“Thank you, Mr. Belotti.”
His father had trained him with manners.
“When do you think you’ll head back to the circuit?”
“Soon as possible,” Shane said.
If Shane didn’t work, he didn’t make money. He wished he could say it was for the passion of the sport, but when all the cards were on the table, it was the only thing Shane did well.
He hadn’t gone to college.
Barely finished high school.
Besides, Dillon Creek had gotten too small for him.
“Well, you take care of that injury, you hear? Don’t go back too soon.”
“No, sir.”
Lance slapped his back once more and continued down Main Street toward his truck.
Shane got into his truck, but when he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw Sarah Beth walking across the street, most likely back to the elementary school.
Go ask her if she needs a ride.
A small pinch of confidence made him start the truck.
Shane quickly opened the slider window in the cab of his truck and threw a few beer cans back there. He couldn’t remember when he’d drunk those or how long they’d been there.
He flipped around, put his foot on the gas, and headed toward Sarah Beth.
She was a block away from the school when Shane caught up to her.
His stomach was in knots when he tried to casually rest his elbow on the frame of the window. “Need a ride, Sarah Beth?” Shane’s heart slammed against his chest. Hammered. Jackknifed somewhere between ride and Sarah.
“No, thank you, Shane.”
Just when Shane built up a bit of courage to ask Sarah Beth to lunch, Tilly Puckett, daughter of Tony and Pixie Puckett, leaned in the other window. “Hey, handsome. Heard you were back in town.” She opened the truck door and hopped in.
No.
Shane looked from Tilly back to Sarah Beth, but she was already gone.
Tilly Puckett was good for his ego. She stroked it, and he enjoyed that. But that was all there was to it. Besides, as much as he’d tried to forget about Sarah Beth, he simply couldn’t. She’d ruined his sex life with all other women. Every time he allowed himself the pleasure of another woman, all he could see was Sarah Beth’s face.
Tilly Puckett was no different, but he wasn’t going to sleep with her. Besides, he’d gone down that lane with her before. Shane didn’t need a rumor following him around like they used to. He wasn’t that guy anymore.
Am I?
“Anyway, I don’t know why you came back here, Shane. Nothing’s changed. Same people. Same gossip. You ought to get gone and stay gone. I mean”—she smiled and used her fingers to climb up his arm—“I’m glad you’re here. Real glad.”
“Look, Tilly, I just can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? Somethin’ broke?” She looked down between Shane’s legs.
“No, nothing like that. Just …” Shane didn’t need to explain anything. He pulled the truck over in front of Tilly’s house.
She pouted and crossed her arms across her chest. “You used to be a damn good time, Shane Sawyer.” Tilly climbed out of the truck. “Who broke you? Was it that damn Sarah Beth?”
Shane smiled. “Bye, Tilly.”
“Asshole,” he heard her mutter under her breath before she slammed the truck door.
Later that night, Shane sat down at the table with his father, Jack.
Shane’s mom, Corrine, had died when he was ten. But one thing he remembered most about his mother was that she’d loved the holidays. She’d decorate the house with garland, lights, and small, traditional knickknacks from her side of the family. She’d make cookies, breads, and candy. It seemed like Christmas music played from the first of November to New Year’s Eve. And Dad never settled on a mediocre Christmas tree. It had to be the biggest, most perfect tree from Sandy Ale’s lot up off of Grizzly Bluff Road.
But Christmas just hadn’t been the same since his mom passed on December 4 seventeen years ago.
Dad hadn’t either.
He’d retreated into himself.
Drank to numb the pain.
And somehow, Shane just kept moving forward. He guessed that was a big part of why he hated the holidays.
Jack never put up a tree again.
The house never smelled like Mom’s cookies.
She’d left a big hole when she passed. A hole in Dad, a hole in Shane, and a hole in the ranch.
“Got to get that shoulder healed,” Jack said.
“I know.”
