The Maverick Returns

by Roz Denny Fox

  Coop arrived at the feed store to find Hank himself behind the counter.

  “I’m doing some work for Willow Walker,” Coop said. “I need twenty sacks of grain, two hundred-foot hoses and rye seed for a couple of fifty-acre fields. I assume Mrs. Walker runs a tab for essentials?”

  “You assume wrong,” Hank said, peering at Coop over a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses. “You the latest of her part-timers? Last two guys came in and bought mash for their horses. Don’t see much of the widow. Now, her husband was a piece of work. Had an excessive taste for gambling and booze, but he never seemed short of money. The missus rarely came to town, but when she did, she paid cash.”

  Coop frowned. “I’m actually an old friend of Mrs. Walkers. I haven’t seen her since before she married Tate, but her ranch is a little the worse for wear, and I want to help her out.”

  “If you ask me, she shoulda left that no-good husband of hers a long time ago, but she stuck it out. You know how people in small towns talk. Well, I’ve heard from more than one source that while she was pregnant, she was seen with bruises. My wife, who sometimes cashiers here, said she noticed, and asked, but was told they came from working cattle. No one bought that story. And no one held any liking for her man, who bragged that his dad, supposedly a wealthy rancher up north, bought him this ranch and stocked it with prime steers. If you and the widow go back a ways, you probably know more about the family than I do. One thing I thought was odd—after the big brawl where Walker was accidentally shot, his father swooped into town, claimed his son’s body, and took him elsewhere to be buried. I figured he hasn’t been providing for Mrs. Walker ’cause she’s been selling furniture and tools for grocery money and to replenish her kettle ever since the funeral. I hope you’re what you say—a friend—and it don’t make things worse for her that I’m telling tales out of school.”

  “No, no,” Coop stammered. “I appreciate the information. I’ll pay for the stuff I ordered. While you’re at it, if there’s room in my pickup out there to add six bales of hay, pile it on.”

  After his pickup was loaded, Coop backtracked to the area’s big-box store, which sold a little of everything. He was frustrated to think that, given their history, Willow hadn’t come clean with him about her true circumstances.

  Forty minutes later, he came out with enough bags of groceries to fill the passenger side of his Ram. He fumed all the way back to Willow’s ranch, telling himself it was no wonder she looked as skinny as the branches on the tree for which she was named.

  On pulling into the driveway, he saw that her front door was open, except for the screen. Coop jumped out and quickly unloaded the many bags of groceries, transferring them to the porch. When he finished, he knocked loudly on the screen door casing, making a racket that brought Willow running.

  “Cooper, what on earth?” She wiped her hands on a dish towel and unlatched the screen. “I thought you’d taken off without the pay I set out for you, but then I realized you’d left your horses and trailer behind. What’s all this?” She swept a hand over the sacks of groceries, bending to pull Lilybelle back when she wriggled through the narrow opening.

  Coop stood there holding two more large sacks. Pushing open the screen with one foot, he thrust them into Willow’s arms. “I went to the feed store and tried to put a few items on your tab. Imagine my surprise,” he said tightly, “when the owner said you don’t run a tab, and only buy supplies when you have the cash. Seeing as how you’ve been feeding me the equivalent of rice and beans all week, I suggest it’s time you were candid with me about what’s really going on here.” He didn’t mean to sound gruff but couldn’t help it. He grabbed up two of the heavier boxes and steamrolled into the house, stomping on into the kitchen ahead of her.

  Coop let her stew silently while he brought in the remaining groceries. “Well,” he said, opening the almost-empty fridge to shove in three gallons of milk and a variety of other perishables. “Start spilling your guts.”

  Willow braced her hands on the grocery-covered countertop. Appearing anxious, she sputtered and ended by saying defensively, “I never lied to you, Cooper. Everything I said was the truth. I told you Tate died last year, but I assumed you already knew. I admitted the ranch is too much work. And I do have it listed for sale. But what’s to be gained by airing Tate’s and my dirty laundry to you, of all people?”

  “Why me of all people?” Coop asked, barely pausing as he opened cupboard doors and filled the shelves with cereal, bread, rice and various staples.

  “Because of…oh, just because,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Like you’ve never made a mistake in your life.”

