“If I were really as naive as you seem to think . . .” She hesitated. “Let’s just say that if I were, and if I had been a virgin, I doubt I’d be one now. Scott is not a nice man, Mom. I like him ... in fact, I like him a lot. He’s fun to be with, and that cherishing act of his is a terrific ego booster— it’s like being in therapy without paying the fees—but nice he most definitely is not.” She laughed. “I had about as much chance of actually being his Wildings girl as you did.”
Tessa winced. Seeing it, Garland relented. “I’m sorry, Mom. The thing is . . .” She paused and took her lower lip between her teeth.
“Might as well finish what you started. Garland.”
“Look, Scott likes you . . . no, more than that, he’s very fond of you, and grateful, too, but . . . well, he’s no longer . . . interested.”
Tessa stared at her blankly, her eyes clear blue. The silence lengthened.
Looking anxious, Garland bent towards her. “Mom? You understand what I’m saying?”
“Oh, yes,” Tessa said, slowly getting to her feet. “It came through loud and clear. Not that it comes as any surprise,” she lied.
Actually, it was the difficulty in facing it that was the surprise, she realized. Like tripping an explosive on your return across a field you had already scouted.
She crossed to the sink with an oddly stiff and uncertain gait, as if trying to avoid invisible hazards. After putting the mug carefully into the sink, she trailed back across the kitchen, pausing at the entrance to the living room. “I think I’ll go to bed now,” she murmured over her shoulder. “I’ve had this headache all day ... I can’t seem to shake it.”
“But what about supper?”
Tessa turned to look at her daughter. Her blue eyes were darker now. Haunted.
“Fuck supper.”
If she heard Garland’s gasp, she ignored it.
Later, as she lay across her bed, her arms hugging her damp pillow, she heard Garland’s car start, then drive off. Back up to Telluride? To Scott and his cherishing?
The trickle of tears started again. This time she didn’t bother to try to stop it.
Chapter Eighteen
Tessa’s first reaction the next morning on seeing Garland’s breakfast dishes stacked and washed in the rack next to the sink was relief: she had come home to sleep. Then she became anxious.
Recalling her uncharacteristic use last evening of an outhouse expletive, she grimaced. Had Garland assumed it was meant to apply to her, too? Tessa prayed not, but it was unlike her daughter to rise before her—she usually heard the loud clatter of the Mickey Mouse alarm as she passed Garland’s room on her way to the kitchen and even less like her to leave the house without so much as an exchange of morning greetings.
Whatever Garland’s reason, she was obviously avoiding her.
Should I apologize?
Not until she knew what to apologize for, and once started, where would she stop? God knows she must have piled up a lot of apology-worthy errors over the years.
Feeling herself blundering into a mental and emotional thicket with no clear-cut exit, Tessa closed her eyes. Take the easy way out, she told herself. Just pretend nothing happened. Feeling suddenly better—temporarily at least—she put the kettle on to boil.
Tessa was mopping up the remains of her egg with a crust of toast and frowning over an article in the local weekly about a Zoning Commission hearing on a request for an exception to the local zoning laws, when the phone rang. “Shut up!” she muttered. The ringing obediently stopped, only to shrill forth again as she neared the end of the meaty part in which Terry Ballou’s name and the adjective alleged appeared not once, but several times. She swallowed the last of her tea with an audible gulp, got up, and answered it.
It was Lloyd.
Speak of the devil, Tessa thought. “I was just reading about your partner in the Cottonwood Chronicle,” she said.
“Not a word of truth in it,” Lloyd sneered. “That kid they’ve got doing the reporting these days thinks it’s his God-given duty to supply a scandal, or at least the hint of one, in every blamed issue. These last couple of weeks it’s been quiet enough to hear the grass grow—except for the 4H barbecue. Too bad you couldn’t be there.”
“Why is that?” Tessa asked, then, guessing why, wished she hadn’t.
