by Laura Drake
Jimmy had even bought her a horse as a Christmas present a few years ago, figuring the petite palomino would help her get over her aversion. Char had gotten on Buttermilk a few times, but her house chores and Benje had come first, so her mare mostly languished in the pasture, getting fat. That blond head was the first through the fence to grab the oats, and Char slapped a hackamore on before she could bolt. “Come on, Pork Chop, we’re on a mission.” Jimmy’s nickname had stuck to the rotund, pint-size mare.
Char cross-tied her horse in the barn aisle, gave her a quick brush, picked out her hooves, then went in search of her saddle. She found it, in a dark corner of the tack room, dusty as an antique in the back of a curio shop. One more thing to put on the list of things to be done, a list that would surely be as long as her arm by now, if only she had time to write it down.
“Oomph.” Dang, why did these things have to be so heavy? Her arms shook, holding Western saddle high enough that the stirrups wouldn’t drag in the dirt. It took her two tries to throw it over Pork Chop’s broad back.
“Now, you’re going to be a lady, right?” Char lectured while tying the cinch. “Ladies have good manners, mince their steps, and never, ever run.”
The horse’s ears pricked when Char unsnapped the tethers. “There’s a sweet girl. You and I are going to get on famously, I have no doubt.” None she wanted to express, anyway.
Char squashed the bugs flying around in her stomach, gathered the reins, and put her foot in the stirrup. The palomino sidestepped, swinging her hips away. Char took a startled hop, clutching the saddle like a lifeline. The mare stepped away again. Char hopped after her until she could wrestle her boot out of the stirrup. They now faced the back of the barn. Char put a hand to her chest to slow her galloping heart. If something bad happened, there’d be no one looking for her for hours. Visions of being dragged through the brush, one foot caught in the stirrup, did nothing good for her courage quotient.
I could call over to the Sweeneys’. They said if I needed anything… She imagined word getting around town, people tsking and shaking their heads. Poor Charla Rae. The banked fire flared.
“Now listen, you.” She grabbed both sides of the hackamore, pulling the mare’s face to hers. “I don’t want to do this either. But it has to be done, and by God we’re going to do it, if I have to drag your fat butt at the end of the reins the whole way.” She tugged the mare by the head to stand alongside the stalls and, gathering the reins once more, crammed her foot in the stirrup and swung aboard before the nag could escape.
“Now move, Pork Chop.” After a not-so-gentle nudge in the ribs, the mare clopped out of the barn. Char neck-reined her to the right at the bottom of the driveway, and they ambled along the side of the road.
A breeze brushed Char’s face, bringing a rich scent of tilled earth from the field across the road. She closed her eyes and breathed deep the pungent perfume. “Now, this isn’t so bad.” The horse’s ears swiveled, listening. The rhythmic clopping lulled Char’s tense muscles. She’d forgotten how much you could see from horseback. The gentle hills dressed in early spring green, dotted with towering oaks, rolled away. Looking down, she spotted her first bluebonnet of the year, bravely flowering all alone at the fence line. Her mouth twisted. That counselor was right about one thing. Life does go on. Whether you want it to or not.
Before she’d gotten pregnant with Benje, Jimmy would push her to ride the herd with him as the sun went down. She sighed. Those days seemed a different lifetime now. The sun on her body melted the tautness, freeing some unnamed emotion to well in her, rising painful and glorious. A single tear spilled over, running to her smile.
The horse’s head came up and her ears pricked. Tricks stood in the bar ditch, not fifty yards ahead, making good inroads into the deep grass.
“Yippie ki-yay, Pork Chop.” Char nudged the mare to a faster walk. Tricks eyed them warily when they ambled past, ignoring her. Once by, Char reined the horse around. Pork Chop snapped from somnolence. Char felt muscles cord under her. The mare strained at the bit, taking mincing steps. “Easy now.” Char tightened the reins, alarmed at her lazy horse turned charger.
Tricks took one look at them and bolted straight across the road. Pork Chop galloped after her. Char panicked, lost a stirrup, and grabbed for the horn, sawing at the reins with the other hand. She whipped her head in both directions. The road lay blessedly empty.
