by Lori Wilde
And not in a good way.
Anxiety secreted a knot in her stomach and she thought of the way oysters made pearls, building a protective layer inside against an invading grain of sand.
What in the hell was she doing here?
You had nowhere else to go.
That wasn’t entirely true. She could have moved to Argentina, started a new life in a new country, close to her mother and Ignacio. But that seemed even more foreign and faraway than Jubilee. Besides, she felt like a third thumb around her mother and her new husband.
What if no one here liked her? What if she didn’t like them? Maybe she should turn north and just keep on driving until she reached the safety of the Chicago city limits.
And then do what? She’d already spent three months pounding the pavement, looking for a job she knew she was not going to get. Destiny had friends in high places. She had nowhere to stay. She’d already worn out her welcome on her friend Abby’s couch after she’d been forced to give up her apartment because she couldn’t make rent. This was it. Her new life.
Ugh.
She shook her head and let her gaze drift over her surroundings once more. Up ahead lay a restaurant called the Mesquite Spit. She could smell steaks grilling even through the rolled-up window of her car. Pickup trucks and SUVs jammed the parking lot, but it didn’t look like the kind of place that put a high premium on quality lettuce, so she kept driving.
And then she saw the sign.
“Oak Hill Cemetery ½ Mile.”
Oak Hill was where they’d buried Dutch.
Impulsively, she turned, following where the sign pointed, and took the road running up the hill behind the Mesquite Spit.
A wispy bank of gray clouds played across a sky glazed with the purple-pearl sheen of impending twilight. The temperature was sluggish, neither hot nor cold, midrange and noncommittal. Sixty-five, Mariah guessed, until she parked the car beside a maintenance shed and got out. The wind tickled her hair. Sixty, she recalculated, and the dampish air carried the musky smell of composting leaves mingling with the sharp, smoky scent of burning mesquite.
The cemetery wasn’t big, but it was old. Oaks, pecans, and elm trees so large that two people joining hands couldn’t reach around them, sheltered the plots. The burial ground was laid out in a simple grid pattern on the flat of the hilltop.
Where to start her search?
Look for a freshly turned grave.
A prickling sensation tickled the back of her neck as her feet processed the rows.
She found it with surprising ease, the rich scent of loam leading her to the spot. No headstone yet. Too soon for that. But there was a cardboard placard attached to a stake and numerous flower arrangements.
RANDOLPH “DUTCH” CALLAHAN
THE GREATEST CUTTER WHO EVER LIVED.
As she stood there, in the waning sunlight, looking at her estranged father’s grave, Mariah’s emotions formed a mosaic snapshot. Crystal clear. A fractured monochrome of bands and circles, dots and triangles. Black. White. Gray. The primary sensation was one of deep, unabated loss.
“Dutch,” she whispered. “I hardly knew you. Why does it hurt so damn much?” It wasn’t so much the pain of losing him, but of never having him. An unrequited love, if you will. Loving someone who couldn’t love you back.
One of the few memories she had of her father was when he’d taken her riding. She’d been quite small, three or four at most, and the main thing she recalled about the day was sitting in the saddle with him. Her back pressed against his strong chest, his ropy arms around her, his tanned hands competently holding the leather reins, guiding the horse. In that moment, she remembered feeling utterly safe and protected. As if nothing bad could ever happen as long as her daddy had her back. She’d lost that feeling when Dutch left, and she’d never experienced it again.
She turned to go back to her car, but as she did, a brown pickup climbed the hill to the cemetery. It looked like Joe’s truck.
Mariah didn’t know why she did what she did next. She just reacted without thinking, slipping behind the maintenance building, holding her breath, spying on Joe as he pulled to a stop on the opposite side of the cemetery from where she hid.
He stepped from the truck, tall and lanky and easy-gaited. In his hand, he carried a wicker basket of yellow chrysanthemums. She assumed he was coming to pay his respects to Dutch, but instead of turning down the row where her father’s grave was located, he walked closer to the maintenance shed.