Lloyd chuckled a deep, rich, rubbing-his-hands-together chuckle. “Didn’t Jeannie tell you, Tessa? Jed took the ex-Mrs. Scott Shelby . . . Marion, I think he said her name was. Considering the way he was ushering her around, introducing her to everybody who was anybody, I’d say he escorted her more’n took her. Those tables at the park got benches, you know, so he couldn’t pull out the lady’s chair for her, but if he could’ve, he would’ve. You never saw such bowing and scraping! Laughing together, dancing . . . they even toasted each other with those paper cups like they had champagne in ‘em, ‘stead of that piss-cheap beer the 4H sells for what good draft costs down at the Ouray Elk’s Club. I gotta tell ya, they was the talk of the evening.”
Tessa waited him out. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. “I suggested he take her, Lloyd.”
“Oh.”
Poor Lloyd. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m sure you have more on your mind than a report of Cottonwood’s social activities, and I’ve got a horse to train.”
“Well, me and Jack’ve been thinking, Tessa— “
“Glad to hear it, Lloyd.”
“I can do without your smart mouth, missy.” The chuckle was long gone. “And we’ve decided, much as we hate to do it to one of our own, that Barry didn’t take everything into account he should have when you pressured him into making that will of his.”
“I agreed he should ... it was your dad pressured him all of you, as I remember—just before your folks left for Texas. Don’t you think he knew about the wild oats you boys sowed? He told me he was damned if he wanted the land he’d worked so hard going to a bunch of bastards no one had set eyes on until they showed up in probate court.”
“Well, you got a point there, Tessa. At least we know your bastards.”
“I think we’ll end this conversation right here, Lloyd.”
“We’ll just take it up again in front of Judge Colby.”
“Fine. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Or we could come to a friendly agreement ... a land swap, say. Keep the dirty linen in the family closet.”
“What? And me with a brand new washer I’m dying to try? See you in court, Lloyd.”
Tessa winced as he crashed his receiver down. The moment she got the dial tone, she dialed Jed’s number.
“You said you’d help,” she blurted when he answered. “I hope you haven’t regretted it.”
He didn’t have to ask who it was. “Help with what?” he inquired cautiously.
“With Lloyd . . . and Jack, too. They’ve been thinking. Lloyd told me so himself.”
Jed laughed. “The Wagner boys thinking? Well, well, that’s a switch.”
“That’s more or less what I said. He didn’t care for it.” Jed, still chuckling, said he guessed not. “He’s going to take me to court, Jed. The first time he mentioned it—at that kaffee klatsch I told you about?—I figured he was just bluffing. Now I think he’s half-convinced himself that Barry was right, and the threat of exposure’ll scare me enough to give him what he wants without all the folderol of lawyers and courtrooms and judges.”
“I’d’ve thought he knew you better than that!” Jed broke in.
“Me, too, Jed. But even though I know he can’t possibly win, the twins were hurt enough by Barry’s s suspicions. They really don’t need this. Especially not Gavin. I think he has political ambitions, and even the hint of scandal-- “
“How can I help, Tessa?”
“Could we get together to talk about it? Plan some strategy maybe?”
“Today, you mean?”
“I know it’s short notice. ... I could come to you.”
“I don’t think that’s such
a good idea, Tessa. Pop’s deafness has this miraculous way of clearing up when you’re saying something you don’t want him to hear.” He thought a moment. “There’s this woman in Ouray . . . she’d rather walk on hot coals than sit with Pop again, but she owes me a favor—I gave her son a character reference for a job he wanted.”
“Did you now.” She clicked her tongue reprovingly.
“It was a perfectly honest reference, Tessa. I didn’t fire him; he quit. He was a good worker; he just didn’t like cows much. Said he prefers clerical work . . . can you imagine?”
“Certainly not. I’d always choose stepping in cow flops over working in a clean, air-conditioned office.”
There was a brief silence during which Jed pondered the point in continuing this exchange. Deciding there was none, he asked, “This afternoon suit you? Two, maybe three o’clock?”
“Thank you, Jed.” Tessa’s tone matched his. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“I’m doing it as much for the twins as you. They mean a lot to me, too, you know.”