“Got to get back into that arena,” Jack said. Sipped his beer.
It had always been his father’s dream to do the rodeo circuit, not Shane’s. Shane just happened to be good at it. But because he’d done it for so long, he’d developed a deep love for the sport.
“You’re a natural,” his father always said.
“Put in a call to Eureka Orthopedics. Dr. Mason owes me a favor. Broke his gelding last year. Said he could get you in.”
In truth, Shane had gone to the emergency room per the National Finals Rodeo doctors, but he’d left before he went in. Maybe Shane was scared of what they’d tell him. Rodeo was his life.
Maybe, he thought, I can give it time to heal and then have a surgeon doctor look at it.
If he couldn’t rodeo, especially at the level he was, then what the hell was he going to do?
Shane also knew if he went back to the circuit, he was certain the next time he came home, Sarah Beth would be married and pregnant with another man’s child.
Was he willing to risk that?
“I think you need to have Dr. Mason take a good look at it.”
“Yeah, all right. When?” Shane matched his father swig for swig of their beers.
“Tomorrow morning. I can drive you.”
“No, I can drive myself.” Shane knew his father would be up at the crack of dawn on a horse, moving hay, building fence, doing what old cowboys did at five in the morning. Shane also watched his father drink to chase away the memories of his mom. So, when he combined the two—work and alcohol—it just made his life survivable, and Shane didn’t want to put a monkey wrench in that.
Shane still had the memories, too, and he didn’t know what was more painful—having the memories or nothing at all.
“Night, Dad.”
“Night, son.”
Before Shane closed his eyes as he lay on top of his covers in his childhood room, he looked at the walls.
Posters of Lane Frost. Ty Murray. John Jones, Sr. Ote Berry. Chris LeDoux. George Strait, all heroes in Shane’s eyes, rodeo kings and country singers.
He looked around the room at all the ribbons and the dusty belt buckles that sat on his dresser, untouched for years. The three saddles perched in his room on old wine barrels. It was true; there wasn’t enough space in his room for his trophies, so his mom had made him take some out to the old milking barn. But the important ones stayed in his room, only to collect dust.
Shane wondered what it would be like if his mom were still here. Maybe he wouldn’t worry about his dad so much. Though Jack was tougher than nails. Shane had seen his dad’s jaw and leg and both arms broken, all separate occasions, all done by riding saddle bronc.
Maybe his dad wouldn’t drink so much.
But, hell, he was an adult. Shane knew his dad would figure it out, but it didn’t stop the worry.
He’d go to the doctor tomorrow, and they’d probably tell him that he was hurt real bad. Shane could feel it. He wasn’t an idiot.
Shane dug around in his pocket for the white pill he’d grabbed earlier from his truck, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed it whole. He only took them when the pain got real bad. And the pain got real bad when he was lying in bed. At least it would take the edge off.
Hawthorn—Shane’s travel buddy and hazer, who kept the steer from running astray and the only guy he trusted—had given him a bottle before he left for the emergency room.
Shane had tried to expla
in he could drive himself, but the rodeo officials, the doctors, wouldn’t have it.
Just when the pain pill started to take effect, his cell phone sounded, signifying a text message.
It was Hawthorn.
Did you hear about Jimmy? Bull hooked him through his side. Not looking good, man. Just thought you needed to know.
There was a Professional Bull Riders event in Texas.
That was the thing about rodeo. Nothing was safe. Nothing was set in stone that said a cowboy would live to see another day. It was just the price cowboys paid for doing what they loved.
Whatever’s going on with my shoulder is peanuts compared to Jimmy, he thought.
This thought made him sick. Or maybe it was the pain medication. But he got up anyway and walked out to the living room.
Dad was passed out in his chair, his beer between his legs.
Shane took the beer and moved it to the sofa table. Sat down on the couch.
His dad was watching a rerun of Shane steer wrestling. It was from a few years ago.
