Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2

by Mia Hopkins

  Monica wasn’t prepared for the pain that flooded her from head to toe when she saw Dean. He was so handsome that looking at him sharpened her senses. He was wearing a white straw hat, a freshly pressed blue shirt and one of his championship belt buckles. Even from afar, his dark beard couldn’t hide the sharp lines of his cheekbones or the strong angle of his jaw.

  The commentators spotted him from the announcing stand. One of the event’s cameramen rushed over to get a shot for the big screen.

  “And here today is Oleander’s very own Dean MacKinnon, two-time freestyle bullfighting world champion. Looks like he’s giving our Miller-Davis bullfighters some pointers, there. Boys, listen up. You’re getting schooled by the best. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give Dean a warm hometown welcome.”

  The crowd cheered. Dean waved at the camera and smiled. Monica heard some wolf whistles and ladylike shrieks from the audience.

  When the camera cut away, Dean looked up and locked eyes with her. His smile faltered for a moment before he put it back on and turned back to Bo.

  Almost gleefully, Harpal poked Monica in the ribs. “Come on. Stop looking at him. We’re blocking traffic here on the stairway.”

  Monica frowned at her sister-in-law before turning and walking up the stairs.

  * * * * *

  Packed with people, the Oleander Community Center was sweltering. All the doors had been thrown open to let in fresh air. Visitors were stacked five deep for beer and whiskey at the bar. The band, Mason Crow and the Wildflowers, played nonstop boot-scootin’ country, whipping the crowd into an energetic frenzy. Around the room, old-timers sat at tables, watching the younger people flirt and pair up on the dance floor.

  After Harpal went home to put her kids to bed, Monica took a moment to sit with her father and uncles at a table near the door. Her Uncle Dev’s truck wash and repair shop was a rodeo sponsor, as was the Rambling Ranch Inn. Though they didn’t drink alcohol, her father and his brothers were having a good time. They congratulated her on all her hard work and enjoyed themselves making outrageous suggestions for next year’s rodeo.

  Laughing at her Uncle Dev’s idea for “Turban Cowboy” T-shirts, she didn’t notice the man standing behind her until her father said something.

  “Mr. MacKinnon.”

  Monica stopped laughing, bolted upright in her chair and turned around. Dean touched the brim of his hat as he acknowledged each man at the table.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Singh. Nice to see you again. I was wondering if I might ask your permission to dance with your daughter.”

  Monica was speechless. After what had happened in the parking lot, Dean had enormous balls to approach her father and his six scowling brothers.

  A long, uncomfortable moment of silence passed before Monica’s father leaned forward and asked her, “Beti, do you want to dance with this boy?”

  Dean wasn’t a boy. And it had been decades since she’d been a girl. But Monica said, “Yes, Papa.”

  Her father looked at him, then at her. “One song. And then you must tell him goodbye.”

  “Sir.” Dean nodded to her father and held out his hand. Monica took it. The crowd stared hotly as he led her onto the dance floor.

  The band started a new song. Willie Nelson’s “Crazy”.

  Dean put his hand on her waist and pulled her close. “Appropriate,” he said softly.

  She nodded, too sad to smile.

  He led her in a graceful two-step. Their bodies melded together on instinct. They shared one rhythm and the sweet lilt of the music made Monica lightheaded in his arms.

  “You look real pretty,” he said. “I knew the cowgirl look would suit you.”

  Instead of speaking, she rested her cheek against his shoulder and concentrated on not falling to pieces in front of all these people.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “What you’ve done here—it’s amazing. The town needed this. The people needed this.”

  She didn’t want to talk about the rodeo, so she squeezed his hand and said, “You’re a good dancer.”

  “Most cowboys are.” He added with a grin, “Good two-steppers, anyway.”

  Usually, she didn’t care for country music. But in the last couple of months, Monica had changed in more ways than one. “I like this song.”

  “Me too.”

  They took another turn around the dance floor. With each note, their time together dwindled away. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Tell you what, then. Let’s not say goodbye. The song will end. I’ll go my way, and you’ll go yours. And maybe no matter where we go, no matter where we end up, there will always be some part of us still here on this dance floor. Stuck in time. Dancing to ‘Crazy’. How does that sound?”

  Her laconic cowboy could be a poetic soul sometimes. One tear fell down her cheek. Dean caught it with his thumb and wiped it away.

  His voice grew softer, just loud enough for her to hear. “That dream job. It’s waiting for you. You’ve worked hard for it. You deserve it.” He smiled. “I can’t wait to see what you accomplish.”

  “I’m going to miss you so much,” she said. The song slowed towards its inevitable end.

  He kissed her lips. “I’m gonna to miss you too, princess.”

  As the band played the final chords of the song, the crowd began to applaud. When Monica opened her eyes, Dean let her go. His eyes on hers, he touched the brim of his cowboy hat and nodded. Without saying goodbye, he turned around and slid back into the crowd.

  * * * * *

  Two days later, Dean drove his father’s old truck out of town, past the airfield east of the highway. On the outskirts of Oleander, the road he took cut through acres and acres of grapes. For generations, the Singhs had grown table grapes, green Thompson and red Flame and Summer Royal grapes so purple they were almost black. Monica’s father had six brothers, all involved in the cultivation, processing or distribution of their family’s grapes. Theirs was a tight, shrewd operation, the envy of farmers all over the Central Valley.

