Over the Moon at the Big Lizard Diner

by Lisa Wingate

  “Like this,” he whispered just inches from her ear, his breath making her draw her own as she watched his hands and hers slide the halter over Sleepy’s head, his fingers dark from the sun, hers pale from hours inside. She watched them work together to slide the buckle into place. A triumph for Horse Psychology Lindsey.

  But something more than that, as well.

  A bridge over the troubled waters of fear.

  All the Lindseys felt it being built, piece by piece, inch by inch, as dark hands and pale hands slid into Sleepy’s thick white mane, over the bridge of his back, down the tightly corded muscles of the shoulder, the bow of the stomach, and then the soft curve of the hip.

  The muscles twitched beneath the skin, and neither hand drew back.

  No fear.

  For the moment, only faith.

  FOURTEEN

  ISQUEALED LIKE A GIDDY ADOLESCENT AS I WATCHED SLEEPY TROT off into the pasture to join the horse herd. Standing there with the halter in my hand, I experienced a burst of triumph that was ridiculously out of proportion to the event. I felt like I’d just climbed Mount Everest, or rowed across the ocean on a homemade raft, or trekked to the North Pole with nothing but snowshoes and a sack lunch. It seemed as if the moment should have a headline: Woman Leads Imprisoned Horse to Freedom.

  Trotting off to his companions, Sleepy jumped into the air and bucked like a rodeo horse, kicking his hind legs and farting all the way.

  “Hi-ho, Silver!” I called after him, which was a completely dorky thing to say. If Sydney had been there, she would have rolled her eyes to let me know I was being terribly uncool.

  Zach chuckled. He had one arm looped over the gate and his legs crossed comfortably, as if he had nothing more important to do than watch my moment.

  It felt good. I had a sense of friendship that had nothing to do with the way his eyes twinkled in the light, soft against his tanned skin like circles of frosty green glass cast ashore by some invisible tide. Quiet waves of thought moved in and out as his gaze flicked from me to the galloping horse and back.

  He was trying to figure me out. Right then he looked very much like Jocelyn, mapping those wounded parts of me, penciling in a landscape of despair and broken promises, self-defense mechanisms and control issues, where Trust was a tiny place with no access roads.

  But Sleepy had found the way in, blazed a trail where there hadn’t been one since Geoff left.

  Sleepy and I had traveled across the barren space together—a simple, dusty corral, but metaphorically something larger. He had stood patiently with his head resting on my shoulder as I loosened the halter to set him free. Then he lingered a moment longer, unbridled as I stroked his nose, his ears, his long white forelock. His whiskers tickled my skin as he sniffed my arm, my shoulder, and blew softly in my ear.

  I didn’t pull away, just rested my cheek against his muzzle and closed my eyes for the barest of moments.

  Trust.

  It was possible to trust that which you could not predict, or plan, or control.

  In fact, it was essential. It was the only way to really live.

  I realized it all in an instant, and Zach’s expression said that he’d seen every naked bit of it. I should have felt overexposed, vulnerable, but instead I felt grateful not to have experienced the moment alone. There was an inexplicable level of comfort in being there with him. As Sleepy trotted off to the pasture, Zach and I stood smiling at each other, the experience so perfect that no words were needed.

  The squeal of brakes and the grinding of tires shattered the moment, and I turned to catch the approach of my SUV, followed by a pickup truck with a dealer tag in the window. Zach glanced over his shoulder. “Guess Jimmy brought your car back from town. Must be that Melvin got it fixed quicker than he thought,” he said as we started across the corral together.

  But it wasn’t Jimmy Hawthorne who exited my car and stalked toward the fence—it was the petite blond waitress from the Dairy Queen in San Saline. “That thing won’t shut up.” She waved a hand toward the Jeep. “Every other minute it pipes up and says something. I think it’s trying to get me to drive to Dallas. Melvin didn’t tell me it was gonna do that.” Jimmy climbed out of the pickup, and she turned to him, pointing at the car again. “That talking dealie didn’t shut off like you said it would. It gave me orders all the way out here.”

  Jimmy grinned impishly beneath his stringy blond mustache. “Bet that didn’t go over well,” he drawled, stretching the words like rubber bands, each one playing a slightly different twang.

