Dodge continued to berate Titan, who just stood quietly, letting Dodge’s words bounce off him. Powderkeg and Pappy made their way silently onto the boardwalk, followed by Polly, Dymphna, Old Bertha, Fernando, and Mikie. A silent message seemed to pass between them. If Dodge made one move toward Titan, he’d find himself in the middle of a Fat Chance sandwich.
Powderkeg put a comforting arm around Mikie’s shoulder, but she shrugged him off, shooting him a scowl.
“If you’ve finished,” Titan said when Dodge took a breath, “I’ll go get Rocket for you.”
“Now that you’ve been caught red-handed!” Dodge said. “This isn’t the Old West, but we still don’t take kindly to cattle rustlers.”
“Rocket came to see me,” Titan said. “Forget it, you’re not even listening.”
“What the . . . ?” Dodge looked down the street.
Titan turned around to see what had gotten Dodge to shut up for a second. Everyone on the boardwalk turned too.
“This is impossible,” Pappy said. “I had him tied to a hitching post and had that gate secured.”
Rocket-the-escape-artist had done it again. He came walking up the middle of Main Street, his lead dangling from his ears. Jerry Lee and Elvis followed behind. Thud raced out the café door and joined the other animals for an impromptu parade down the street. Rocket continued his slow pace toward Titan, but as they approached the forge, the other animals raced off.
“Elvis,” Old Bertha said to Pappy as a cloud of dust rose up in the street, “my donkey’s escaping.”
“He’s a mule,” Pappy said patiently. “He knows where the food is now. He’ll be back.”
“He better be,” Old Bertha said.
“So now you want him?”
“Maybe.”
“Would you two can it?” Powderkeg growled. “This showdown ain’t over.”
All eyes returned to Titan and Pappy. Titan took the rope and started to lead the bull to Dodge. Rocket planted both of his front hooves and wouldn’t budge.
“Come on, Rocket,” Titan said. “Time to go home.”
Dodge stormed over to the longhorn.
“Come on, Rocket,” Dodge said, pulling the lead out of Titan’s hand. “I don’t have time for this.”
Titan stood calmly by, with his hand on the longhorn’s rump, as Dodge tried to pull the bull forward.
“I don’t think he wants to go with you,” Titan said.
“He’s a bull,” Dodge said, panting. “I don’t care what he wants.”
“It doesn’t look like he’s going to go with you, Dodge,” Titan said.
“I can see that. You make him come with me.”
“I probably could make him go,” Titan said. “But he’d just come back.”
“So what do you suggest? I just leave him here?”
“No,” Titan said. “I’d like to buy him, though.”
The onlookers on the boardwalk looked at each other. There was no way Titan could pay for a prized stud. Even receiving three years’ salary from Cutthroat couldn’t have given him that much of a nest egg. Before moving to Fat Chance he’d been a freelance Vegas burlesque dresser, and he’d been living off his windfall from Cutthroat for the last six months.
“Do you have any idea what this bull is worth?” asked Dodge.
“No,” Titan said. “But I’m guessing I’m about to find out.”
“He’s worth sixty thousand dollars,” Dodge said. “But I’ll tell you what. Since Rocket seems to like you and all, I’ll sell him to you for forty thousand.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” Titan said. “But I could pay you a little at a time . . .”
“Oh?” Dodge let out a spiteful laugh. “You mean from the money you make on your jewelry.”
“And my horseshoes.”
“Your horseshoes, huh?” Dodge said. “That gives me an idea. I heard old man Honeycutt offered you a job on the ranch.”
“He did.”
“Well, it’s always smart to stay on his good side, so I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll let Rocket stay with you for a month. If you can come up with the forty grand, we’re square. And if you don’t, you accept Honeycutt’s offer—and I’m a hero.”
Powderkeg took a step forward, but Pappy held him back.
“I accept,” Titan said. He put out his hand, but when Dodge offered his own to shake, he pulled his away. “I don’t want to shake your hand. I just want Rocket’s lead, please.”