  As Dean drew closer to Monica’s family’s house, he took control of his breath. He always did the same thing before a big show, right after he put on all his protective gear but before he got into the arena. Thirty deep, slow breaths, in and out. He cranked down the window and let in an early-evening breeze.

  Breathe in, breathe out. One. Breathe in, breathe out. Two.

  The exercise got blood flowing into his brain. But it also got his mind off any anxieties that would take him out of the game. He’d gotten into the habit a long time ago. His fellow bullfighters teased him about it, asking how far apart his contractions were so that they’d know when to pass out the cigars.

  Set on the edge of a field facing the foothills, the Singh house was gleaming white, a large stucco house with an expensive-looking clay tiled roof. Its lush, green lawn contrasted with the dry earth surrounding it. A familiar silver minivan, a relatively new Mercedes Benz and a brand-new red F-150 were parked in the driveway. As Dean parked his truck in the turnaround, he took a mental note.

  Appearances are important to the Singhs. Water and trim the lawn. Keep the cars clean.

  He got out of his truck and took a quick look at his own appearance. He’d showered and ironed his clothes, but he hadn’t cleaned his boots.

  Shit. He shook his head and stuck his keys in his pocket. Too late now.

  He walked up the slate steps to the double doors with brass handles. He took his thirtieth breath and blew it out slowly. Then he rang the doorbell.

  A surly young woman he recognized as Monica’s sister-in-law opened the door and eyed him suspiciously. “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “Good evening, miss,” he said. “I’m here to speak with Jasmohan Singh. He’s expecting me.”

  The look sh
e gave him should’ve come with a number to the poison control center. But she opened the door and said with a frown, “Come in.”

  He took off his hat and followed her into an empty living room.

  “Sit down,” said the young woman. “I’ll get him.”

  The leather sofa sighed under Dean’s weight. He looked around while he waited. The house was pristine. Thick Persian carpets covered polished marble tile. A mantel clock ticked loudly over the fireplace. He could see a faint reflection of himself in the plasma TV. He looked nervous. He put his hat on the seat next to him and tried to relax his shoulders a bit. As he was trying to figure out what to do with his hands, Monica’s father walked in.

  Dean stood up. “Mr. Singh.”

  The older man was wearing pressed slacks, a black polo shirt and topsiders. He wore a navy blue turban. He was handsome and imposing, a quintessential businessman and not the kind of salty rancher that Dean was used to dealing with around these parts. Reading glasses were perched at the end of his nose, perfect for peering over and looking disapprovingly at Dean, which he did as they shook hands.

  “Mr. MacKinnon. Please, have a seat.”

  The two men sat down opposite one another. Monica’s father sat on an armchair that held him at a slightly higher level. Dean understood the significance of this.

  “I know why you’re here,” said the older man. “And while I respect your decency in coming to speak with me, I don’t want to waste your time. You may not date my daughter. It’s impossible.”

  Dean was expecting that. “May I ask your reasons?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well, there’s the obvious one. She’s not here. She’s moved back to Northern California, as you’re well aware.”

  “Family obligations are keeping me here at the moment,” Dean said. “But I would travel anywhere to be with her, if she would have me. And if I had your blessing.”

  “Which brings me to reason number two. I can’t give you my blessing.”

  “You know my family. Is that the issue?”

  “I know your mother and father. Good people. I know you too. Hard worker. Respected in your sport. Of course I admire that.”

  “But still not good enough for Monica?”

  Monica’s father leaned forward in his chair. “Please don’t take offense at this, Mr. MacKinnon. My family settled in California almost a hundred years ago. The way we have kept our religion and our culture alive is by marrying people of the same background. This is how we continue, how we stay whole. If we hadn’t maintained this tradition, our sense of identity, the very core of who we are would’ve been diluted, even lost. Do you understand?”

  Here was where things got tricky. A few conversations with Monica and a couple of hours on Google formed the extent of Dean’s knowledge of Sikhism. He didn’t want to come across as a loudmouthed white boy. But he definitely didn’t want to come across as a pushover. “Mr. Singh, Monica once told me that the word Sikh means student. Is this correct?”

  He could see the old man’s invisible hackles rising. “Yes. It does.”

  “She told me it’s a religion of students, dedicated to learning the teachings of the gurus and studying the Sri Guru Granth Sahib.”

  “Mr. MacKinnon—”

  “And I’ve read Sikhism teaches that people from all races are equal in the eyes of God.”

  “Equal, yes, but free to sleep with my daughter? No. That is not part of our religion.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at Dean, his eyes clouded with contempt and pity.

  “You have a point there.” Dean looked up at the scowling man. He couldn’t fault Mr. Singh for being angry. If he had a daughter as beautiful and brilliant as Monica, no man would ever be good enough for her. “To be honest, I’m surprised you and your brothers haven’t beaten me to death with grape stakes and buried me in one of your vineyards.”