  “Very funny.” The waitress dangled my keys over the fence like she couldn’t wait to get rid of them. “Here,” she said to Zach. “I was by the Big Lizard to meet Jimmy, and Melvin asked if I’d drive this out here. He said one of Jocelyn’s campers left it to get a flat tire fixed, but he couldn’t find any hole in the tire, so he wanted to get the Jeep back out here in case the camper needed it.” She scrunched up her pert nose like the word camper had a bad taste, and gesticulated toward my car with my keys swinging from her hand. “Man, have you been in that thing? It stinks like rotten fish and there’s hair everywhere and containers of dried-up food and clothes and junk. It looks like something Jimmy would drive.” She gave Jimmy a dirty look, but he only shrugged, unconcerned. “Of course, now it doesn’t, because he went out yesterday and signed on a new truck without even asking me.” Clearly she was talking to Jimmy now and not us. I stepped back, embarrassed for myself and my car, and for Jimmy, who was having a fight with his … wife, I assumed, right in front of his boss. “Like we can afford that with my classes to pay for and everything,” she added, bracing her hands on her waist and jutting her hips toward Jimmy in a way that demanded, So what have you got to say for yourself? Huh? Huh? Huh?

  Jimmy ducked like an ostrich trying to bury his head in the sand. “Becky, I told you it was a good deal, and—”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. “You don’t just go on out and buy a car because it’s a good deal, Jimmy.” With a huff, she turned to Zach and threw a hand in the air. “You tell him, Zach. You’re my ex-brother-in-law. Tell him how stupid it is to go out and sign up for a truck loan when we’re tryin’ to pay for college, and rent on the trailer, and …”

  I lost track of Becky’s tirade. My mind lit on one part of that sentence: ex-brother-in-law. You’re my ex-brother-in-law. My stomach flipped over, dumping out all the warm fuzzies and the butterflies. The stuff that was left felt like three-alarm chili. How long had Zach been her brother-in-law, and then her ex-brother-in-law? Why did I care? Why was I surprised? Did I really think Zach had existed in a vacuum for … what … maybe thirty-eight, thirty-nine years—just waiting for me to stumble onto his ranch looking for …

  … for horse psychology lessons and temporary romance?

  Or …

  Or what? Those two words came with a big blank at the end. A blank line. Blank slate. Blank page. An essay question not easily answered. With no logical answer.

  “… won’t even tell me where he got the money for the down payment,” Becky was saying. Jimmy went on to defend the fact that he had some money, and besides the dealership gave him a real bargain, because …

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I pondered a new question. Where did Jimmy get the money for the down payment on the truck, and why didn’t he want to reveal the source to his wife? Fossil-theft suspect number one: impish cowboy with seemingly too-expensive new truck. No explanation for down-payment money. Suspicious wife. Zach’s ex-sister-in-law.

  Zach’s ex-sister-in-law …

  Who was Zach’s ex-wife? Did she look like Becky, only older? Becky couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Cute and petite with a smattering of freckles that made her seem more like a spoiled girl than a married woman on a tirade.

  She let her hands slap to her sides, the jingling keys raising a puff of dust from her Dairy Queen uniform. “I swear, Jimmy. You can’t just call me at the end of my shift, when I have a big early childhood development test t
o study for, and tell me you bought a new truck.”

  “I told you we can afford it.” Jimmy stiffened his arms like he was working up the guts to confront a schoolyard bully. “You could just trust me for once, Beck. I ain’t stupid. I’m not no big junior in the college of education like you, but I’m not stupid, either. Am I, Mr. Truitt?”

  Wincing as if that point were debatable, Zach gave Jimmy a sympathetic look. “I think you’d better work this out between the two of you,” he advised, quite wisely, I thought. “Beck, you know, ever since you were a little girl in pigtails you’ve tended to get mad first and ask questions later. You might give Jimmy, here, a chance to explain.”

  “Yeah, you might,” Jimmy echoed, then he realized that all three of us were focused on him, waiting. He blushed fiercely. Clearly the conversational floor was not what he’d wanted.

