by Laura Drake
Char lifted an eyebrow. “I think you’re done already.”
Bella looked up and barked a surprised laugh. “You know, Charla Rae, you may be a little odd, but you’re okay.”
Char eyed Bella’s getup. I’m odd?
They threw away their trash and walked to the shopping carts. Bella was right about one thing. It would be easier to talk to someone who didn’t know the old Char—the little ranch wife who went about her charmed life, unaware that it could vaporize in a moment. She dropped her purse in her cart and turned to Bella. “Have you ever seen a working cattle ranch?”
“Hon, I’m from the Bronx.” Bella’s dark curls swung as she shook her head. “The only cow I’ve come close to came on a bun.”
JB set the glass of iced tea on the battered coffee table and sat, automatically avoiding the lump in his butt-sprung couch. He crossed his stocking feet next to the two-inch pile of bills on the table and balanced the laptop on his legs. The spreadsheet didn’t look any better than it had five minutes ago.
Might as well face facts. As crappy as this apartment was, he couldn’t afford it. The business couldn’t support two households. Not without more bulls.
Buckers that he didn’t have the cash to buy.
He glanced around the depressing, battle-scarred equivalent to a college dorm. He’d stayed when Jess moved out, not wanting the hassle of moving. That had been a mistake. Only the last in a long string of mistakes.
He could see now that Jess had just been a distraction. A Band-Aid, slapped on the shark-bite hole Benje’s loss had made in him. He was an idiot. It wasn’t bad enough that everyone in town knew it. But the truth was that a twenty-year-old coed figured it out before he had.
Jess had broken up with him. He snorted. She’d tried to let him down easy. There was apparently no limit to humiliation.
He remembered Char’s expression, when she’d thought he’d now taken up with Mitzi. The sour twist of distaste on her lips, the look in her eye—like he was a toothless bum, stumbling out of a Dumpster into her path.
Why is it I seem to spend my life disappointing the people who matter to me?
Char carefully placed the glass of water and a pill on the edge of the computer table. It would be her reward after finishing her last chore of the day. The padded office chair squeaked as she sank into it, the seat so worn it retained the imprint of Jimmy’s backside.
She felt bad, feeding her dad a quick dinner, dispensing his medicine, and hustling him off to bed. They’d fallen into the habit of spending evenings in the great room, her reading to him from a book by McMurtry, Zane Grey, or Elmer Kelton. Tonight, though, she was flat tuckered.
Yawning, she started the computer. Sleep wouldn’t come until she had some idea of their finances. One more job of Jimmy’s that had fallen to her the day she booted him off the property. How did he ever keep up with it all?
“Practice, I guess.” She muttered, staring at the login screen for their accounting software. Password? She tapped in the first number that occurred to her, the date of their anniversary. The program popped open to the business checking account. A single, sparkly bubble rose from the depth of her mind. “Nobody changes those things once they set them.” The bubble popped.
The balance wasn’t as bad as she feared or as good as she’d hoped. Char did the math. Even a high school kid wouldn’t work for what profit remained.
She visualized days like today, one after another, marching into the foreseeable future. The figures on the screen blurred. “I cannot do this. I’m not equipped to do this.” Hearing it aloud made it real. This was impossible.
She stripped off her reading glasses, put her head on the desk, and let the tears come. It wasn’t fair. Every woman she knew had time to go to the beauty shop, garden, read. She glanced at the clock on the screen. Here she was doing bookwork at midnight. Heck, even Bella Donovan had a husband to go home to.
Whoa up here, Charla Rae. The last thing she needed to add to this mess was another man. She’d barely survived the first one. Lifting her head, she grabbed a tissue and honked into it. “All right, dang it, this is the end of the pity party.” Sitting up straight, she put her glasses on and stared at the screen.
Short of going hungry or cutting off the heat, there was no way to reduce expenses in any way that mattered. That left only the other side of the equation. She opened her Internet browser.
