Olive takes the hundred-dollar bill, and I go and shop for food.
Once I’m done, I place everything on the counter.
“I think the hardware store sells coffeepots,” Olive says as she rings me up.
“Oh,” I say, “do you have any Pendleton Whiskey?”
“I do.” She reaches beneath the counter. “For Stan?” she asks.
“He wouldn’t take my money yesterday, so he said a bottle of this whiskey would do.”
“Sounds about right. Do you need a ride up the hill?”
My shoulders drop. “I didn’t think of that.”
Olive looks outside, grabs a notepad, and sticks a piece of tape to it. She scribbles, Be back in five.
Olive sticks the piece of paper to the door. “Come on.”
“Oh, Olive. This isn’t necessary.”
“It’s what we do for friends.” She holds open the door.
Friends, I say to myself and see how the word feels.
At twenty-seven, I just expected to have the same friends I’d had for years. The friends I’ve had in Dillon Creek. The ones I grew up with. It’s now that I realize how true Anna’s words are. Maybe I’m meant for more. Maybe all of these moments in my life are preparing me for something bigger. Like meeting people in my life I’m supposed to walk this journey with.
We arrive at the Isner house, and Olive peers through the windshield. “Hasn’t changed a bit.” She looks at me. “No offense. I mean, you did just move in.”
“None taken.” I grab the groceries in the back.
Olive gets out to help. “Looks like Granddad is still here.”
I eye Olive. “Do you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Depends on how you look at it. He’s very thorough, and he will make sure the house is in tip-top shape by the time he’s done with it.”
I can’t help but see dollar signs.
We walk inside, and I set the bags on the kitchen counter.
“I can’t thank you enough, Olive, for all your help.”
“Got me out of the store for a minute.” She bumps my shoulder with hers as she goes to leave.
Olive feels familiar. Comfortable. As if our conversations were like favorite old sweaters—broken in, warm, and expected. They’re unrehearsed, and I settle into them as if we’d had them for years.
I decide I really like Olive.
Maybe I’ll ask her to do dinner sometime.
It’s late afternoon when I establish that we can get internet connection at the house. It’ll be seventy dollars a month. But do we really need internet? Maybe I will be less tempted to use my phone to do mindless scrolling if I know I’m paying an arm and a leg for it.
Casey comes through the front door, soaked, as I sit by the fire he made this morning.
“Thanks for the fire,” I say as he takes off his coat, boots, and cowboy hat.
“You’re welcome.”
He takes his spot on the sofa. A good four feet from me.
“What did Emmitt say?”
“Roof is good. Just a few repairs. The house is well built though. The central heating needs a whole new system. That won’t be cheap. New floor on this level. The subfloor is toasted. All new windows if we want to hold the heat. That, he said, needs to be done sooner than later with winter coming.”
“Did he give you a quote?”
“No, not yet. Said he’d get back to me tomorrow.”
Casey settles into the sofa. I watch his shoulders come down just a few inches, as if he’s tense, as if he’s carrying something with him and he’s not sure how to proceed.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” But he bites his tongue.
We’ve been … whatever we’ve been for a long time. More than half our lives. I know when he’s holding back. I don’t feel it’s my place to push even though I want to.
“Are you all right?” he asks as the fire crackles.
“A question for the ages,” I whisper. “Listen, I checked into internet, and it’s going to be seventy dollars a month. I’m okay with working off data instead of the expense. Are you?”
And then I realize who I’m asking. Casey Atwood only carries a phone because his mother makes him.
The look on his face makes me laugh out loud. It’s half-goofy and half-what the hell did you just ask me.
His expression changes when he sees me laugh, and I try my best to look away, but for the first time in a long time, I can’t.
Casey drops his head.
When we were younger, I’d drape my hand over his face because I didn’t want him to see me laugh. Only half of my smile works, and the other half never has.
But I’m also not the same insecure girl I was as a child. I know I’ve changed, but maybe I don’t drape my hand over his face because I’m terrified of what it will do to my heart once I touch him.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say. “We should probably figure out our finances and what we’d like to put into the house. Keep it fair and equitable. What we put in is what we get out.”
Casey doesn’t say anything. He just rests his head on his hand and stares at me. “Whatever you want, Tess.”
Under his stare, I feel as though he sees every last inch of me, like a mosaic strung together by wire and all the little pieces left behind fall in a trail behind me. He pieces those together too—the pieces I’d rather forget.
His gaze makes me feel exposed, and unwillingly, I feel the need to speak. “I have about seventeen thousand in my savings. And”—this hurts me to say—“I’ve filed for unemployment. I will receive about twelve hundred a month until I find a new job.”
“Will you be okay if you’re not teaching?” he asks.
I’m not sure. I’ve always felt like it was my calling to be a teacher. Like God set forth my goal at an early age.
Instead of saying this, I shrug. “I’ll have to be.”
Casey doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I have about seventy thousand in uncashed checks in the top drawer of my dresser at home.”
“Excuse me, what?”