  “You’re a fine one to be giving out marriage advice,” Becky grumbled, turning on Zach. “After all, you—”

  “Ssshhh.” Zach held up a hand, then turned it over with a flourish, serving Jimmy up like fine hors d’oeuvres. “Jimmy?”

  Studying the ground, Jimmy let out a long breath. “Oh, hel”—glancing at Becky, he winced and corrected—“heck. I sold my gun. All right? The one I got at the estate sale last Christmas.”

  Becky’s mouth fell open and the color drained from her face. Her arms hung slack at her sides. “The old one with the octagon barrel? The one you had in pieces on the dining room table all winter? That gun?”

  Jimmy’s mustache twitched like someone had just pinched him. “Yeah. That gun. Old man Carver has been after it ever since I used it at the turkey shoot last spring. Yesterday I called him and said what I’d take for it.”

  “Jim-mee.” Becky breathed his name in two distinct syllables, her plump bottom lip dangling open. She looked like she might cry. “That rich old fart. He gets everything he wants. You shouldn’t of let him have your gun. No pickup truck is worth that. You call him and tell him you want your gun back.”

  Shaking his head, Jimmy regarded her from beneath his hat, his face surprisingly determined, steadfast. “Beck, you’ve got to have a good vehicle to go back and forth to them night classes. You can’t be breakin’ down on the highway at twelve o’clock midnight anymore. It’s not safe.”

  Tears filled Becky’s eyes and spilled over the flush in her cheeks. “But, Jimmy, your gun …”

  “It’s just a gun, Beck. It’s just a thing,” he said softly, then leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head, both of them disappearing behind his cowboy hat for a moment. “It don’t matter, OK?”

  “OK,” she choked out, but all of us knew it mattered. I wondered if old man Carver, whoever he was, would ever realize the true value of his purchase.

  Slipping under Jimmy’s arm, Becky stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Jimmy.”

  “I love you too, Beck,” he drawled as they turned to leave.

  Becky remembered the keys and paused to offer them to Zach. “Whose are these, anyway?”

  “Mine,” I said sheepishly, and Becky slipped them into my hand.

  “I think that thing in the dashboard is still talking.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes and blinking at me like she’d just realized she’d had a marital disagreement in front of a perfect stranger. She studied me for an instant; then her gaze flipped speculatively back and forth between Zach and me. “I didn’t know how to shut it off.”

  “That’s OK. It’ll stop on its own now that the car is off,” I assured her, wishing she would leave. Given that she was Zach’s ex-sister-in-law, there was no telling what she might be thinking right now.

  The look in her eye was becoming territorial and mildly predatory. “Sorry. I forgot to, like, introduce myself. I’m Becky Hawthorne.”

  “Lindsey Attwood,” I replied, shaking her hand and hoping I would come out with all five fingers.

  Beside me, Zach shifted away from the conversation, a silent but polite signal that it was time to break things up. Becky chose to ignore the hint, and pointed at me with a look of discovery. “You’re Collie’s friend, right? Laura’s sister—the one from Colorado.”

  “Yes,” I answered, but I was more focused on Becky’s tone than her words. She said my name with a disturbing level of recognition, considering we’d just met.

  In the space of an instant, she turned all girlfriendly, smiling and nudging my shoulder. “It’s so good to finally meet ye-ew. How’s your visit going? Are you, like, getting back on your feet again? How’s your little girl doing down in Mexico?”

  I blinked, stunned then mortified. “Good … umm … fine.”

  Becky giggled at my confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re probably wondering how I knew all that. I work at the newspaper part-time, too. Collie’s my boss.”

  An explanation, but not a comforting one. I imagined the little blonde listening in on Collie’s end of all the conversations about Sydney leaving for Mexico and my plunge into depression. There was no telling what bratty Becky knew about me, and she was ready to spill all of my secrets, like cats out of a bag.

  Clearing my throat, I attempted to take charge of the situation. “Thank you for asking. It was very nice meeting you, Becky. And thanks for driving my car out. I don’t want to hold you up.”

  Becky didn’t budge, but widened her eyes like I had all the glitter of a new toy. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m not in a rush.”

  Darn. Please be in a rush. Rush off to somewhere. Else.