  He laughed. “According to my brother I’ve made plenty. I sold my quarter horses, and I pissed away almost all of what I earned on the rodeo circuit.”

  “But you didn’t—you don’t—have a family to support. It’s different for you, Coop,” she said, her lips in a tight line.

  “Tell me how.” He merely stared at her, waiting.

  Willow sank down on a kitchen chair and laced her hands together in front of her. Faking interest in her fingernails, she whispered, “With what you’ve been privy to these past few days, I’m reasonably sure you’ve guessed that while Tate liked being seen as a ranch owner, he disliked the work required to actually run a ranch.”

  “And…he lost valuable ranch profits playing poker?”

  Willow opened her clasped hands to let Lilybelle climb onto her lap. Heaving a sigh, she mumbled into her daughter’s hair, “Yes. Tate fancied himself a gambler. The truth is, he lost far more than he ever won. Money was always tight.”

  “Did you do all the work around here so he could gamble?”

  She shook her head. “The bulk of what I’ve done was after his death. Before, his dad bought into Tate’s lies about hardships. Rustlers. Sick cattle. Endless droughts. Bart got into the habit of sending a check the first of every month.”

  “He didn’t come to evaluate things for himself?”

  “No. Bart doesn’t deal well with women. He didn’t want Tate to marry me. They spoke on the phone…when his son was sober. Tate’s other weakness was booze. The last two years, he drank a lot. I made sure I beat him to the mailbox so I could bank Bart’s checks and pay Lily’s doctor bills, pay for her tests and buy food before Tate emptied our account. I don’t think he knew how much his dad sent, or that I forged his name on the checks to deposit them.” She lowered her eyes to avoid Coop’s laser stare, and reluctantly gave up the last bit of information. “It’s been harder since Tate’s death. Bart quit sending money.”

  “What did he expect you to do? How did he expect you to clothe and feed his grandchild?”

  “Bart ignores the fact that Lily and I exist. His wife ran off, so he thinks the worst of all women. And Tate lied to him a lot.”

  “Bart’s a jerk. He can afford to help you.”

  “Yes, well, I applied for Aid for Families with Dependent Children, and for food stamps,” she said. “But because I had the ranch and still owned cattle, we didn’t qualify—not even for farm subsidy because I wasn’t growing crops to sell. But we got by,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

  “Right,” Coop said huffily. “Selling the tools necessary for a working ranch. And furniture out of your house, I hear,” he said, taking a brisk survey of the kitchen before stepping over to the doorway to check the living room. “And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I heard he hit you.”

  “Great! So the town busybodies shared every crappy detail of my life. Well, I didn’t ask you to ride in here on a white charger and save us, Cooper Drummond. We aren’t your problem,” she said coolly. “I put out two days’ wages for you. So now you can take off. If you give me an address when you land at your next job, I’ll send you repayment money for the groceries. I don’t want you concerning yourself with us any longer.”

  “Bull! That was a nice little speech, Willow. Do you by any chance remember what you said to me right before I went to rodeo?”

 
She rolled her eyes. “Can it be repeated in front of a child?” She moved to place her hands over her daughter’s ears. “I probably said a lot of mean things, Cooper. I didn’t want you to go. I felt…cut adrift, and I couldn’t understand why you’d choose to go off and ride in rodeos.”

  “You never asked me to stay. What you said as I left, was that I was the most stubborn, pigheaded guy you’d ever had the misfortune to meet.”

  “I didn’t want to…hold you back,” she persisted. Then, noticing he’d pulled a large box of graham crackers out of a sack, she met his eyes. “Graham crackers? How did you know they’re Lily’s favorite snack? We’d run out of them,” she added, biting her lip.

  “I had no idea, Willow. I figured all kids like them.” For the first time since barging into her house, Coop felt self-conscious. “Hey, I bought Miss Lilybelle something else. I almost forgot.” He snapped his fingers. “If you think it’s okay for her to have these.” He pulled out a cloth bag tied closed with a drawstring. “Blocks,” he said. “They’re big, bright colorful ones. You can use them to teach her numbers and letters.” He tumbled several blocks onto the table.