Casey laughs, and I watch as his Adam’s apple slides up and down his throat. A place I’ve kissed too many times to count.
A rush of heat pushes through me, and I try not to show Casey, so I turn my gaze back to the fire.
The wind kicks up and casts its anger against the house. She screams. Her tough, old bones move and bend against the resistance.
“Have a little over five in savings.”
I turn my head to face him. “Five thousand?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Hundred thousand.”
“Casey Atwood, what the hell do you spend your money on?”
He laughs again. “I don’t need much.”
“So, you’re telling me, you have over half a million just … sitting.” I gawk.
“I have investments too.”
We’re quiet for a moment, and then I say, “What does the PBR think about your uncashed checks?”
“They’re hollering at me to cash them.”
“Why the hell don’t you?”
“Been busy, I guess.”
“You’ve been too busy to cash seventy thousand dollars in winnings?” I sigh. Fall back against the couch. “You’re unbelievable.”
The rain begins softly again, but I know this is just a warning for the evil intent the weather has on its agenda for later this afternoon and early evening. I’ve learned this about Alaska.
“Tess, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”
I drop my head. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that to me. Clearly, you don’t need the money, Case, and if you aren’t here for the money, then why are you here?”
13
Casey
Because I wasn’t there when you needed me most, is what I should say.
But she’s not ready for the honest answer, so I feed her a line. “Investment opportunity.”
“And what if you lose the wager?” she asks.
I have flashes of us as kids—when life was simple, not as hard, when our biggest worry was what assignments were due at school or eating something we didn’t like for dinner. Not our brothers dying and all the ramifications that went along with that. Broken hearts. Broken families. And all the memories we’d just as soon not remember. I’m reminded of Tess’s strength, her tenaciousness, and her unwillingness to give up.
She said she wanted to ride a steer. We were fifteen or so. I put Bulldog in the chute because he was just that—a bulldog. Docile. Slow. And didn’t give a shit what you had him do as long as he got his grain. Got Tess on him. She didn’t want to wear the helmet, but I made her anyway.
I explained to her the basics.
One hand.
Dancing partner.
Balance.
It was a fifteen-minute crash course on bull riding.
But it was her first time on a steer, so honestly, I wasn’t expecting much from either of them, but Tess was convinced she needed to ride a steer.
“When you’re ready,” I told her, “give Cash the nod, and he’ll open the chute.”
Conroy came out from the house just as Tess gave Cash the nod.
“You know she’s liable to kill herself, right?” Conroy knew Tess. Knew she wouldn’t give up, come what may.
In one second flat, she was down on the ground.
“Again,” she said as she pulled herself up from the ground. She went back to the chute, climbed the fence, and got back on the steer.
“Come on, Morgan,” Conroy called.
“Remember, balance,” I said to her.
She flipped me off.
Conroy, Cash, and I all laughed.
Tess did this seventeen times.
On the seventeenth ride, filthy from sixteen falls before with a bruised ego and a cut above her eye, she rode Bulldog as if her life had depended on it. She made it to ten seconds.
I fell in love with her that day. I thought, no matter what, she’d fight for us because that was who she was.
But there are some things that happen between two people that only God can forgive, I suppose. I thought I was doing the right thing at the right time. My biggest regret in life is getting in my truck and driving us to Oregon that night. I should have fought for us. But I was a baby, just fresh out of high school with dreams the size of Texas.
I give her an honest answer this time. “I’m in it for the long haul, and I won’t lose, Tess Morgan.”
The fire cracks, and the wind starts again.
“Does the rain ever stop?” I ask.
As I stare out the wall of windows, watching the world wash away, it makes me think about the picture I saw downstairs of Ike and a few others. What I don’t tell Tess is that the woman in the picture, holding the toddler, she looks just like her.
She’s probably seen it, right?
If she’s not concerned, I shouldn’t be. I don’t tell her that when I saw it, it made my stomach clench. I recognized Ike and now Emmitt. But it’s who I didn’t recognize that makes me feel uneasy.
“Do you want some wine, Case?” she asks.
I’m not really a wine guy—I’m more of a Coors guy—but I don’t tell her this because it’s like a peace offering.
“Yes.”
Tess stands and walks into the kitchen behind us.
I hear the cork pop.
She walks back into the living room with two red Solo cups.
“They were out of wineglasses at Olive’s.” She smiles down at me. “Do you even like wine?” she asks. “I mean, legally, I don’t think we’ve ever drunk together.” She sits down on her side of the sofa.
“It’s all right.”
She nods as she puts the Solo cup to her mouth.
“You miss the kids? At school, I mean.” I push myself against the corner of the sofa and rest my arm on the back. Open my body to her, an attempt to let her know that I’m not going anywhere.
There’s a smug smile that appears. “Yes.”
I trace her neckline with my eyes and remember, only for a second, what her skin felt like beneath my fingers. Her tender skin felt like silk against my rough, callous hands.