  Glancing at the sky, I wished a sudden storm would blow up. A plague of locusts, a tornado, an earthquake. UFO attack. Something to break up this uncomfortable scene.

  “Yeah, we are, Beck,” Jimmy interjected, pulling out a pocket watch and glancing at the time. “We gotta go sign the papers on the truck before the car dealer closes. We’re just barely gonna make it.”

  I had a sudden flood of tender feelings for Jimmy Hawthorne. Suspect number one had just turned into a lifesaver.

  Becky emitted an irritated huff, then remembered that he’d sacrificed the treasured rifle with the octagon barrel for her. Slipping her arm into his, she hugged herself against him and said, “Guess we better go. It was nice meeting you, Lindsey.”

  “You, too.” Couldn’t have been farther from the truth. I waved a little toodle-oo as they hurried off to the new pickup and disappeared in a cloud of silty white dust.

  Zach and I stood in her wake like survivors assessing storm damage. Hurricane Becky had just blown through and dumped a whole lot of completely unwanted information. A layer of muck over the glittering surface of the day.

  “Guess we’d better get on with doctoring the windmill,” Zach said finally. His attention flickered to my vehicle, like he thought I might prefer to return to my cabin, since I had wheels now. I didn’t want to. I wished the tire would go flat again.

  “I guess we should,” I said, answering the unspoken question before he could put larger parameters on it. “Get on with doctoring the windmill, I mean.” And then, before I knew it, I added, “I’ve never played doctor on a windmill before.”

  Zach raised a brow and my cheeks flamed so hot I could have fried an egg. Grinning, he shook his head and ushered me toward the truck, saying, “I’m not touching that one.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  We passed the drive to the windmill making pleasant chitchat, like I was a tourist and Zach the tour director. He told me about Jubilee Ranch: comprised of nearly fifteen-thousand acres, homesteaded in 1855 by Jeremiah and Caroline Truitt. Home to Pop Truitt, who was born there in 1921, was married beneath the Lover’s Oak, served in World War II, and lived the rest of his life with Nanny Pearl Truitt, whom he dearly loved, and lost two years ago. They raised two sons—Zach’s father, who moved away, and Jocelyn’s father, who lived on the ranch and ran things until a few years ago, when he and his wife surprised everyone by buying a motor home, in which they were now touring Canada, footloose and fancy-free, and, at Jocelyn’s insistence
, completely unaware of Pop’s minor heart attack. The younger son was Zach’s father, who was a high school sports star, played minor league baseball after college, and was so much like Pop that they tended to butt heads, which was why he wasn’t here overseeing Pop’s health. Zach’s mother and younger sister also now taught at the university, where his dad was currently coaching a play-off-bound baseball team, and Zach’s mom was directing the university’s summer theater. Zach laughed when he talked about having been a high school baseball star like his father.

  “Fathers aren’t always realistic about the abilities of their sons,” he said in a way that seemed both wise and gentle. “Vet school was a better idea than bucking for an athletic scholarship and professional ball. Deep down, I think Dad knew that, but he was afraid anything having to do with animals would eventually lead me back here to Pop and the ranch.”

  I pictured the invisible tug-of-war between father and son, a timeless struggle of diverging dreams, disappointed hopes, and learning to accept ourselves for who we are.

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “My father always envisioned that my brothers would have careers in the military, like he did.” Laughing softly, I pictured Dad with his curmudgeon face, complaining about my brothers’ high-tech civilian careers. “He still hasn’t gotten over the fact that they didn’t. If you ask him what they do for a living, he acts like he doesn’t know. By the time Laura and I came along, he wasn’t so opinionated, or maybe it was because we were girls. I think he was just glad to survive raising twin daughters after the age of forty.”

  Zach peered curiously through the window into my past. “I’ll bet that was an adventure.”

  “We gave him a few gray hairs,” I admitted. “Laura more than me, of course.” Which was exactly the opposite of the truth. Laura was the sweet one. I was the stubborn, strong-willed pain in the butt who took after my father. Which meant that we both understood and clashed with each other. My father could not imagine digging up dinosaur bones for a living; nor was he in favor of my marrying a man who wanted to spend his life bumming around the world on grant money and a moderate inheritance, looking for the big discovery that would make him famous.