  “Oh, Coop.” Willow choked up, unable to manage anything else for a moment. She drew her chair closer to the table and started to hand a block to Lilybelle, then saw that the child had beaten her to it, grabbing one in each hand. In the blink of an eye, Lily sorted and stacked all the blocks lying on the table by color.

  “Look at that, will you?” Coop grinned as he dumped out the rest of them.

  “I’m amazed.” Willow gaped at the girl. “I hadn’t tried blocks. I… Coop, thank you. I’ve been really rude to you and you’re nothing but nice to me.”

  “I want to stay here and finish some of the other things on your to-do list. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Willow. I saw the blocks while I was out and thought of the kid. I bought the groceries because I’d like to eat something besides the same old pasta disguised in a variety of thin sauces.”

  Willow stood Lily on her feet, then rose to glare at Coop. “Those meals weren’t that bad. And my sauces aren’t thin.”

  “But you are. So I rest my case.”

  Willow tossed her head. “Back when you took off for the rodeo, did I also tell you that you’re the bossiest person I’d ever met?”

  “Not that I recall. I think I’m very reasonable.”

  “Bossy! I’m not going to be your short-order cook, Coop. But since you were so kind as to fill my fridge and cupboards, pray tell me what your heart desires for your evening meal,” she said saucily.

  He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t buy this stuff to make your life more difficult, Willow. You choose something out of what I bought. But please, put a little meat in whatever you fix.” He headed for the door, then stopped. “Uh, you haven’t become a vegetarian, have you? The way I remember it, you used to make a tasty pot roast. Oh, and burgers. Nice, fat ones.” He gathered up the empty grocery sacks and carried them to the screen door. Calling back over his shoulder, he said, “And meat loaf. You made a damn fine meat loaf, Willow.”

  Willow wasn’t quick enough with a retort, though he probably wouldn’t have heard, anyway, as the screen door banged shut in his wake. She leaned a shoulder against the edge of the kitchen doorway. For several minutes she did nothing. It wasn’t until she shook herself alert that she realized she’d been smiling. Something she hadn’t done much of over the past several years. It felt unfamiliar. But good, too, she thought as she turned and saw that Lily had stacked the blocks in neat rows, not only by color, but with the letters all facing the refrigerator. Willow’s heart nearly burst with hope and pride and gratitude to Coop. Lord, he was a good man.

  So, why did she want him to leave? Why did she feel such guilt over his landing on her doorstep? She had plenty of answers, but she needed to keep them to herself. Anything else would be unfair to the man she’d pushed out of her life five years ago.

  Chapter Four

  The back of Cooper’s pickup still needed to be unloaded. Feeling he’d made some headway in dealing with Willow, Coop whistled a decent rendition of Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville.” It was a catchy tune he liked to pick out on his guitar—which was stashed behind the Ram’s backseat. Maybe he’d take it up to the porch tonight and play a little after supper. Willow and Lilybelle might like that.

  While he was at the big-box store, he’d cruised through the book and magazine department, and spotted a health magazine containing a couple of articles on autism. He’d skimmed one to see if it’d give him any insight into Willow’s daughter. One article, written by a parent of an autistic boy, mentioned that he responded positively to piano tunes. The kid was quite a bit older than Lily; he owned a CD player and an iPod, on which his parents downloaded music for him. Coop bought the magazine, since he wanted to do more than just skim both articles. The other one was written by a neurologist, and it looked informative. He was trying to understand more about the illness. Or was it called a condition? A disorder? He wasn’t even sure what to call it. Not that Willow would welcome him sticking his nose into her family business. She used to be so open and talkative. Now she kept anything personal to herself. He’d had to drag the story on Tate out of her, even though it was common knowledge in town.

  Thinking about Tate ruined Coop’s mood. Physical labor was the best for flushing any thoughts of that jerk right out of his mind.

  He unloaded the hay bales, breaking a couple open and spreading them around the stalls in the barn where he’d stabled his horses. He filled a third one, where he’d bed down now that the old barn smelled better. Fresher.

