by Leslie North
He’d noticed as she’d stood there beside him, and later in the judge’s chambers as she and the judge and Sam Blackstone had discussed the details of his community service, that she still wore the same perfume she had worn back when. He couldn’t get it out of his head. It felt to him as if the scent still lingered on his clothes despite the fact that the sentencing had been days ago and he’d been wearing a suit at his lawyer’s insistence.
He shook his head at himself. She’d always known how to get under his skin when they were younger. Apparently, that hadn’t changed.
“Maybe I should have insisted on jail time instead,” he grumbled to himself, bleakly amused at how petulant he sounded.
As if his criticism had summoned her, a truck rounded the last bend of the road, snow crunching beneath the tires. It was a beat-up looking thing, certainly not the kind of vehicle he would have imagined as hers after her elegant presentation in the courtroom.
Still, it made him smile. Come to think of it, deep down, he wasn't surprised at all. Karen had always been a sucker for the underdog, even when it came to her cars. That was one of the things he had always liked so much about his girl.
“Except she’s not your girl anymore,” he reminded himself, acutely aware of how dangerous that line of thought could be. “She’s not your girl, and that’s the way you wanted it.”
He nodded to himself, his jaw set and his arms folded across his midsection. By the time Karen tumbled out of the truck’s cab, her red hair brilliant against the hood of her purple parka, he had himself back under control.
“Hey there, McCall!” she called out good-naturedly. He figured she was probably using his last name because she remembered how much it had always bugged him. “It’s almost like the weather doesn’t know we’ve got equestrian plans today. I didn’t think about how that early blizzard would affect things.”
“Well, Karen, it’s that time of year,” Carson answered, his tone dry. He picked up his cane and limped down the porch stairs, leaning heavily on his prop. “You’ve lived in Montana all your life. Are you really so surprised by the weather?”
“No,” she answered as she moved around the front of her truck to the passenger’s side. “Not surprised, just annoyed. If I had the power to control things—like weather—I think this world would be a much more efficient place. Know what I mean?”
“I do,” he answered, forcing down the chuckle that threatened to emerge. Karen’s streak of control freak was practically legendary in Winding Creek. People who had never had the privilege of getting to see her softer side considered it her defining characteristic.
"Of course you do," she said matter-of-factly as if her question had been a mere formality. "Now, tell me, are you ready to meet your new charge? I warn you, he's quite the charmer. You may never want to let him go."
“Good to know,” Carson said, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “And to put your mind at ease, we’ll be going over the basics of safety and care procedures today, anyhow. Devon won’t be performing any rodeo stunts—at least, not today.”
He saw Karen roll her eyes as she moved to her truck. Truth be told, Carson was far from ready to meet Devon, Karen’s nephew. He was supposed to help the boy learn on one of the McCall ranch's older, more placid horses.
Carson loved Randy and Heather's little ones, and while he was even excited about meeting the buns that both his sisters-in-law now carried in their ovens, he had no experience with autistic children. He’d heard mention of a spectrum, but that was all he knew. He was afraid he might say or do the wrong thing and upset the kid. He was also unsure how effective he was going to be with the litany of injuries he was still nursing. In truth, if he was going to be doing anything with a horse, he wanted to be working on his own rehabilitation. Not the most attractive thought, not something he would want to say out loud, but that didn't make it any less true.
"Come on, Devon," Karen said, her voice several degrees warmer than it had been in speaking to Carson. "Time to get out of your seat. I've got Carson McCall here to meet you, and he's looking forward to it every bit as much as you are."
Carson's ears perked up at that. He knew that this kid was into horses from what Karen had said, first on the phone and later in the judge’s chambers. This was his first inkling that the boy was not only interested in horses but in Carson McCall, Rodeo Man.
“Are...are we…” he heard Devon say as Karen opened the truck’s passenger door wider. “Are we going to ride in the snow?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Karen said, shooting Carson a mischievous look over her shoulder before turning her full attention back to her charge. “Why don’t you get out of the truck, and we can ask Mr. McCall?”