He’d won the finals that year. It was the fourth round. Two-point-eight seconds—that was what it took Shane to get the steer down.
The crowd screamed.
Shane’s dad had sent him a picture of Veterans Hall at Dillon Creek, packed with cowboy, fans, and families, all watching him.
That was a good year.
The pain medication filled him with okayness. He thought about texting Hawthorn back, but he wouldn’t have an update.
Jimmy has a wife and two kids.
He walked to the fridge to grab another beer. This will help, at least momentarily.
Shane opened it and took a big swig. Sat back down on the couch and let the video play through.
He started to think back on that year. The real good year when he had won a lot of events. He’d made quite a bit of money.
And yet, every year since, he kept trying to relive it even if it meant tearing up his body to achieve it.
The truth was, he hadn’t had that kind of real success since.
He wasn’t so sure he ever would again.
Shane put the bottle to his lips, leaned back, and watched the video over and over until he finally fell asleep.
Maybe he’d done everything so impeccably well that ride that maybe it was just something he was missing now.
But maybe Shane’s time had passed—on a few different fronts.
THREE
The Ladybugs
The Ladybugs were a group of old ladies who gathered at Dillon Creek Pizza on the last Tuesday of the month at noon sharp to raise money for scholarships for kids and the community. They were quite picky about who their members were. But if the group wanted to be sustained over the years, it needed to recruit new members. Get them trained. Hell, The Ladybugs weren’t getting any younger.
And in order to make any group work for as long as they had, there had to be roles they played well. The group had to possess these types of people: one leader who took charge—Clyda Atwood; a person who could see all sides to the story—Erla Brockmeyer; the easygoing one but would do anything it took to meet the needs of the group—Mabe Muldoon; a gossip to get the lead on any good thing in Dillon Creek, and in the case of the Ladybugs, they had two—Delveen Constance and Pearl Harvey.
Erla had just lost her husband in July, so the group pulled her weight because her cheese, most days, had been sliding off her cracker. She hadn’t gone crazy; it was grief—and an ugly dose of it. So, in reality, The Ladybugs had four proper working minds for the moment.
“Well, I heard he got a rodeo groupie pregnant in Texas a few months back,” Delveen disclosed before their meeting began.
It was unclear how Delveen and Pearl seemed to get access to rumors and gossip so quickly, but the group had to admit, it did have its perks in a small town.
It gave the group access to halls before they were booked. Such was the case with The Purple Scarf Society. Their president, Lucille, and three other board members had been caught playing poker in the good Lord’s house one night while Pastor Mike and his wife, Frances, were out of town. It was a scandal. Anyhow, The Purple Scarf Society had booked the Veterans Hall for a gathering on a date that The Ladybugs also wanted the hall. Delveen said to keep the date booked at the hall for next in line. So, they did.
Lo and behold, after the poker scandal had broken, The Purple Scarf Society had backed out, and the Ladybugs had been able to rent the hall instead.
One would think, however, that after all these years, Clyda Atwood wouldn’t be so surprised by Delveen and Pearl and what came from their mouths, but she was. “How do you know Shane Sawyer got someone pregnant in Texas?” Clyda asked.
“Travis Hawthorn’s mama,” Delveen said matter-of-factly.
“Oh shit, Delveen, that woman’s got one foot in the grave,” Mabe said.
Then, Delveen replied, “Mark my words, someone’s going to show up to our town of Dillon Creek with a cute little belly with the Sawyer baby in tow.” She pushed her salad around her plate.
Clyda shook her head in doubt.
Erla tried to smile.
Mabe finished her nonalcoholic beer.
And Pearl checked her lipstick with the reflection of a knife.
Some things never changed, except when drama came to town.
FOUR
Sarah Beth
It wasn’t like Sarah Beth had lied. No, well, maybe she had. But in her defense, she couldn’t help the way she responded to Shane’s presence. She was always lost for words. It burned her up, too, that he could do that to her. She had seen him in the Book Ends window that night.