She’s hesitant—I can see it in her eyes. Her lips part only for a moment and then quickly come together again. She takes a sip of wine and sets the cup down by her feet.
Tess begins to speak again, “There are injustices that surround everyone every day. I just felt like I was supposed to be a teacher. I never thought I’d lose my job. And especially to a woman who has one foot in the grave.” Tess smiles against her sadness. But she looks to me, through me. “That video—” She stops.
I know what she’s going to say, and it makes my heart seize.
“Did you ever—”
“Every day since …” I whisper. I take a big swig of the wine and nearly finish the cup.
Tess nods. Bites her cheek. Her eyes search the fire in front of us—maybe for answers, maybe for solace.
I try to console her heart. Fix it. Make it whole again. “I almost told him not to be a bull rider.”
Tess’s head moves to me in one quick motion. “Why?”
I laugh—not because it’s funny, but because I’m trying to buy my heart some time. “He said I was his hero.” I shake my head and stare down at my hands. “I don’t feel like a hero, Tess. I feel like a guy who hides behind a bull in order to run from whatever he needs to.”
My eyes meet hers. Her body perfectly still, she stares back and bites her cheek again. What I want to do is reach out to her, hold her. Take back every-fucking-thing that happened between us and ask for a do-over. But I can’t.
“We’re all imperfect, Case. No matter if we run into burning buildings, fight crime, fight for our country. We’re all imperfect humans, fulfilling a hole deep inside us. When I work with kids, it helps fill my hole, and I think when you ride bulls, you help little boys reach for their dreams.”
Cowboys don’t cry. I didn’t cry when my brother died. The last time I cried was when I was ten and I was grazed by a horn of a steer. My brother had dared me to ride the meanest steer we had. It was actually a bet. I won a hundred bucks that day. I’d ridden the eight seconds, and I had an open wound to prove it. It also hurt like a son of a bitch. Ten stitches from Dr. Cain and an earful from my mom.
“Well, I’ll start dinner.” Tess stands, pushing our sadness to the floor, the holes we’re trying to fill.
I stand, too, and tower over her. Take a step toward her, and I’m not sure why I do this, but I can’t help myself. We’re inches apart.
“What are you doing, Casey?” she whispers. Her lips barely parted, she looks up at me with her soft, protective green eyes.
I push the piece of hair that’s fallen to her face behind her ear. “I kissed Ava that night because she reminded me so much of you.”
“And?” Tess barely whispers. “Did she kiss like me?”
A response I was not expecting.
I reach up and run my fingers along her jawline, my body fully aware of hers. “Not even close.”
Her phone starts to ring, and it breaks us apart.
“I should get that.” She motions to the kitchen.
Tess grabs her Solo cup and leaves me standing here.
She answers her phone as I walk outside to the wood box and get some more wood for the fire.
By the time I come back in, she’s off the phone and cutting up chicken.
“Can I help?” I ask, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen.
“No, I’m fine.”
Tess has shut down again. My body still feels the aftereffects of us.
A text message sounds from my phone.
It’s from Garrison.
Garrison: You made the finals. Did you see? You fucker.
I knew I was a contender, but I didn’t think it would happen. I check the PBR website and see my name—second name from the top after last weekend.
“Everything okay?” Te
ss asks.
I look up at her. “Yeah, fine.”
I run my fingers over my lips. Giddiness building inside me.
What does this mean? This means, every weekend from now until November, I’ll have to leave to ride to keep my spot in the World Finals, which means, one, I’m going back on my commitment to Tess and, two, I’ll lose the bet, and I won’t get the seven days with her.
I never cared about the money in the first place.
The date for the PBR World Finals is the first weekend in November.
I run my hand along my chin. My heart starts to jackhammer against my chest.
“Yeah, fine doesn’t reflect the face you’re making now,” Tess says, rinsing the chicken.
I also know Tess. The bull riding has always scared her. But I also know she’s scared because of love.
Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I take our Solo cups and fill them with wine. There’s a small area between the island she’s cutting chicken on and the counter. Taking my time, I squeeze between the small space and am careful not to touch her backside, but if this gives me another few seconds of her scent, her body, I’ll take it.
What are you doing, Casey? If you’re going to leave, you’d better make damn sure you don’t break her heart again.
Quickly, I remove myself from the space, go to the other side of the island, and set her Solo cup out in front of her.
“I noticed there are no televisions here,” is my best attempt at conversation.
“No, I haven’t seen any.”
Her phone sounds, and she peeks over at the screen. “You made the finals?”
My head drops to the side. “You get PBR updates?”
“That’s not the point of the question, Casey.” She blushes and tries to hide her fluster. She takes another sip of wine.
“Say something, Tess.”
“Looks like I win the bet.” A plastic smile spreads across her face as she moves the chicken, potatoes, garlic, and green onions to a baking dish.
I don’t say whether I’m going or not, and I also don’t counter her statement.
After dinner is ready, we sit down on the couch to eat in front of the fire.
I ask her again, “Since when do you get PBR updates?”
Saving Tess Page 11