Tricks turned left, away from the ranch. Ears laid back, Pork Chop gained on the lumbering mama cow. Char, a frightened, flopping observer, clung to the horn with both hands, scrabbling for her lost stirrup, heart beating in her ears louder than the horse’s hooves.
Pork Chop galloped alongside the straining cow and, leaning in, turned her neatly toward the ranch. About the time Char gained her stirrup and gathered the reins, the cow gave up and dropped to a walk, sides heaving. In the onslaught of adrenaline pouring into her bloodstream, Char’s giddyup got up and went. Her mount slowed, and within a few steps morphed once more to her pudgy, staid horse. “Wow, Pork Chop, who knew?” Char relaxed a bit but kept a tight hold on the reins and the saddle horn, just in case.
When the ranch drive came up on their left, Char touched her heels to the horse’s sides and Pork Chop broke into a trot. Char actually helped this time, reining the horse to show her where to lead the now-docile cow. They clattered once more across the road and up the drive. Tricks’s ears perked when she spied her compatriots in the field, and she trotted to the gate as if she’d been lost all this time, trying to find her way home.
Char reined the horse to the gate, leaned over, and opened it. Tricks sauntered in with a swish of her tail, ignoring the peon who held the door for her regal highness. Char shook her head. Another hour gone, and not one chore on her list checked off.
“Why couldn’t we have owned a hardware store, where the inventory sits on a shelf, not running around trying to commit suicide?” She checked twice to be sure the gate latched.
Reins tight, in case the palomino got a mind to wander, Char kicked her feet out of the stirrups and slid from the saddle. As her feet hit the ground, the long muscle in the right thigh seized, a bolus of agony shooting to her groin.
“Arrrghh!” She clung to the saddle, frozen, until the knot loosened. She waited another few minutes to be sure it was gone. Running a light hand down her thigh, she assessed the damage. It felt like a half-thawed chicken: nasty mushy on top, rock hard underneath.
She leaned her forehead against the saddle, kneading her thigh, the fear of another cramp all that kept her from running to the cocoon of her kitchen and the little orange bottle that called to her.
Scenes of what could have been flashed in her mind: a car on the road, Pork Chop slipping on the pavement and going down, Tricks going into labor from all the running. Char raised her head and pushed herself upright. “Thank you, Lord for watching over this poor fool.”
A docile Pork Chop followed as Char limped to the barn.
Jimmy would never believe she’d attempt this, let alone get it done. She patted the blond mane bobbing beside her. “Stallions. We don’t need them, do we girl?”
JB smacked a palm to his head and reached for the cell phone in his breast pocket. He hit speed dial, ignoring Wylie’s raised eyebrows across a table littered with dirty breakfast dishes. JB put a finger in his other ear to block the babble from the busy restaurant. “Come on, somebody answer.”
“Junior’s Feed & Seed,” the Yank-slang voice barked.
“This is JB Denny. You’ve got a pallet of feed on the dock for me. Can I get it delivered?” He checked his watch. “Today?”
“No.”
“Oh, hell. Come on, New York. Help me out here.”
“What kinda man leaves his wife alone, no help, no feed?”
Too late. JB felt the back of his neck heat. How could he have forgotten? Busy with recriminations, his automatic answer of the past months slipped out. “Not my wife any longer.”
“Oh. Well then, why didn’t
you say so?” Click.
The heat spread up his neck. He deserved that. “Shit.” He flipped the phone closed.
“You ready to talk about it, JB?” Wylie shot a knowing look over his coffee cup.
“Nope.” He took a mouthful of coffee, more to have something to do than for the caffeine.
Wylie seemed to consider his words before he spoke. “Look. Everybody knows what happened. On the outside.” His friend leaned in. “But I’ve known you for ten years. Leaving his wife, then messing around on her, is not something the JB Denny I know would do.” Wylie’s eyes bored into his. “Either I don’t know you as well as I thought, or there’s more to this story. So I’m asking you: Are you ready to talk about it?”