  Too bad he didn’t have access to a tractor so he could haul the feed sacks out to the feed troughs. Hoisting one up onto his shoulder and jogging it over to where the majority of the steers milled about, it occurred to him that when he’d finished this chore he might be too tired to eat. The work took him until late afternoon. The thought of having to repeat this every day until Willow’s cattle fattened up was almost enough to make him rethink staying around. No wonder Willow looked like a toothpick if she was the one who hauled hay to her herd. He had to hand it to her. She had grit.

  Back at the pickup, he dusted off and eyed the sacks of seed he’d bought to resow the two main fields for fall. Was it even worth doing? A closer inspection of what passed for an irrigation system was discouraging. All the sprinkler heads were rusted or corroded, and a few were missing. And the job of spreading the seed, which—given the size of her fields—ought to take a matter of hours, would probably take days, thanks to the absence of a tractor and spreader. He’d seen a hand-broadcaster in the barn. Standing with his forearms draped on the side of the pickup bed, he recalled all the up-to-date equipment owned by the Triple D. Coop calculated the unlikelihood of Sully’s lending him a tractor, plow, spreader and harrow for a few days. Plus he’d need one of the Triple D’s flatbed trucks and trailers to bring it down here from Hondo. About a hundred miles each way. He slapped his hat against his thigh and snorted in disgust. It was a pipe dream. He’d have to apologize for socking Sullivan, if not actually grovel for leaving their ranch in the lurch for five years. Groveling didn’t come easy to him. And that punch to Sully’s jaw had been a long time coming.

  Coop squinted into the waning sun. He wasn’t ready to swallow his pride and kiss Sully’s boots yet. It’d take more than a few days of backbreaking work to get him in that frame of mind.

  He stacked the bags of seed outside the barn, rinsed out the bed of his truck, then took the hose around back, where he washed off the day’s grime and sweat. He had only two more clean sets of clothes in his duffel. He should have taken his laundry to town when he went. He’d seen Willow hanging their clothes on a line out back, so she must not own a dryer. He’d hunt up a Laundromat in the next day or so.

  The smell of the evening meal wafting down to the barn reached Coop half an hour prior to the time Willow had told him his meals would be waiting for him. He knew before he tucked in his shirt, pul
led on his boots and retrieved his guitar for the trek to the house that she was fixing her signature meat loaf… .

  Coop had shared enough of the meals Willow had fixed for her father to identify the aroma. He’d hung out after school sometimes, talking rodeo with her dad. She almost never came to his house. They were three men living alone and her mom didn’t think it was proper.

  Coop’s mouth was watering long before he bounded up the steps of Willow’s porch.

  She was just setting out the covered plate on an orange crate next to the door.

  “Oh, Cooper, here you are. I saw you packing a lot of feed out to the cattle. I was worried you’d be late and would have to eat reheated supper. Hey, let me bring out a chair so you can take a load off while you eat. You must be exhausted from everything you did today. Those feed sacks weigh a ton. It’s why I haven’t tried to fatten up the steers.”

  Coop propped his guitar case against the porch railing. “The thought of a good meal brought me running, Willow. I’ve been tortured by the smell of your meat loaf from about the time it went into your oven. Tantalized is a better word,” he added quickly, catching the look of dismay that crossed her face.

  “Here I figured I’d surprise you… .”

  Coop picked up the plate and removed the cover. “It looks as delicious as I remember. And fresh peas in their pods. And cornbread. You exceeded my wildest expectations, Willow.”

  She chuckled, and he noticed a dimple he remembered well, one he hadn’t seen since his arrival. All too fast, though, she blushed and retreated into the house.

  “Wait,” he called, unable to stop himself. “Why don’t you bring out plates for you and Lily, too? We’ll call it a picnic.”

  Willow didn’t respond immediately and Coop couldn’t see through the screen into the darkened house. But then she cracked it open and said, “Lily’s already eaten. She only likes a few foods right now.” Willow glanced away. “That’s part of her disorder. Some forms of autism have an obsessive component. For instance, she’ll like one food, one shirt, one pair of pajamas, and it’s a battle to get her to change. Today she dug in the dirt the whole time I weeded what’s left of my garden. That tired her out, so she ate, had her bath and crashed early. But I, um, suppose I can eat out here.” She glanced back when Coop said nothing. “Why the frown? Was the invitation only for the two of us?”