Devon nodded, and Karen slipped her hand behind his back, helping to guide his feet onto the snow. He was small for a boy of twelve, and pale, as if he rarely saw the sun. His face was covered in constellations of freckles set off by his larger-than-life glasses. Karen steadied him as he slid out of his seat, a small gesture but somehow tender, so much so that Carson was tempted to ask Karen about it later on. He couldn't remember seeing her with kids before. Watching her now, he got the feeling that there was a story here.
A story you don’t need to know, he reminded himself, because the two of you aren’t friends.
“Hey there, Devon,” he said, his voice too loud, the cheerfulness sounding forced in his own ears. “Carson McCall. It’s good to meet you.”
He held out a hand, but Devon simply looked at it, showing no indication of taking it. Karen gave him a quick shake of the head. He withdrew his hand and shoved it into his pocket, doing his best to make the gesture look natural, but he felt a fair amount of awkwardness still hanging in the air.
“Why don’t you answer the burning question, McCall?” Karen broke the silence, her voice as bright as ever.
“Maybe if you stop calling me that, I will,” Carson shot back.
“Oh, all right,” she chuckled, rolling her eyes at Devon as if the two of them were in on some grand secret. “Carson, then. Why don’t you tell Devon where he’ll be taking his lessons?”
"Not out in the snow," Carson assured the anxious-looking boy. "We've got an arena that we use for this sort of thing. Covered, dry, and warmer than outside. Sound good?"
“Yes,” Devon said, nodding so emphatically that Carson had to smile. “That sounds good.”
"All right," Carson returned the nod. "Let's say goodbye to Karen, and we'll see her again after the lesson."
“Oh!” Karen put in quickly, her cheeks pink, although it could as easily have been from the cold as from embarrassment. “Sorry, I should have made that clear. I’ll be sitting in on the lessons.”
“What?” Carson exclaimed, looking quickly from her to Devon and back again. “Is this some kind of liability issue or something?”
“Well, there’s that,” Karen laughed, tugging at a strand of her hair. He realized in that moment that she was uncomfortable; he’d seen her torture her hair often enough to understand that much, at least. “But it’s also a whole lot easier for me to wait here. Is there anything wrong with that?”
"No, of course not," he said quickly, doing his best to smile.
Except that he wasn’t really sure that it was all right. He was finding it hard enough having her back in his life at all. Her sitting there watching was one more distraction he didn’t need on the road to getting his life back together.
In the ranch kitchen, after they’d all washed the horse smell from their hands, Carson poured steaming water over powdered cocoa mix and, stirring the contents of each mug in turn, said, "Seriously, Devon, you did a great job today! You’ve earned this cup of cocoa. Trust me when I tell you that I wouldn't say that to just anybody."
Devon silently accepted his mug and sipped cautiously, but Karen could tell by the look on his face that he was pleased. He was a particular boy, not one to say a whole lot. His lack of words was offset by a beautiful smile, though, and his eyes—green, large, and une
ndingly earnest behind his coke-bottle glasses—always told her what she needed to know about how he was feeling. Right now, he was more pleased than she’d seen him in a long time. The thought made her want to cry with happiness. He hadn’t known nearly enough joy in his twelve years. If anybody deserved happiness, Devon did. He was a good kid, one who hadn’t had an easy time of it. His father had left when Devon was little, and some people, despite all the anti-bullying programs in place, made fun of him at school for things he couldn’t help nor change.
"What about you, Aunt K-Karen?" he asked. Since his stuttering increased under stress, this minor stumble was a good sign. "Want some cocoa?"
“I sure do,” she said, and brushing her hair behind her ears, she rose from her seat near the kitchen island to claim her mug.