  Monica’s father’s features relaxed slightly. “The night’s still young, Dean. I saw Casino too, you know. De Niro and Pesci. Good movie.”

  “Well, at least we agree on that.” Dean took another deep breath, clearing the cobwebs out of his brain and putting him back on target. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Singh, so I’ll just get to the point. I’m not here to ask permission to see your daughter.”

  That got his attention. “You’re not?”

  “No. I’m here to ask permission to see you.”

  The older man sat up in his chair. “What?”

  “Please, hear me out. I want to learn about you. You and your family. What you value. Who you are.” He cleared his throat. “Monica loves you. She was so afraid of letting you down that she kept our relationship a secret, something she was ashamed of.” He paused. “Mr. Singh, I don’t want to be the kind of man she’s ashamed of. I want to be the kind of man she would be proud to be seen with. And for that, I need to ask your help.”

  Jasmohan Singh narrowed his eyes, and Dean realized at once where Monica had gotten the shrewd sparkle in hers.

  “What do you have in mind?” the older man asked.

  * * * * *

  September in Northern California. Monica missed the sun.

  Her corner office had floor-to-ceiling windows, but there wasn’t a lot to see besides traffic on De Anza Boulevard, the gas station across the street and overcast skies.

  Her dream job wasn’t what she had expected. A massive paycheck was nice, but there were underlying issues in the office. The cofounders of the startup weren’t getting along. The office manager had disclosed to her that they were having trouble securing their third round of funding. The stress was starting to show.

  She’d just completed her 10:30 conference call and was clicking through the quagmire in her inbox when a call came through from reception.

  She picked it up. “Monica Kaur.”

  “Monica, you have a visitor.” Shirley the receptionist sounded unusually giggly. “He says his name is…I’m sorry, what was your name again?” More giggles. “Dean MacKinnon.”

  Monica almost dropped her phone. She kicked her chair away from her desk and stood up, automatically fussing with her hair. “I…um…”

  “Are you there?” Shirley asked.

  “Yes, I’m here.” Monica’s brain raced. “Could you…maybe…could you walk him back to my office?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Oh jeez. What is he doing here? Frantic, Monica dug in her purse for a compact. She dabbed powder over the bridge of her nose and tucked a few wild tendrils of hair back into her bun. Cursing, she slipped her shoes back on and swept the remains of her yogurt parfait into the trashcan.

  She had just finished checking her teeth for stray raspberry seeds when the receptionist appeared at her office door.

  “Here she is,” Shirley said, all smiles.

  Outside, heads popped up over cubicle walls like gophers in holes. Monica could hear her coworkers’ curious whispers and stifled laughter. She stood up, and Shirley, still mooning, sidled quietly away.

  The man who stood in the doorway was breathtaking. She’d daydreamed about him for two months, but the Dean she remembered was nothing compared to the reality of him.

  For a moment, he stood statue still, staring at her with his bright blue eyes. Tall and jacked, he was wearing an ivory wool hat, a dark-blue shirt and crisp, dark jeans. He’d put on one of his championship buckles. A gray sports coat strained across his massive shoulders. He wore his usual shitkickers, but he’d cleaned and polished them.

  In his arms, he carried a huge bouquet of wilting orange poppies wrapped in brown paper. A few delicate petals covered him like confetti.

  As he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, she breathed him in. Her nervous system lit up like twinkle lights. He smelled like leather, old bay aftershave and sex, sex, sex.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.” Her
voice faltered.

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “Me neither.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Monica spotted her officemates eavesdropping on them. She reached behind him, closed the door and lowered the shade that covered the glass wall. Knees trembling under her skirt, she walked back to her desk chair and pointed at the armchair by the window.

  “Have a seat,” she said, as though he were just another client instead of the man who’d been haunting her fantasies for eight weeks straight.

  Before he sat down, he put the bouquet in her arms. “Um, for you.” The petals rained down on her slate-colored carpet. For a moment she remembered the sun-scorched field covered with wildflowers and what it was like to see Dean shirtless for the first time. Her toes curled.

  She put the flowers down on top of her stacks of file folders and reports. Their bright orange hue was intense. Suddenly, she realized that everything in her office, including the clothes she wore, were shades of gray. She’d been living without color since she’d left Oleander behind—since she’d left him.

  “Why didn’t you call to tell me you were coming?” she asked, even though she suspected she already knew the answer to that question.

  “Didn’t want to take the risk that you’d turn me away.” He looked around the room. “Nice digs.” When his gaze came to rest on her, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You look good, Monica.”

  Pleasure rippled through her, but she forced herself not to smile. “What are you doing here?”

  He took off his hat and balanced it on his thigh. “I’m here because I need to talk to you. In person.” He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and cleared a frog out of his throat. He was nervous. Dean MacKinnon was never nervous. Monica had to admit it was a glorious thing to see.

  “Here I am,” she said, making her voice as placid as possible. “What’s going on?”

  “Okay. Remember that stuff I said during the dance, about you going your way and me going mine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Total bullshit.” He rubbed the wool brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger as he stared at her. “The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. Monica, you’ve done something to me that I wasn’t able to explain before. But I think…I think I got the gist of it now.”