Dodge handed over the lead, then turned to the assembly on the boardwalk. “Show’s over, folks,” he said. “Mikie, I wouldn’t spend too much time here if I were you.” Dodge got back on his ATV and roared away toward Spoonerville.
“What a jerk,” Fernando said.
“Welcome to my world,” Mikie said.
“You really should go,” Dymphna said to Mikie. “This isn’t your fight.”
“Look, Dodge isn’t my boss,” Mikie said. “Mr. Honeycutt is. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“We’ll be fine,” Polly said. “But thanks.”
“OK, I have a full day’s work ahead of me, so I better head out,” Mikie said. “But the offer stands!”
“Your truck up at the trailhead?” Powderkeg asked.
“Yep,” Mikie said.
“What’s it to you?” Old Bertha asked.
“Thought I’d walk up that way, check on Pappy’s fan belt situation,” Powderkeg said with a devilish grin.
“I don’t have a ‘fan belt situation,’ ” Pappy said. “I’ve got a busted fan belt.”
The devil in Powderkeg’s grin was replaced by a sheep.
“I’ll see you guys,” Mikie said, stopping to hug Titan again.
He returned the hug with one arm, the other still holding the lead to his new longhorn.
Cleo sat in the library, having a light lunch by herself. She chose the library because it looked out onto the driveway and she’d be able to see Elwood arrive. She didn’t know his schedule, but Cook did. Cook had looked warily at her when she’d asked for the particulars. Cleo could guess what she was thinking: “Couldn’t an aunt take an interest in her nephew’s life? Even after thirty years?”
While she waited, Cleo continued to binge watch The Sopranos. She used to watch the HBO hit with her father every Sunday night. Her father would watch Tony brutally murder some poor enemy and point out to Cleo how tough it was to be a boss.
“Nobody understands what it takes to keep things together, Cleo,” he’d say as Tony’s lackeys rolled another body into the ocean. “Sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”
For her part, Cleo related to Meadow, the average daughter of the Mafia kingpin, who went along as if nothing unusual funded her charmed life. Now that Cleo was older, she related more to Carmela, who only tried to appear as if she was an average rich housewife.
Elwood’s Suburu Outback pulled into the driveway. Cleo smiled and clicked off the TV. She looked out the window as the green SUV took its customary spot. Elwood had driven a Toyota Prius for years, but turned his latest one in for the green SUV as soon as they’d returned from Fat Chance. They never discussed it, but she knew it was a sign that he intended to return to the Hill Country. It was his Texas car.
Cleo hoped to discuss her change of heart. She wanted to get back to Fat Chance and she certainly didn’t want to go alone.
She really did feel alone. She’d had a stormy relationship with her father, but—for good or for ill—he always had an opinion about what she should do or how she should do it. In her younger days, she’d had her mother, a lovely, quiet woman who never really stood up to Cutthroat but who clearly loved her kids. Cleo’s eyes stung with tears as she recalled her own brother, Elwood’s father, long dead now. Cleo had taken in her smart, serious nephew Elwood when he was just a kid. She did everything she could to raise him and make him feel secure and happy.
No, I didn’t. I gave him everything money could buy, but that’s not the same thing.
She even missed her father’s trusted attorney and adviser, Sebastian Pennyfeather, who had disappeared in a boating accident more than thirty years ago. Wesley, then a young partner, took his place and had done a wonderful job with the law firm. He was a dear and trusted friend, but he wasn’t the father figure Uncle Sebastian had been.
Now that she had decided to go back to Fat Chance and see if she could make a new start with Powderkeg, there was no one to fight, to concede to, or to consult.
She was alone.
She watched through the window as Elwood pulled his backpack onto his shoulder and clicked the alarm. The set of his jaw told her everything she needed to know. No good word had come from the university today. She raced to the library door and swung it open just as Elwood appeared in the foyer. He looked surprised to see her.
“Hello, Auntie,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I had an easy day,” Cleo said, realizing she sounded like the Queen of England, happy to skip out on a ribbon cutting. “Come into the library. I thought we might chat.”
“Chat?”