She still felt chilled from their time in the covered arena, and her insides felt jittery, but she made sure to put a smile on her face. Devon was sensitive to the negative moods of others, but he didn't always understand where those moods were coming from. The last thing she wanted was for him to think something was wrong.
“Here you are,” Carson said, limping over to where she stood. “Six marshmallows, right?”
"Oh," she faltered, fixing her eyes on the contents of her cup. "Um, yeah, that's right.” Realizing her smile had dimmed, she determinedly pasted it back on and added brightly, “Devon, did I ever tell you that McCall here makes the best cup of cocoa in the whole, entire world?"
"The best?" the boy asked, his eyes growing wide. She couldn't help laughing in response. Devon was the most literal person she knew.
“That’s right,” Carson put in, his eyes flickering with humor, the way she remembered him from years back. “It’s the best. Anyone in town will tell you.”
Devon had nothing to say in reply, but he took to his mug with more enthusiasm than ever, lifting it to his nose and taking a deep sniff like a wine connoisseur sampling a fine vintage. Then he downed the rest in one long swig, his throat working busily as he swallowed. When he was done, he set his cup down gingerly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Without another word, he picked up his jacket and slipped it on.
“Are you ready to go, Devon?” Karen asked, taking a step toward him. But Devon shook his head, turning to look out the kitchen window before looking back to her, his eyes full of questions.
“Ah, you want to play outside,” she said, glancing at Carson to discern his thoughts on the matter. He nodded, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. She smiled back, a shiver running up the length of her spine. This whole scenario was so familiar, it almost felt unreal. How many times had she sat in the McCall kitchen, laughing over something stupid before going outside to find some trouble on the land? She was sure that every inch of this house held a memory for her. She suppressed a sigh. She had known it would be hard coming back here, had done her best to steel herself, but she hadn’t counted on it being quite so painful.
“Go on,” she started to say to Devon but had to clear her throat and try again. Then she caught herself messing with her hair for probably the hundredth time since stepping inside. “Have fun.”
Devon grinned and took off out the back door. Through the kitchen window, the adults saw him throw himself into the snow almost as soon as he got down the steps.
Suddenly, Karen was alone with Carson for the first time since he’d told her it was all over. They were over. The silence felt so thick, so suffocating, that she was tempted to scream, just to break it.
Instead, she cleared her throat again and started talking. “You’re really good at this, you know?” she said, easing back onto her stool and studying him out of the corner of her eye.
“Who, me?” he asked with feigned surprise, putting a hand up to his chest. “Well, thank you. It wasn’t half as bad as I thought it would be.”
"Glad to hear it," Karen said, spinning her mug slowly. This feeling—as if they were trying to be friends—was strange, but she was pretty sure it was also for the best. She had to admit, there was something to be said for finally putting the past to bed. Keeping her distance hadn’t worked. Maybe being around Carson was actually the best approach. "I've got an idea. More of a proposition, actually."
“Um, a proposition?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
Her face went so hot, she thought she might burst into flames. She tried to cover her reaction by taking another big sip from her mug. "D-don't get weird," she stammered. "I mean, for a job. You're really good at this teaching thing, and you’ve got to know you have only so many options with your rodeo talents. You could build a life here. I think you might like it, too."
Carson's face changed, and from his expression, she was sure she already knew what he was going to say. She remembered that look, shutting down when he’d decided the answer was no even before he fully understood the question. Having seen it plenty of times in their past, she recognized it now. They might be cordial with each other, might even be playing around with the idea of being friends, but giving him advice on how to run his life was still strictly off limits.
He confirmed that with his next words. "I've already got a job, Karen. I may be out of the circuit right now, but it won't be forever. I'm going to train, and eventually, I’ll get right back where I belong." He turned his back, looking out the window instead of at her. The rigid set of his shoulders made it clear that he considered the matter closed.
That, more than anything, was the Carson McCall Karen remembered. Frustrating as he might be, he was also the Carson she had loved more than she had loved herself.
