.

  In his kitchen, the red message light on the phone blinked like a beacon. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned a hip against the counter edge as he listened.

  “Whoa,” he said a minute later.

  Would Marvalee really let him have Andy? He had proposed it over the weekend after she had cried on his shoulder that she and her husband were having constant arguments over the kids. But he had never dreamed she would actually let them go or that her father would stand for it. If she really intended to let him have their son, Brady’s entire life was headed in a different direction. Again.

  He checked the time the message had been recorded. Seven a.m. Uh-oh. Now he figured he knew what had set Jude off. The message had the distinct tone of him kissing and making up with his ex-wife. Was Jude pissed off? Probably. Would she listen when he explained what was going on? Maybe. But his immediate concern was for his son. He rifled through a cabinet drawer, found the address book with Marvalee’s unlisted number in it and punched it in. She answered on the first ring, as if she had been sitting by the phone.

  “Got your message,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Brady, Drake and I have separated. He’s moved out of the house.”

  For a moment, the words didn’t register. Marvalee had been so enamored with Drake Lowery, she had married him within days of her and Brady’s divorce. She’d had an affair with him for at least a year before Brady had learned of it. Brady recalled moving out of the house while Lowery moved in, almost on Brady’s heels. But he was dead certain Drake Lowery hadn’t been nearly as affected by leaving the five-thousand-square-foot house Brady had built for himself and his family as Brady had been. And he was equally sure Lowery hadn’t relocated to a single-wide trailer house, worried about how he was going to eat. “Yeah?” Brady said, taking the phone to the table.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Daddy’s ready to kill him.”

  Been there, done that, Brady thought. “Too bad, Marvalee. Sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

  “The kids aren’t all that upset, though, thank God. Drake didn’t have the same relationship with them that you did.”

  No news there. “So why are you calling me, Marvalee? You want me to take Andy off your hands?”

  “Brady, have you ever thought about the mistake we made, getting the divorce?”

  Brady’s gut clenched. The mistake you made, he thought. “Can’t say I have, Marvalee.” He had never been madly in love with Marvalee, wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t been pregnant with his child. But he cared about her and he would have lived with her, wouldn’t have cheated on her. He adored the son they made. He even cared about Jarrett, the son she’d had before they met. She had never married Jarrett’s father, and the man had no interest in his son.

  “Oh, Brady, don’t be callous.” Brady couldn’t recall anybody other than Marvalee ever calling him callous. “I’ve been thinking about the fun we used to have,” she said. “Remember when I was pregnant with Andy and you were so worried about—”

  “Marvalee. Don’t do this. Let’s don’t whip a dead horse.”

  She didn’t say anything for so long, Brady began to wonder if they had lost the connection. “I guess I deserve that,” she said at last. “Lis
ten, Brady, if I drive out there this weekend and bring the boys, you’d have time to spend with me, wouldn’t you? So we could talk?”

  “What is it we’re gonna talk about?”

  “Things. Andy. Life in general.”

  An alarm went off in Brady’s mind. He knew how manipulative his ex-wife could be. She had grown up the only child of a manipulative father and had learned all the tricks from him. “You already know how I feel about Andy. I don’t know what else there is to discuss.”

  “Well, Andy really wants to see you,” she said cheerfully, as if he hadn’t flat-ass closed the door in her face. “The little guy went to bed crying just last night, and I told him I would take him to see you. Do you have a place for us to stay?”

  “I’ve got one bed and I’m working every day. I don’t know yet what the weekend holds. I guess you could stay in Abilene.”

  They hung up, with her assuring him she would show up tomorrow. He sat sprawled in the chair, his eyes closed, his thoughts darting everywhere at once. One of his thoughts was of Jude.

  24

  At four a.m., Brady awoke with his son and Jude moving in and out of his thoughts as if his mind were a revolving door. Marvalee had called him back and told him she, Andy and Jarrett would be at the Embassy Suites in Abilene. The boys could swim and play games there while he and she “talked.” A part of him felt as if he should meet her clad in armor.

  But before the meeting occurred, he had to see Jude. He didn’t understand it, but he needed to keep seeing her. Maybe he needed more than that. Last night had only confirmed what had been going on in his head and the ever-growing feelings in his heart since they went to Stephenville together.

  At first, he had been intimidated by who she was as well as the fact that she was the daughter of an overly protective father. It was all too reminiscent of Marvalee and her father. But Jude was nothing like Marvalee. Jude was unselfish and caring and didn’t flaunt her family’s wealth. In fact, the whole Strayhorn family was low-key. If a person met J.D. on the street, he would never guess the man owned more than half a county. Brady no longer cared that Jude was rich and he wasn’t. They were alike in the ways that counted.

  The importance of his job at the Circle C ranch had faded behind his desire to spend time with Jude. She was the only woman he had been drawn to in any way other than carnal since his divorce. Hell. Since long before his divorce, maybe since before his marriage. He wanted her yakkety mouth telling him stories of Texas history and reminding him to eat his vegetables, wanted her willingness to help him do whatever he thought needed doing. And he wanted her loyalty. He wanted her in his life. But he didn’t want to sneak around and spend nights at his house as if they were doing something wrong.

  Having almost slept the clock around, he felt energized and upbeat. He arrived at the Circle C on time and ate breakfast with the hands.

  Jude awoke with real estate and Fred Whitmore on her mind. She wished she had never pursued the idea of owning the 6-0 ranchland. That one desire had caused her too much grief. Anything that was as much trouble as that land had become had to be steeped in bad karma. She no longer wanted any part of it.