“Yes,” Cleo said, faltering. “You know. Have a conversation.”
“I do know the definition of ‘chat,’” Elwood said. “But thank you.”
He followed his aunt into the library. She motioned for him to take a seat.
“Shall I have Cook prepare something for you?” she asked, dabbing at her lip gloss before turning on the video monitor to the kitchen. “It’s no bother.”
“No, thanks,” Elwood said. “I ate at school.”
“Oh well”—Cleo sat opposite Elwood—“I just thought it’s been so long since we’ve had a real chance to . . .”
“Chat.”
“Yes,” Cleo said, wondering why this was so difficult. After all, they were family. “So, you first. Tell me something.”
“I had coffee this morning with Kimmie,” Elwood said.
“Kimmie?” Cleo asked. “You mean Kimberly? Wesley’s Kimberly?”
“Yes. The attorney with whom you set me up. We’ve seen each other once or twice.”
Good Lord! Whip-smart Elwood fell for the old “Show me pictures of your dog” trick.
“Perhaps that was a mistake,” Cleo said. “I mean, if your heart is set on Dymphna, so be it. You know the old saying, ‘the heart wants what it wants.’”
“Of course I know it,” Elwood said. “Emily Dickinson. But I recall you were quite incensed when Woody Allen quoted it as an excuse to marry his stepdaughter.”
“That was your grandfather who was incensed,” Cleo said, relieved that they seemed to be conversing comfortably. We’re bonding! Going for broke, she added, “I believe what your grandfather said about Woody Allen was ‘The dick wants what it wants.’”
Wrong move. Elwood blinked at his aunt.
Cleo wondered if she’d ever get it right.
Perhaps I should have said “penis.”
“Anyway,” Elwood said, “I’m surprised to hear you say . . . any of this. I assumed the point was to get my mind off Dymphna.”
“Well, it was,” Cleo said. “But I’ve changed my mind. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes.”
“That just shows you what you know. I change my mind all the time.”
“Name one time you’ve changed your mind this year,” Elwood said.
Besides the fact that I now want to go back to Fat Chance?
“Just last month, I ordered a new pair of trousers with the hem measured to my instep,” Cleo said. “When I got home, I called the tailor and changed it to ankle length.”
“I stand corrected.”
“Did you have a nice time with Kimberly?”
“I did,” Elwood said. “That is to say, she’s a very smart woman. We could . . . chat. But she isn’t Dymphna.”
Who is?
“I just keep thinking, Auntie,” Elwood said in a rush, “what if I never get my funding? What if I never get back to Fat Chance? What if Thud and Dymphna are doing just fine without me? Maybe I should just accept that possibility. Maybe if I keep myself distracted, it won’t hurt as much when the ax falls.”
“Darling,” Cleo said, reaching across and squeezing Elwood’s arm. “I know I haven’t been very forthcoming or supportive or . . . well, that’s enough, but now that I’m just changing my mind right and left, I think I might as well go for broke. I’ll give you the money and you and I can both go back. I can be your investor! Now, don’t say anything just yet . . .”
“No, thank you,” Elwood said promptly.
“I asked you not to say anything just yet.” Cleo retracted her hand. “Can’t you just think about it?”
“There’s nothing to think about. Grandfather set up the entire Fat Chance experiment so we could see what we could achieve on our own. If I take the family money, it’s exactly the opposite of what he had in mind.”
“Darling, I don’t mean to be harsh, but your grandfather is dead.”
“But he was right.”
“Now who’s refusing to change his mind?” Cleo tried to keep the rich-girl-pout out of her voice.
“That would be me.” Elwood stood up. “It was very nice spending this time with you, Auntie. But there is nothing you can say. If the university doesn’t give me the funding, I’m stuck in Los Angeles.”
Cleo watched as Elwood walked out the door, closing it behind him.
That did not go well at all.