3
This new arrangement he had going with Karen didn’t sit well with him. He hadn't liked it when he'd heard it at his sentencing, and he didn't like it now, after his first session of working off his community service.
He liked Devon just fine. More than liked him, actually. Something about the boy reminded Carson of himself as a kid, although he couldn't put his finger on exactly why. So far, he and the kid were cool.
No, something else had him out of sorts. “She’s still doing it, man,” he muttered under his breath as he drove, taking the curves a little too fast for the icy road conditions. “Still trying to move my life in the direction she thinks it should go.”
He was headed into town, intent on distracting himself from obsessively thinking about Karen and her sudden reappearance in his life. In only a short time, she was already consuming most of his thoughts, or so it felt. He had grudgingly retreated to Winding Creek after they’d let him out of rehab, his heart still back on the circuit. He’d never considered that Karen would be living in town, let alone interacting with him. The way things stood, he would be seeing her six times a week for the next thirty days, something he was still working to wrap his head around.
He maneuvered his truck into a free space on Main Street, easily accessible with the summer tourists gone. He moved down the street as quickly as he could manage, considering his cane and his boot, one hand shoved deep down in his pocket and his head ducked low. He was glad the wide brim of his hat obscured his face. As of late, he wasn't much of a fan of showing his face around town.
Not so long ago, he had received looks of recognition due to his rodeo prowess. He would never have admitted it out loud, but he had eaten that attention up. Others’ admiration had felt like visible proof of success that he was making it, building something out of his life.
Now, though, the last thing he wanted was people looking at him. Since his mishap, he’d noticed different expressions on their faces. The best-case scenario, if he could call it that, was simple pity for the apparent end of his rodeoing days after the severity of his injury. The other looks—those were more complicated. Maybe underlying pity, but he also saw disgust over the way he had beaten up the man in the bar. He had previously been something of a hometown hero in Winding Creek. Nowadays, his image was tarnished, and he doubted he could ever restore it to what it had been.
Carson was so lost in these unpleasant thoughts that he almost didn’t not
ice Karen sitting at a table near the window in the coffee shop. He had planned on stopping in for a to-go cup before heading to the hardware store. He wouldn’t have been thrilled to run into her under the best of circumstances, especially not considering what his thoughts had been all day, but it was worse—she wasn’t alone. He recognized the man sitting with her all too well: the judge who had railroaded him into Karen’s stupid community service idea in the first place.
“Are you kidding me?” he hissed under his breath, shuffling away before they might see him and clenching his teeth against the twinge of pain the movement sent up his leg.
All at once, he had no interest in either picking up a cup of coffee or his diversionary tactic of a trip to the hardware store. He didn't want to be anywhere near Winding Creek—or those two. The way he was feeling now, he thought he might go and make a complete fool of himself in front of a coffee shop full of people. Not only was he unusually gifted at putting his foot in his mouth, but acting out of frustration had gotten him into his current situation to begin with.
He drove too quickly back to the ranch, almost daring fate. He arrived back home unharmed, however, and found himself absurdly annoyed by the fact. The way things were going today, almost anything was enough to make him feel pretty damned annoyed. He only had a couple of hours before today’s lesson time with Karen and Devin, so he’d better get over it, and quickly.
In the old days, he’d worked away nervous energy by training and exercising his horse, but he was in no condition to do the kind of athletics he would need for this funk. He had to settle on doing any chores his battered body could handle.
For the moment, Carson chose to muck out the stalls attached to the riding arena, getting as close to the horses as he could without actually taking one out for a spin. As long as he balanced on his good leg, he could do a decent job with a rake or shovel. He worked as hard as his healing injuries allowed, grateful for the sweat that poured down his back despite the cold—grateful, even, for the twinges when he moved wrong. The distraction helped him to get rid of the image of Karen and Judge Warren laughing like two old friends while he had to live the next thirty days doing their “community service.”