Had he seen her?
Her heart galloped. Why was she hiding from him? Why did she find the thought that he was coming after her so compelling? Twisted. She’d always known she wasn’t quite right.
But no. He wasn’t coming for her. He walked on past the maintenance shed.
Twin ghosts, relief and disappointment, hovered around her. Mariah edged to the other side of the building and peeked around the corner so she could follow where he went.
He stopped at a grave, knelt down, and placed the basket of flowers near the headstone. He stood up, took off his Stetson, and bowed his head.
Joe was praying.
A lump formed in her throat. Feeling like the worst kind of voyeur, Mariah stepped back, glanced away, and gave the man his privacy. She stood with her spine pressed against the side door of the locked building, arms splayed against the wood.
The sun dipped to the horizon. The air thickened. In the distance, she heard a dog bark.
A minute passed.
Then five.
Whose grave was it? How long was he going to stay there?
Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t really come out now. He would know she’d hidden from him and she’d look stupid. Why had she hidden from him?
She heard a car door slam. Was it he? Had he gone?
The crunch of footsteps on fallen leaves echoed across the cemetery. Close.
Very close.
She shut her eyes. Prayed that Joe did not look behind the shed. Scrambled to come up with an excuse in case he did.
“Hey, lady.”
Mariah jumped and her eyes flew open.
A middle-aged man dressed in blue jeans coveralls and rubber knee boots stood at the far corner of the building. He had a face like a glacier, flat, cold, and big. His salt and pepper hair thinned around his temples. He possessed eyes the size and color of watermelon seeds and an elongated, plankish mouth. “Hey, lady.”
“Y-yes?” she stammered, caught completely off guard by this odd-looking stranger when she’d been expecting to see Joe.
“You’re in my way.” He nodded at the door. “You shouldn’t be over here.”
“What? Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, and scurried off.
But instead of getting into her car, she found herself drawn to the gravesite with the basket of yellow chrysanthemums. She crept up on it, pushed her glasses up farther on her nose for a closer look.
An upright granite headstone. That had cost someone a nice chunk of change. The wind quickened, whistling through the leaves of the red oak tree standing sentinel over the grave. The tombstone read:
REBECCA ANNE BRACKEEN DANIELS
A carving of two entwined hearts followed the information, and underneath the engraved twin hearts was the epitaph:
ADORED WIFE OF JOSEPH
TWO HEARTS WHO BELONG TOGETHER FOREVER
Palm to her mouth, Mariah stepped back, her shoes sinking into the damp earth of the grave behind Rebecca’s. Unnerved that she’d trod on someone’s grave, she turned and fled to the safety of her car. She sat in the front seat, keys clutched in her hand, trying to make sense of what she’d just learned. Four things were clear.
One: Joe was a widower.
Two: His wife had been only twenty-six years old when she’d died. Younger than Mariah was now.
Three: Dutch, Joe’s best friend, had died two years to the day after Rebecca’s death.
Four: Joe had loved his wife very, very much.
Goose bumps rose on her skin. Sympathy pawed at
her. Her heart softened. No wonder Joe had gotten drunk last night and fallen into the horse trough and slept it off in a stupor. He’d been in a great deal of emotional pain.
And she’d been so mean to him. Calling him a derelict. Acting rude.
That’s what you get for making assumptions, for judging people.
Poor guy. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he was going through. She owed him a big apology because Joe Daniels was a man still grieving the love of his life.
Chapter Five
Playing it safe means you’re not even in the game.
—Dutch Callahan
Joe tromped to the Silver Horseshoe looking for something to take his mind off his sorrow. His head still ached from his go-round with Jose Cuervo, so he wasn’t into that. He needed companionship more than anything else, a friendly face to keep him from dwelling on Becca and Dutch. He paused outside to scrape his boots on the welcome mat.