JB remembered the warm nights, moonlight turning the room into a stark negative photo. The two of them lying in bed, neither sleeping, but pretending to, the long white strip of sheet between them an impenetrable wall. JB knew, because he’d beaten himself bloody against it so many nights. There’s more than one way to leave a marriage.
“Nope.” JB put his cup down and grabbed his hat. “But thanks.”
Later that afternoon, JB shot the last bolt to the trailer and turned to sign the release form held by a coliseum employee. He patted the side of the trailer on his way to the cab. His bulls had brought the goods this weekend. Even the youngsters bucked well.
Futurity events gave stock contractors the chance to see how their youngsters compared to the competition by attempting to buck a small robot off their backs. A bull might be born to buck, but they all needed training. These competitions also helped them get used to traveling, disruption of their routines, and crowd noise.
JB reached for the door handle of the cab, his glance falling to the stickered logo on the door. He could still see the shadow of “& Son” in an outline of glue between “Denny” and “Bucking Bulls.” He tried to ignore the surgical stab of guilt between his ribs and climbed up into the rumbling cab, then cranked the A/C and put the truck in gear. The adrenaline of the event had burned off, leaving the dregs of exhaustion pulling at the last of his energy. He wasn’t sleeping well.
It was always the same dream. It started out good, in the beginning. He’d actually put the chores off and built Benje the tree fort he’d pestered for. He let the boy help, and the memory of his earnest face, red hair falling in his eyes, tongue caught in his teeth as he pounded a nail tightened JB’s chest. Then the dream spiraled into the nightmare of reality. It had been a day like many before it but none after. He’d been in the barn, repairing tack, when he’d heard her scream. He knew then. Not what had happened, but that life had just irreparably been altered.
It was his job to keep his family safe—to keep the wolf from the door. The lancet of blame cut deeper. While he’d been on guard at the front, that goddamn wolf snuck in the back, stealing his most precious possession.
He pressed on the gas and headed for whatever awaited at home.
CHAPTER
5
If we could sell our experiences for what they cost us, we’d all be millionaires.
—Abigail Van Buren
Charla leaned on the shopping cart, hobbling a bit as she cruised the cereal aisle. Her groin muscles protested. Pork Chop’s wide back had pushed them past their limit, and now she couldn’t quite hold her legs together. She’d almost skipped Walmart this afternoon, but she was out of everything. Her lower back gave an alarming tweak, threatening spasm. She stopped in the main aisle, straightened, and put a fist to the muscles of her lower back.
Delighted laughter came from behind. Though carefree was a distant memory for Charla, happiness was still an irresistible force. She turned.
The blonde she’d last seen perched on the seat of Jimmy’s truck stood laughing, hanging on the considerable bicep of a young man in a T-shirt and cowboy hat. Their faces glowed with enchantment for each other. They stood in the center of the aisle, oblivious to the shoppers who veered around them.
She knew that feeling. Char hurtled back in time, to when she and Jimmy had existed in a shiny bubble of new love and the rest of the world seemed separate, extraneous. Her hand stole to her chest, to rub the ache that spread like a bruise.
There was no way a woman could feel like that with more than one man at a time.
Jimmy had told the truth. This time.
Guilt-tipped talons pinched her heart.
She turned away, pushing her cart into the next aisle. Dropping a box of generic shredded wheat into the basket, Char punched the price into her calculator. The cookie aisle was out. She still had to buy her father’s prescription, and she was not putting all this on a credit card. Especially since she hadn’t yet checked out the business finances.
Scanning the boxes of cereal, her gaze snagged on Benje’s favorite brand. Her fingers tightened on the cart handle. How dare it still be here when he wasn’t?
She’d gotten pretty good at steeling herself against these little jabs to the heart, small wounds that drained her if she didn’t avoid minefields like the toy section or the kid’s clothing department. But how do you shield your heart from Count Chocula? Her finger traced the cartoon vampire on the box, then she made herself move on. If someone found her sobbing over a box of cereal, they’d probably haul her away. Cleanup on aisle six! Lord, she wanted a pill so badly her skin crawled. Surely she’d earned it today.