The judge had offered her alimony in the divorce settlement, but the thought of standing with her hand out, waiting for Jimmy to dole out money, stuck in her craw. After what he’d done, she wanted him as far out of her life as possible.
Not long after their separation, she’d heard the rumors. Jimmy had taken up with a girl half his age. Char had even seen them together, eating lunch at the diner in town. Jimmy’d sworn the gossips had it wrong, that she was only a vet student he was mentoring. Char didn’t think anything of it because he’d done that before, helping college students gain experience while he got a cut rate on vet bills. But in the past the students had always been men.
Separated or not, she and Jimmy were still married in the eyes of God. Jimmy said he wasn’t dating the girl and she’d believed him. JB Denny didn’t lie.
Char put her elbows on the desk and dropped her hot cheeks in her hands. Her head couldn’t fathom it, but the brass-knuckled lies had battered that fact into her heart. This man wasn’t the one she’d married. That Jimmy Denny was as dead to her as her son.
Now Jimmy owned the bulls, and she owned the ranch. The judge finally ruled that any proceeds from the business would be considered a combination of alimony and lease payment for pastureland. Money Jimmy earned as announcer for the PBR, or any other job he took, was his.
A bolt of insight jarred her shell-shocked brain. What had really changed? She’d left the finances to Jimmy, same as she always had. He’d been keeping the books, tapping into the home computer from his laptop. She was still standing in front of Jimmy with her hand out.
“Jeez, Char. Where have you been all these months?” She shuddered. Nowhere she wanted to think about. Or go back to.
The revenue split sounded great in theory, yet with the increased expenses…
She cruised the Internet, pricing semen from other PBR bulls. This was the risky side of investment. A bull could be an amazing bucker but not pass that ability to the next generation. Proven sires were few and far between, and their semen straws fetched a pretty penny. Well, Mighty Mouse’s son had been a top futurity bull last year, and that should count for something. She checked out Yosemite Sam’s straw price. He’d retired a two-time Bull of the Year four years ago. The Mouse was his son, so… she compared the price of a straw of Mighty Mouse’s semen to the market. It was too low. She was sure of it.
Char went to their bucking bull website. How much should the price be? Too high, and she’d price herself out of the market. But if the price was too low, the buyer would assume that it wasn’t worth much. She learned, from sales at the mall, that you never wanted a sweater as badly as the one the woman next to you picked up.
She increased the price by twenty-five percent and took most of the inventory off the website. As she clicked “save,” she had a moment of self-doubt. Jimmy was going to throw a fit.
“Well, tough titty. He can throw his own pity party.” Char tossed the pill back and drained the glass. “The semen belongs to me.”
JB dropped the nurse’s resume on the kitchen table and looked around the apartment. If this was a normal day, he’d be out feeding cattle. Pulling the phone from the pocket of his shirt, he dialed Char’s cell.
It rang and rang. Before it switched to voice mail, he hit speed dial for the house.
“Denny Bucking Bulls.” She sounded out of breath, sharp, and professional. “Hello?”
“I tried your cell, but you left it plugged in the charger in the bathroom again, didn’t you?”
“Listen, Jimmy. If you’ve called to lecture me, you’ll have to call back later. I’ve got a milli
on things to do.” He heard the rustle as she moved the phone to the other shoulder. “No, Daddy, it’s not Junior, it’s JB.”
His ex-father-in-law’s gravel voice barked, “Hurry up and get home, son.” Char covered the mouthpiece.
JB closed his eyes and rubbed them. The old man’s voice took him back to the days when he’d call from the road after a long day. He’d stand in some diner somewhere, picturing the cozy kitchen, Ben helping Benje do homework at the table, Char cooking something on the stove. It had only been a year, but it seemed he lived in some alternate universe now.
The hitch in Little Bit’s voice told him she remembered too. “What do you need, Jimmy?”
“Char, let me bring the bulls home from the vet. You have a hard time driving the Peterbilt. Who’s going to spot for you?”