“Howdy, handsome,” Clover greeted him from behind the bar the minute he opened the door. Her kindly face folded into a heartfelt smile. “What’ll you have?”
“I’m not in a drinkin’ mood.”
“Well, honey, you did just walk into a bar.” Her jovial tone darkened. “Is something bothering you?”
He sank down on the bar stool. “I guess I’ll take a beer.”
She poured up a mug and pushed it in front of him. Joe took a swig. Clover went off to fix a whiskey sour for another customer, and then came back, bar towel slung over one shoulder. “So that pebble in your boot got anything to do with Dutch’s daughter?”
He took another sip of beer. “You know about her?”
“Saw her while I was on the way over to the Marin place this morning. She’s cute.”
“I suppose,” he said.
“You don’t like her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know her.”
“But something’s got you upset.”
“She doesn’t even seem to be mourning him.” Joe rubbed the condensation off his mug with the pad of his thumb. “The man was her father and she doesn’t give a damn.”
“For one thing,” Clover said, “everyone grieves in their own way. For another thing, she barely knew him.”
“All the more reason to grieve. Knowing that you treated your own father like dirt and never had a chance to make amends.”
“That’s not like you, Joe,” Clover chided gently.
“What?”
“Making snap judgments about people.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes first impressions are the right ones.”
“What’s your impression of her?”
“Aloof. Cold.” He thought of her soft lips, her golden hair, and immediately scrubbed the image from his mind.
“That wasn’t the impression I had of her at all.”
“No?”
“No. I thought she seemed . . .” Clover paused as if searching for the right word. “Lost. Vulnerable.”
Joe snorted.
“Much like you.”
“What?” He glared at Clover.
“You’ve been lost since Becca died and now with Dutch gone, you’ve lost your last anchor. I know you don’t see it, Joe. Big tough cowboy can’t admit he’s fragile as peanut brittle, but you’re projecting your guilt and shame onto Mariah.”
“Projecting? Clover, have you been watching Dr. Phil?”
Clover straightened. “I saw a grief counselor after Carl died. I know things.”
“Did it help?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “You can talk about your feelings until you’re blue in the face, but it doesn’t change the fact the person you love is gone.”
“Nope, it don’t.”
They looked at each other, two lost souls connected by grief.
Then Clover burst out laughing. “You want another beer?”
“Why not,” Joe said joining her laughter. Sometimes things got so bad you just had to laugh or go insane.
Clover refilled his mug, then reached over and touched Joe’s hand. “Lighten up on Mariah, Joe. It’s not healthy to hold on to bad feelings. Try to make her feel welcome.”
“Hey, I promised to give her a ride back to the ranch after she turns in her rental car. That’s as neighborly as I’m gonna get.” Already he regretted making that promise. Why had he made that promise?
“Try to see past Mariah’s defenses. Yes, she’s got big-city ways, but she could use a good friend.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Clover,” he said, clinging to his resentment like a lifeline even though he really didn’t know why, other than being around her made him think of Becca and Dutch, and that made his heart hurt. Too much pain. He’d had enough of it to last a lifetime. “Dutch was my best friend in the world, and getting chummy with his estranged daughter feels too much like consorting with the enemy. I’m just biding my time until I can buy back my land and send her packing.”
The next morning, Joe followed Mariah into town. He barely spoke two words to her, just nodded and mumbled hello and then swung back into the cab of his pickup.
Fine. That was fine with her. She had nothing to say to him either.
She turned in the rental car. Joe led her to his pickup truck and opened up the passenger side door. Reluctantly, she climbed inside, not sure how to get out of this, equally unsure if she wanted to. Joe made her feel so mixed up inside on so many levels, she found it disconcerting. She found him disconcerting.
Tilting her head, she watched him scoot around the front of the truck. He was a commanding figure. Lean, hard-packed muscles poured into a pair of cowboy-cut denim jeans; broad, razor-sharp shoulders moving beneath a blue, yoke-style Western shirt. Although he stood six feet tall, there was a wiry compactness about him that was common to the limber men who wrangled horses and cattle for a living. Dutch had been built the same way.