After chasing down that fool cow, she’d put out hay. Jimmy always made it look easy, manhandling the bales. Lifting her palm, she tested a blister she’d gotten in spite of the gloves. Char had discovered that in a wrestling match with a hundred-pound bale against her one-twenty, she could hold her own—barely. Sighing, she dropped her hands back to the cart handle and pushed. Standing here licking her wounds wasn’t getting it done.
She took a left at the end of the aisle while checking out the line at the prescription counter. Krssh! The impact of the cart collision traveled up her forearms. “Oh, I’m sor—” Bella Donovan looked as startled as Char felt. A hopeful look flashed across Bella’s face before the usual mask of jaded indifference fell.
That quick glimpse was the last push Char needed. “Bella! I’ve been thinking about you.” Char glanced down at her cart, noting it held nothing that wouldn’t stand a ten-minute break. “Do you have time for that cup of coffee?”
The woman looked down her sharp nose and snorted. “Here?’
Bella’s outfit today was as unfortunate as yesterday’s—white fringed boots, a white lacy cowgirl hat, and, in between, a micro denim skirt and a long-sleeved leopard leotard with a plummeting neckline.
“Hey, if you can drink Junior’s sludge, Walmart coffee should be ambrosia. I’m buying.”
“Oh, all right,” Bella said with wary look. “But I’ve only got a few minutes.” She did an about-face and led the way to the fast food area.
Char couldn’t look away from Bella’s heart-shape rear. At least she has the body to carry off the getups she wears.
They parked their partially loaded baskets in the Kart Korral, with its ridiculous Western theme, and were served coffee in Styrofoam cups with running horses on the sides. A small, guilty part of her made Char sit with her back to the store. She hated to give the local women any more fat to chew on. Bella slid her long legs into the other side of the orange plastic booth.
Now that she was here, Char didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t imagined this scene that far ahead. “Well. How do you like our little town so far?”
“I think the place needs a good mechanic.”
Char cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“I have to think the Welcome Wagon is just busted. I’ve lived here three months, and you’re the first woman I’ve had a halfway friendly conversation with.”
Bella wasn’t quite wrong about the women in town. Char felt her face flush. “Where did you live before?”
“New York.” Bella rolled heavily mascaraed eyes. “I know, the accent is subtle.” She smiled, taking the sting out of the wor
ds. “Russ got transferred down here, and he’s traveling a lot.”
She must have seen surprise on Char’s face. Bella reached up and tugged on a gold chain around her neck. A diamond wedding band strung at the end of it popped out of the band of spandex. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m the whore home-wrecker all you ladies are afraid of. I overheard all the gossip from under the dryer at Macie’s Clip ’n Curl.
“I guess you’re not afraid to talk to me because you have no man for me to steal, right?”
Char’s hand jerked, and coffee slopped onto the table. She jumped up. “Now, that was mean, Bella Donovan.” She grabbed napkins with one hand to mop up the mess, reaching for her purse with the other. “I can vouch for almost every person in this town, and for the most part, they’re good, honest people.” As she glared across the table, her groping hand finally found the strap of her purse on the back of the chair, and she tugged it over her shoulder. “And I’m the woman who was trying to have a friendly conversation with you.”
“Don’t get your thong in a twist, East Texas. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Char finished mopping up the mess and shoved the sodden napkins in the cup.
Bella sat back. “Look, I’m sorry to take it out on you. I have a feeling that you can relate to how it feels to be the source of gossip.” She stood and put her hand on Char’s arm, stopping her. “And I’m sorry for your boy too, Char.”
There was no pity in Bella’s gaze. Concern, yes, and regret. But no pity. Maybe Bella had a point. Maybe they did have something in common, after all. The anger receded as quickly as it had advanced. Char sniffed. “I accept your apology.”
Bella’s dark, canny eyes searched hers. “You know, Char, sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you didn’t get sand in your diaper with in the neighborhood park.” Bella reached for her purse. “I have to get going too. Russ is coming home tonight for the first time in three weeks, and I have to get sexy for him.” She wriggled, tugging the hem of her skirt down.