* * * *
While Tessa waited for Miguel to bring the colt out to the training corral, she reflected on Jed’s concluding words. What had they meant exactly? Were they his way of keeping a safe distance between them? Of letting her know his love for her had cooled?
Friendly affection.
Yeah, she guessed she could live with that.
Sometimes, when she came upon him unawares, she’d glimpse the fire in his eyes when he caught sight of her. He always banked it down real fast—Jed was too proud to peg his desire out on a line for everyone to see—but it excited her to suppose that if she blew on those embers, just a little, she could coax them into flame. Not being a tease, she never did. But she enjoyed the temptation.
Tessa shivered. The sun was high and bright, but she felt as if a dark cloud had suddenly robbed it of its heat. Gavin was already gone; Garland pulling away, and now Jed . . .
“He’s full of fire today, Miz Wagner!”
Tessa whirled, gaping, then smiled sheepishly. Miguel meant the colt, of course.
The dark bay gelding pranced at the end of the halter rope, ears pricked, nostrils distended, pretending he was a wild stallion. She had named him Reshabar, after a wind out of the high Caucasus described as “lusty and black” in the weather encyclopedia the twins had given her several years ago for her birthday. She had no idea where the Caucasus were, but the name, nicked short to Resha, seemed made to order for him.
“My oh my, aren’t you a pretty boy,” Tessa cooed as she reached out to stroke his satiny neck. He shied away, snorting, then, seeing the carrot in her other hand, came forward eagerly to alternately munch and nuzzle.
Tessa pulled a rag out of her back pocket to wipe off her slobbered-on shirt front. “God, what table manners,” she said, tugging the colt’s black forelock. “Don’t you be expecting dinner invitations from me anytime soon!”
To her surprise, Miguel found her lame quip hugely amusing.
“You’re sure in a good mood,” she said. “Did you enjoy your day off?”
“Oh, si! My nephew’s wife had three babies ... this was first time I see them. She was expecting only two.” He grinned, exposing the gold inlay his usual smiles— worthy of a Castilian grandee, Gavin said— never revealed.
Remembering how Garland and Gavin had run her ragged, the thought of triplets made Tessa shudder. Her own mother was long dead by the time the twins were born, and the wild aborigines masquerading as Jack’s kids had soured Mom Wagner on any further grandmothering.
But in Miguel’s culture, extended families and lifelong loyalty to blood ties was a given. Fathers and uncles bounced the babies on their knees; aunts and cousins and grandmothers took turns, not only oohing and aahing, but with the changing and feeding and cuddling.
“Would your nephew be offended if I sent him a check? I’d like to give them something, but they know what they need better than I do.”
Miguel considered this. “Not if he knows it is for the little ones.” He favored her with a dignified smile. “That is a kind thought, my friend. Gracias.”
Friend.
Tessa’s thoughts returned fleetingly to Jed. She sighed. It could be worse.
“You want a leg up?” Miguel was saying.
The colt was prancing again. Little playful catch-me-if-you-can steps. Tessa grabbed his bridle, pulled his head down, and rubbed her nose across his velvet muzzle. “You big goof! Cool it, will ya?”
Whickering softly, he stilled just long enough for Miguel to boost Tessa up into the saddle. She gathered up the reins, then leaned forward to riffle her fingers through Resha’s long black mane. “Gotcha!” she crowed.
The training session went well. Very well. Very well indeed, Tessa told herself. For a young horse, Resha was already exceptionally well-balanced, and the already bulging muscles in his hindquarters would soon develop the power necessary for a top-quality cutting horse, further proof of the value of Tessa’s careful breeding program.
Barry, who had wanted quicker returns, used to pressure her to settle for horses that were, as he put it, “good enough.” Tessa had ignored him and gone about her business. If he didn’t know without being told why only the best were good enough for Skywalk Ranch, why waste her breath?
Once Resha settled down, Tessa put him through a review of earlier lessons: walking, turning, stopping, and standing steady as she mounted and dismounted from both sides. It was easier now to keep him at a slow jog, and his lope was soft and easy from the beginning.