“So,” she said after several minutes, unable to stand the silence any longer. “I’m really surprised to see Jubilee has a good-sized airport and so many motels and three car rental chains. What’s the draw? You’d think with Fort Worth being so close, everyone would just go there.”
“We’re the cutting horse capital of the world,” he said.
“Seriously? I thought that was just some exaggerated brag for the welcome sign.”
“Nope, it’s true. People fly here from all corners of the world to trade, breed, and show cutting horses. Lots of celebrities own and train cutting horses—Christie Brinkley, Tanya Tucker, Linda Blair, Barry Corbin, just to name a few. It’s a big deal. Plus, we host the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association rodeo every July. Jubilee might be small, but we’re influential,” Joe said, the pride in his voice compelling.
At last, she’d found something that got him talking. “Have you always lived in Jubilee?”
“Born and raised.”
That stopped the conversation, but luckily, they’d arrived at the law office of Art Bunting.
Bunting turned out to be fiftyish and slightly paunchy, and like most everyone in Jubilee, he wore Wranglers and cowboy boots to work. He had thick black eyebrows that belied his gray hair, and a pencil-thin mustache too small for his beefy face.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” Bunting murmured to Mariah as he took her hand in both of his. “He’ll be sorely missed around here.”
“Thank you,” Mariah said. It felt weird to realize there were people who missed Dutch more than she did.
With a nod and a handshake to Joe as well, Bunting directed her to a chair. “Let’s get down to work.”
She sat and Joe stood at the back of the room, leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his hands tucked behind him.
Bunting took the chair opposite her, shuffled the papers on his desk, and cleared his throat. “I’m going to read to you what Dutch wrote. He was a cowboy through and through, so he didn’t have an official will. The man didn’t even keep a bank account. Talk about living off the grid. That was your dad. Anyway, he just wrote down his wishes on a p
iece of paper and brought them to me.”
“When did he do this?” Joe asked.
“Right after you two swapped Miracle for the land. He wanted to make sure that if anything happened to him, Mariah would be taken care of. Other than planning for futurities, I think it was the most planning Dutch ever did.”
Joe bowed his head. “Dutch was a true cowboy.”
Emotion tugged at Mariah’s chest but she couldn’t really name it. Sadness, sure. Loss, yes. But there was another layer there she hadn’t quite felt before. Her father had prepared a place for her. She had been on his mind. He did regret some of the choices he made in life.
“Would you like for me to read it to you?” Art offered.
Mariah nodded, knowing that if she were to read the letter, the tears she’d been holding back would start to fall, and the last thing she wanted was to break down in front of strangers. Destiny had taught her well. You couldn’t let people see how you were feeling. You couldn’t expose your tender underbelly if you didn’t want to get attacked. Of course, she’d never expected her boss to turn out to be her primary attacker. “I’d appreciate that.”
“ ‘Dear Art . . .’ ” Bunting began, then paused to editorialize. “I told you it was an informal letter.” He cleared his throat again, adjusted his reading glasses, and continued to read. “ ‘In case something happens to me, I want to make sure my girl, Mariah, is taken care of. I couldn’t take care of her in life. I didn’t have it in me to be a good daddy. Horses are in my blood and I’m ashamed to say they took over. I left her and her mama high and dry ’cause I knew they’d be better off without me. But Mariah is the best thing I’ve ever done, not that I can claim any credit for raising her. I’m leaving her everything I own—the chunk of land that Joe Daniels traded me for Some Kind of Miracle. Stuffy, the first trophy I ever won, and my Dodge Ram dually. I’m sorry the house is a shack. I should fix it up and hopefully I will before I kick the bucket. If I don’t then it won’t be much good to her the shape it’s in.’ ”