  Her mind churned all through showering and shampooing her hair. Perhaps Fred Whitmore had not yet presented the offer to buy the 6-0. Last night, Brady hadn’t mentioned it or even hinted that something like that might be in the wind. But considering how closemouthed Brady was, would he mention it?

  On the other hand, perhaps Fred had presented the offer, but Brady had turned it down flat. Or, since Brady didn’t know the buyer’s name, perhaps he simply hadn’t wanted to discuss it with her. That was the most likely scenario.

  For all her dithering, she came to only one conclusion: If the offer to purchase had been presented and Brady had known she was the anonymous buyer, last night wouldn’t have happened. She had to return Fred Whitmore’s call ASAP and officially kill her offer to buy the 6-0. She watched the morning news and waited impatiently for eight o’clock. At five minutes after eight, she returned Fred Whitmore’s call.

  “I got your message yesterday,” she told him, “but this is the first chance I’ve had to return your call.” She steeled herself and asked, “Did the owner, uh, accept my offer?”

  “He’s thinking about it. I haven’t heard from him, but I haven’t given up.”

  “Well, I’m giving up. I want to withdraw the offer.”

  “You can do that, Miz Strayhorn,” he drawled. “Would you mind if I ask why?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. You’re sure you didn’t reveal my identity?”

  “No, ma’am. You asked me not to.”

  “I’ll come by your office in the next few days and pick up my earnest-money check.”

  By the time Brady finished breakfast and met with the wagon boss to plan the workday, daylight had burst to life with brilliant sunshine and a sky so clear and blue, tiny black specks danced in his sight. The downpour from Tuesday night had washed the red dust off everything, and the landscape shone and smelled like cedar and sage.

  He walked over to the ranch house’s back door, knocked and asked for Jude. The housekeeper let him in, and he removed his hat as she led him to the breakfast room. Jude was sitting alone at the table eating cereal. I always do things alone. It’s no big deal. He remembered her saying those words Tuesday night, but seeing her alone at the big round oak table dramatically emphasized the point. He suspected “doing things alone” was a bigger deal than she let on.

  She looked up when he walked in. She didn’t exactly smile, but she didn’t frown, either. Now he knew for sure she had heard Marvalee’s message. She looked so beautiful, the sight of her almost took his breath away. Her long thick hair framed her face. Gold highlights shone in the morning sunlight that poured through a wall of French doors. She had on another one of those tight little T-shirts that made his mouth water. Would he ever get tired of just looking at her?

  As he approached the table, Windy brought him a mug of steaming coffee and set it on the table. “How ya doin’ this mornin’, Mr. Fallon?” the grizzled old cook asked. “What’d ya think o’ that rain? A real frog-drownder, wasn’t it?”

  “And we sure needed it,” Brady replied.

  “Yes, sir, we did,” Windy said. “But the boys tell me it didn’t bring us much relief from this dang drought.” He ambled back to the kitchen.

  Conversation about rain and the lack of it was never ending in West Texas. Like a sponge, the thirsty ground had already sucked up Tuesday night’s drenching. Brady fixed his eyes on Jude and pulled out a chair adjacent to her at the table. He wanted to kiss her good morning, wanted to take her in his arms, wanted to hear her say she shared his feelings, But he could hardly have an intimate conversation with her with the kitchen help so close. He noticed her bowl was empty. “Want to take a walk?”

  She picked up her own coffee mug and they walked outside to the terrace. The wide expanse of red limestone slabs took up half of what was considered the backyard, a bigger footprint than the whole 6-0 house. He set his hat on and they began to stroll the length of the terrace, squinting in the bright sunlight, their boot heels clunking against the solid stone.

  “No one really comes out here anymore,” she said, gazing at the orchard a hundred yards away. “A long time ago, there were parties out here. There would be politicians and businessmen. A few celebrities. People would fly in. Cable used to bring all of these rodeo people. Even some country-western musicians. I don’t know what happened to all that. It just sort of went away.”

  As far as Brady could tell, there was little time for partying at the Circle C. Routinely, J.D. worked sixteen-hour days. It wouldn’t be easy to party hard going to bed before sundown and rising before daylight.

  And Jeff Strayhorn, even at his age, worked long hours, too. Brady had heard J.D. say that on some days, the old man never came out of his office until supper. Brady had been surprised to learn that the ranch’s money—outside of the huge cow and horse operations—came fro
m Jeff Strayhorn’s astute investing sensibilities.

  He thought again of someone Jude’s age living in this environment with two old men and a few Mexicans employed as household help. It reminded him of some fairy-tale princess in a tower, protected from the outside world. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said.

  She stopped walking and looked up at him with those wide, wondering eyes, and he felt it again—that spinning sensation, as if they were caught in a vortex. “What about?” she asked, keeping distance between them. Her tone was matter-of-fact, unemotional.

  “You must have heard my ex-wife’s phone message,” he said.

  Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, and they began to walk again. “That’s what you want to talk about?”

  “No.”

  They had reached the end of the patio. A rectangular concrete table with two benches sat at the edge under the shade of a giant old tree. The tree roots had heaved up the limestone slabs in several places. Tufts of grass grew in the cracks. “Let’s sit down,” she said, and stepped up on the bench. She sat on the tabletop, placing her feet on the bench. He seated himself beside her, his hip and shoulder touching hers. The concrete had already been warmed by the sun and he felt it against his bottom. He rested his elbows on his knees and wrapped his hands around his mug. “What I’d really like is to kiss you good morning, but I don’t suppose you’d want me to do that.”

  “Windy’s probably spying on us through the breakfast room doors. He and Daddy have been friends their whole lives, you know. He tells Daddy everything that happens. They don’t call him Windy for no reason.”