She sank back and clicked on The Sopranos. It was one of her father’s favorite episodes. Meadow was in the throes of applying to colleges, and her mother, Carmela, gets the idea to put pressure on a powerful alumnus of Georgetown University to write a letter of recommendation for Meadow. Carmela brings the woman a ricotta pie and gently reminds the woman who Carmela’s husband is. The alum refuses to be intimidated, but Carmela leaves the ricotta pie and requests that she “return the plate when you’re done.” The plate is returned and Meadow’s acceptance letter is in the mail.
“So subtle,” Cutthroat would say and shake his head in appreciation. “Carmela is a velvet steamroller.”
Cleo sighed. If only real life were as easy as it appeared on TV. She closed her eyes, but before she fell asleep, they suddenly flew open. Jumping to her feet, as if struck by an electric shock, Cleo clicked off the TV, lathered on another coat of lip gloss, and pressed the video intercom button. Cook appeared on the screen, standing in front of an immaculate white and marble kitchen.
“Yes, Miss Cleo?” Cook asked.
“Cook”—Cleo’s hands were on her chest to steady her thumping heart—“do you have a recipe for ricotta pie?”
“Sí,” Cook answered. “Mr. Clarence gave me a Sopranos cookbook a long time ago. There’s one he liked in there.”
“Excellent!” Cleo said. “I need one right away. Take extra care.”
“Yes, Miss Cleo.”
“Oh!” Cleo said, almost as an afterthought. “And Cook?”
“Yes, Miss Cleo?”
“Put it on one of our best pie plates.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 16
Powderkeg and Pappy sat in Cleo’s Café, now officially renamed Cowboy Food. They tried peering into the kitchen, but Fernando slammed the door on them.
“Sure smells good,” Powderkeg said.
“I came here to eat, not smell,” Pappy groused. “I can smell it from my place.”
Now that Fernando had perfected his sauce, he invited the men to try his latest smoked pork tenderloin. Fernando had invited Titan, but since Titan had adopted Rocket, he’d sworn off meat. The fact that out of the seven townspeople two were now vegetarians concerned Fernando, but Pappy dismissed the notion.
“Giving up meat isn’t a trend among cowboys,” Pappy said. “You’ll be fine.”
Fernando reckoned he had no choice but to believe him.
He felt guilty about not inviting Old Bertha and Polly to the tasting. But this was “men’s work.” He knew Polly was his main cheerleader in fil
ling the town with men in jeans and cowboy hats, but Powderkeg and Pappy were his target audience. He salved his guilty conscience by sending the women a gooey dessert—he could certainly use their opinions on that! Dymphna was supportive of his efforts—and he appreciated the fact that she was nonjudgmental about the aroma of smoked meats that wafted over town. She wasn’t big on sugar either, so the dessert-bribe angle was out. He’d contented himself with sending his brandy experiments up to the farm. He certainly felt he owed Dymphna for all the fruit she cheerfully sent his way.
Fernando pushed the door to the dining room open with his butt. His two diners turned and watched the heaping plates of food being set before them with worshipful glances. Fernando sat down with them. The men just continued to stare at the food.
“What are you waiting for?” Fernando asked. “Eat!”
Pappy took the first bite. He looked at Fernando’s hopeful face. “It needs bread.”
Fernando dashed to the kitchen and returned with a loaf of sliced homemade bread.
“Good idea, Pappy,” Powderkeg said, stacking the meat on a slice of bread, then closing it in with another. He watched the barbecue sauce and the juice from the brisket soak into the bread. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
Fernando watched each of the men chew, but said nothing. When he was the pastry chef at the tea room, his friend Suzanna had hated it every time he demanded to know how she liked this scone or that biscuit. He held his silence until each man had eaten half a sandwich.
“Let the praise begin,” he said.
“Dude,” Powderkeg said. “You’ve got this.”
Fernando put on his practiced humble face and bowed his head. He looked up through his lashes at Pappy, who was shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” Fernando asked, alarmed.
“The bread is all wrong,” Pappy said.
“What are you talking about? That bread is great!”
“It is great,” Pappy said. “But not for barbecue. Barbecue needs plain old white bread. Sliced in a plain old slicer—none of this hand-carved crap.”
Fernando turned to Powderkeg for backup.
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