“Don’t you dare.” The steel was back in her voice. “I’ve got it under control. Don’t worry yourself about that.”
“But Char, you can’t—”
“Oh yes, I can. Just watch me.” Click.
JB hung up and leaned back in the chair, sipping coffee, trying to ignore the pang of nostalgia. He’d never had much family. After Gramps died his senior year, Grams went downhill, suffering a massive stroke less than a year later. He wouldn’t leave his dog in the nursing homes that would accept her Medicare. So he’d sold the farm, using the proceeds to place her in the best facility in three counties. Though he wasn’t sure she was aware of him, he’d visited her several times a week, on his way home from work.
Char’s family sustained him through those hard times. They took him in as their own, her mom having him over for dinner most nights. Char’s dad had quietly mentored him, teaching him something he’d shown a knack for: training young bulls.
Char had wanted to get married right after graduation, but JB wanted a nest egg first, to convince himself as well as her family that he could provide for her. He took on a second job, working at Junior’s feedlot. He hadn’t slept much, but he was young and proud to be building for their future.
When Grams passed away two years after the stroke, there wasn’t a lot of money left, but he’d added his savings to it and went to Ben, asking for two things: his daughter’s hand in marriage and a partnership in the business.
Now Char’s friends acted like he was diseased, crossing the street to avoid him. He’d lost his son. His actions afterward cost him the only family he had left.
He stared at the apartment furnishings: the butt-sprung sofa, scarred coffee table, and two-by-four-and-cinder-block bookshelves. He took up most of the tiny kitchen, leaving scant room for the two-person table. Now he couldn’t even afford this.
He stood and dumped the rest of his coffee in the sink. Crap, I haven’t moved on. I regressed. No real home, and for the first time in twenty years, I’m out of a full-time job. He rinsed the cup and set it on the drain board.
The expenses would pile up even quicker now. He had to find something else. Maybe Junior would give him his old job at the feedlot. He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.
CHAPTER
6
Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: “What! You, too? Thought I was the only one.”
—C. S. Lewis
Char practically threw the enchiladas in the oven. Grabbing a dust rag from under the sink, she listened to the clock in her head tick the seconds away.
The chores outside had taken longer than she’d planned. A cow had calved, and she had to saddle Pork Chop and herd the pair to the adjacent pasture, to keep the valuable calf from getting trampled in the crowd. She longed for the spare cash to buy a four-wheeler. It would be faster, and less… intimidating.
Now she smelled like a horse, the house wasn’t fit for company, and she was afraid to even peek in a mirror. Maybe just a half a pill. That’s all I need. She hurried to the living room to get away from the orange plastic bottle on the sill.
She viewed the room with an outsider’s eye as she snapped the rag over the furniture. Her gaze was drawn to the window and Mother’s drab brown damask curtains. Ice trickled into her stomach and formed at the edges, like a pond in winter. They still need to be replaced. She saw herself pulling them down, the sewing machine perched on the coffee table. Her brain cut the memory midscene, like an old projector when the film strip snapped in two. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, to warm the block of ice there. Her eyes skittered away.
Was that a cobweb in the corner? She snatched a vase of dead flowers from the table in front of the window. She trotted to the kitchen, threw the flowers in the trash, dropped the vase in the dishwasher, then sprinted to the bedroom.
Standing in front of the closet after a spit bath and a gruesome encounter with the mirror, she chose an oversize button-down poplin shirt with pastel flowers that matched the periwinkle shell she tucked into her jeans.
Junior had picked her father up early this morning for a trip to Luckenbach, to look at a lot of cattle for an upcoming auction. They wouldn’t return for hours.
When the oven buzzer went off, she jogged to the kitchen. She tossed on her apron and used the oven mitts to remove the bubbling dish, setting it on her mother’s iron trivets.
The doorbell rang.
“Dang.” She remembered that cobweb in the living room as she bustled to the front door. She unlocked it and pulled. Nothing. Using both hands, she braced a foot against the jam and tugged. The door didn’t budge. It had swelled shut with the humidity… again. Jimmy never had taken the time to fix it.