A smart horse, he resisted backing in the middle of the corral for what he saw as no good reason, but he did so readily when Tessa rode him up to the corral gate and Miguel opened it back against him. Unquestioning obedience would come in time.
By the end of the summer he’d be ready for bitting and more formal training in neck reining, and by late fall she could begin schooling him in the more strenuous maneuvers expected of a cutting horse: the pivots and roll-backs and short stops on the haunches he was still too young to safely undertake.
An hour later, Tessa slid from the saddle, sweaty from working in the midday sun, but elated. She invited Miguel to share a sandwich and iced-tea lunch with her, which she made while he cooled the colt down. She carried a tray out to the weathered table set under the big cottonwood that shaded the area between the barn and the first corral.
“Sit!” Tessa commanded when Miguel returned from cooling Resha down and turning him out with the other horses. After brushing a drift of the cottonwood’s fluff-tailed seeds from the table, she put their plates at either end and placed a basket heaped with potato chips--one of Miguel’s few weaknesses— between them.
Seeing the chips, his dark eyes lighted with pleasure. Before he allowed himself to indulge, however, he offered up a few words of grace in Spanish. Tessa, caught unawares with her sandwich halfway to her parted lips, could only hope her hastily bowed head made up for her lack of piety. Miguel merely smiled tolerantly and popped a chip into his mouth.
Tessa sighed and leaned back in her chair, grateful for the cool dry shade. She lifted her arms to hasten the wicking of the moisture out of her sweat-dampened shirt. Next best thing to an air-conditioner, she thought contentedly.
During her one trip east with Scott twenty years ago, she had found the humidity blanketing the North Carolina seashore suffocating. The heat, too, had been unrelenting, never varying by more than a degree or two in sun or shade, day or night. The motel’s bathrooms and closet floors were blotched with what one of the crew told her was mildew. Nasty-looking stuff. By the end of their three-day stay, she half-expected to find its greenish-blackish spores growing between her toes.
She leaned forward to take a swallow of tea. “I was thinking of breeding Sunset again this fall after Garland goes back to college. That foal she had last year shows a lot of promise.”
Miguel chewed thoughtfully. “I think maybe it is too soon for her, Miz Wagner.”
&n
bsp; Tessa’s brow knitted in thought. “You may be right about that, Miguel. She shouldn’t be used as a foaling machine. How about Zig-zag? Maybe we can get another colt as good as Bolt out of her before I retire her from motherhood.”
Miguel nodded and reached for another handful of chips. “And maybe Thor could cover her, you think? He’s not as young as he used to be, of course.”
“Well, hell, Miguel, neither are we and we’re still going strong! I say let’s go for it.” She leaned closer. “To tell you the truth,” she whispered, “sometimes I wish I’d never let Jed have Bolt.”
Miguel looked at her gravely. Unused to receiving confidences from anyone, much less this woman who employed him, he thought hard and long before he spoke. “Some people say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but they are wrong.”
“Let’s hope so,” Tessa said. She held out the basket of chips. “Here, have some more.”
They sat talking and making plans, agreeing for the most part, but sometimes not. When it came to the horses, they operated as equals. Barry used to complain that she gave “that old Mex” too much power. Annoyed by having her judgment questioned—the horses were her domain— and knowing there was little point in again reminding Barry that Miguel was an American citizen, Tessa would merely say he had earned it. Which, she realized later, was the same as telling Barry he had not.
In fact, Tessa suspected that Miguel had forgotten more about horses than she would ever know. Unlike herself, who sometimes let her enthusiasm for a particular animal influence her opinion, Miguel never, ever, expected more of a horse than he judged it capable of doing by virtue of its breeding, confirmation, and temperament. Was it instinct? The end product of long experience? Probably both, but she really didn’t care— she was just thankful to be receiving the benefits.
Tessa smiled at him fondly. An intensely private man, his solemn, almost stately demeanor discouraged displays of affection, but sometimes she couldn’t help herself: Miguel was a treasure, and he had entrusted her with the key.
Colorado High Page 20