After spending the day wiping noses, calling parents, working on budgets, and trying to dig up anything to get Tess’s job back, Sarah Beth was tired.
Her phone chimed in her purse.
It was a text from Josie.
Where are you? It’s the town Christmas tree lighting tonight. Thought we were going to meet at the shop at 5?
Oh no. She looked down at her phone. It was already five fifteen p.m., and it started at five thirty.
She texted back.
On my way.
Sarah Beth and Josie had a yearly ritual that they’d done for years. With Shane back in town and with work, she’d completely forgotten all about it. Sarah Beth had promised herself she wouldn’t let Shane take away her love of the holidays, and here she was, forgetting about life.
She turned off the light to her office. She was always the last one to leave.
Leaders should be, she thought to herself.
She buttoned up her wool coat, put on her knitted gloves, tucked her purse under her arm, and made her exit from the school. She took a right and then a sharp left to Main.
Christmas music played.
The lampposts were lit up with lights snaking down them—a reflection of tradition of Dillon Creek, the carefulness of preservation. After all, the lampposts had been a stamp on Dillon Creek since they were erected in 1901. Each storefront, even Cranky Carl’s Blacksmith Shop, took to decorating their shop windows for the holidays. While there was money at stake—the business that won first prize took home one hundred dollars, second prize took home fifty dollars, and third prize took home twenty-five dollars—it was more about the parking. The first-place winner got to park on Main Street for the entire year. Typically, business owners weren’t supposed to park on Main Street, as they allowed for tourists to have those highly sought-after spots. And also, bragging rights.
But on that night, the air was cold. The storefronts looked magical, and Sarah Beth couldn’t help but feel as though everything was as it should be.
Even if Shane Sawyer was in town.
Frank Sinatra’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” came over the airway.
Sarah Beth dodged every crack in the sidewalk.
She pulled her coat around her even tighter, as if she could.
But he slipped into her head, just like he always did.
She was
twenty-seven. Why hadn’t she settled down yet? Was she subconsciously waiting for Mr. Perfect? Sure, she’d been on dates—some not-so-pleasant ones, some okay ones. But truth be told, maybe she was looking for someone who was unavailable. Someone who didn’t exist.
She remembered when Shane’s mom had passed away.
The whole town mourned.
Just like they had when Tripp and Conroy were killed.
And when Don Brockmeyer died.
And when John and Francine Muldoon died.
But she felt particularly sad when Shane’s mom died. She saw it in his eyes. The once-bright green eyes full of hope and a zest for life had somehow become vacant, less available, hopeless even.
That was when Shane made the move from being a boy to a man overnight. He turned to things to fill the void in his heart. Sarah Beth saw it; just like a light switch, Shane turned everything off. It wasn’t like he turned into an awful kid. His dad, Jack Sawyer, an old cowboy, wouldn’t let that happen. Shane just hadn’t seemed to care anymore.
Sarah Beth wondered what he was doing tonight. She couldn’t help it when she pulled open the big glass door to Book Ends. It smelled lovely. Pine and sugar cookies.
It was 5:22 p.m.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah Beth explained as the door shut behind her, and she looked up.
Josie had decorated the inside of Book Ends. It had always been their tradition to decorate the storefront but never on the inside. It looked like a winter wonderland. As Sarah Beth pulled off her coat, she looked around at the garland and the big Christmas tree that stood in the middle of the store, standing ten feet high. The white flakes of plastic snow sat on ledges, bookshelves, and countertops.
She stared at her friend in awe. “This is beautiful. How on earth did you get the Christmas tree in here by yourself?”
“Tom Manzel,” Josie said shyly, as if she was hiding a secret crush that Sarah Beth was completely unaware of. And she was.
Oh. Have I been so completely wrapped up in my own saga that I couldn’t see that my best friend has feelings for a new man?
Little White Christmas Page 2