She shouted through the door, “Bella, come around back.” On her way through the kitchen, she straightened a placemat on the dining room table.
Out of breath, she opened the back door. Bella stood on the back stoop in what Char supposed was, for her, casual clothes. Skintight jeans tucked into black stiletto boots, a fitted black suede vest with gold studs over a frilly plunging blouse with puffy sleeves.
She’d taken it easy on the makeup today as well. With an understated glossy lipstick and natural-toned eye shadow, her skin appeared delicate porcelain rather than a pallid death mask. The black riot of curls still overwhelmed her small, pointed face, but the huge gold hoop gypsy earrings were the right touch: exotic-foreign rather than Night of the Living Dead foreign.
“Well, do I pass inspection? Or do I need a password?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” Char flushed to the roots of her hair. “Come in!” She led her through the mudroom into the kitchen. “Please excuse my messy house. I’ve been in the pasture all morning, and I didn’t get the chance to… what?”
Bella stood in the middle of the kitchen, sniffing and looking around. “You’re kidding, right?” She surveyed Char from head to foot.
Char frowned and cocked her head.
“I didn’t know anyone still wore an apron. And what is that heavenly smell?”
“Enchiladas.” Char looked at the frilly gingham that had been her mother’s favorite. “What’s wrong with an apron? It keeps my clothes clean.”
Bella inspected the flowered placemats and dark green ceramic plates. “You set a mean table, East Texas. Show me the rest of the house?”
“Sure.” Char led the way through the living room with pine floors, comfortable overstuffed couches, and rag rugs she’d braided herself. The oversized stone fireplace took up one wall. The tall hearth with tapestry cushions made a great place to enjoy a fire on cold winter days. She hoped the cobweb would go unnoticed.
As they retraced their steps, Bella lingered at the family photos in what Char had always called the Rogue’s Gallery to tease her mother. “Six generations of Enwrights. A bit much, huh?”
Bella squinted at a hundred-year-old studio photo of a unsmiling couple, the woman seated, man standing behind her, hand on his pistol. “This guy looks like a bandit.”
Char chuckled. “Rumor is that Great-Great Uncle Pete was a horse thief.”
“Oh, cool.” Bella face
d her with a smile. “My uncle was in the mob.”
Char gulped. “Yes. Well…” She moved on to the office, Daddy’s bedroom, and the master bedroom, before leading Bella back to the kitchen, turning her head from the last closed door in the hall.
Bella pulled one of the barstools from under the kitchen counter and sat, while Char heated oil in a small cast iron frying pan to heat the tortillas.
“This is a great house, Char.” She dipped a black corn chip in the homemade salsa Char pushed across the counter.
“Thanks, but I can’t take the credit. I grew up in this house. Mom did most of the decorating.”
“Where is your mom?” Bella said around a mouthful of chip.
Char snagged a tortilla with her tongs and dropped it in the hot oil. “She died a year after Jimmy and I married. We were living in an apartment on the other side of town. Daddy hated living alone and asked us to move in within a couple of months.”
“Did that seem weird to you?”
Remembering, Char absently flipped the tortilla, watching to be sure it didn’t spatter. “It was a mixed blessing. On one hand, it made me miss my mom more. I felt for the longest time that I’d turn a corner and see her. Especially here, in the kitchen.
“On the other hand, I was glad to come home. It was fun, in the beginning, setting up a new home for Jimmy and me at the apartment. But after a while, it was hard to find enough to fill my days.”
“You didn’t work?’ Bella looked at her like an entomologist studies a new species of bug. “Damn, I thought June Cleaver died. Or at least retired.”
“Why is it, in this modern age, when women are free to choose any career, I get grief for wanting to be a housewife?” Char bit back an apology for her snippy tone and dropped another warm tortilla to the pile in the ceramic container and replaced the lid.
