by Laura Drake
JB passed the biscuits to Dana. “He may need to do some growing into that name. Where did you come up with it?”
“Dana’s family name is Lamont. We named him after her side.” Monty decided he did like the mush his dad put in his mouth and smacked his fat hands on the high chair, demanding more. Dana set Wiley’s plate at his elbow.
JB took a spoonful of stew. He’d been expecting beef, but the heavy, rich taste of goat filled his mouth instead. “This is wonderful.” The stew tasted spicy and exotic. “The goat I’ve had in the past was kind of tough and didn’t have much flavor.”
Wiley looked up from the baby. “That’s because you haven’t eaten my goats before, bubba. I raise them on corn; that’s the difference.”
Monty took advantage of his father’s inattention and slapped his hand in the baby food bowl, upending it and spattering squash-colored mush on the table, himself, and Wiley.
At Wiley’s horrified look, Monty broke into a gale of giggles. Dana joined in the laugh at Wiley’s expense.
Wiley mopped the baby’s face. “Oh, little man, little man, what to do with you?”
JB now understood the roll of paper towels perched on the end of the table.
Dana pulled off several sheets, walked behind the baby, and began the cleanup. Dana knelt beside Wiley’s chair. “Now you.” She caught his chin in her hand and pulled his head around. She studied his face, then swiped at a few spatters. “You’re good.”
She was halfway to her feet when Wiley hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. “Only good, am I?” He leaned her back over his arm. “I’ll show you good.” He growled and lowered his head to kiss her. Her arms came around his neck as she opened to him.
JB knew they had forgotten they weren’t alone. Want fired in his chest. Not lust, but an aching, empty want. Everything JB had lost lay before him: a warm kitchen, a good meal, a tight family. Memories superimposed over his vision. This could have been Char and him, back when Benje was a baby.
After the wave-break of memory, the emotions crashed: the smug satisfaction with life, pride in his home and family, the peace that came from reaching his dreams. As he watched the baby, the wanting tightened his chest until only shallow breaths could fit around it. Benje’s coloring was lighter, and he was longer, less chubby. But the goofy all-in grin was the same. JB’s vision blurred. He blinked to clear it.
Monty, suddenly realizing a target was within reach, twined his fingers in Dana’s short hair and pulled. “Unnngh!” Dana broke the kiss, laughing. “Ow, Monty, stop!” Wiley pulled the baby’s hands away, laughing down into her face.
They both looked up, across the table at JB. Had he made a noise? Must have. Mortification spread heat to his face. He ducked his head to wipe his mouth, then scooted his chair back and stood. “I’m going to get after the rest of those boxes in the truck.”
Dana’s brow took on a mother’s concerned furrow. “You don’t want more dinner, JB? You hardly ate.” She stood.
“No, ma’am, thank you. The dinner was great.”
Wiley’s face flashed a mixture of guilt and pity. When Dana would have taken a step toward JB, he caught her hand, twining his fingers in hers. “We’ll be right here, JB.”
He cleared his throat, spun on his heel, and escaped.
It was full dark by the time JB carried in the last of his stuff. He dropped the box and locked the door behind him. In the silence of the kitchen, he could hear the tick of the clock on the mantel in the living room. The Galts had retired early to the bedrooms at the rear of the house. JB hefted his burden one last time and walked to his room, hearing the lilt of a muffled radio and a low chuckle from the hallway he passed.
He stepped down onto the porch, stacked the box on top of the pile sprawling over half the room, and closed the door to the house. He stretched, vertebrae popping. Bugs ticked on the screens, trying to reach the small yellow light of the Tinkerbell lamp on a box at the head of his bed.
God, he was tired. He sat on the edge of the bed and worked at pulling his boots off. This was not the kind of tired that a night’s sleep could fix. It felt more like a lead blanket of weariness weighted his soul.
Work. The first order of business tomorrow would be to stop by the feedlot and see if Junior was still willing to take him back. He couldn’t even afford pride lately. He shucked out of his shirt and jeans, laying them on the plastic chair. Twenty-one years of work, and all he had to show was a porch full of boxes and a championship belt buckle.
He clicked off the light, shoved the blanket to the end of the bed, and crawled under the sheet. A metal bar under the mattress pressed into his back. He stretched his arm up to rest his head on it.
The night poured through the black screens, reclaiming its rightful territory. Homing beacon gone, the bugs stopped worrying the screen, and crickets in the yard tuned up a night song.
The fresh smell of damp grass in the dark reminded him of walking with Charla the other night. They hadn’t spoken, just walked along together. Charla had never felt the need to fill up a pretty moment with words; it was one of the things that had drawn him to her, way back in high school. She wasn’t one of those chatty, giggly girls; if Charla spoke, it was because she had something to say.
He’d almost forgotten how rare and wonderful they’d been together. Or maybe his own guilt made him shove it all to the back of his mind, so he could live with himself.
JB stared into the dark, his thoughts a projection screen for his memories. Char, dressed prim and proper for church after a night of hot loving. Mighty Mouse, bucking hard, tossed a rider over his head. His gut twisted. Benje. Sun glinting off his copper hair, squinted up at him, hero worship clear as the freckles on his nose.
He whispered to the dark, “Lord, I know you don’t throw more at a person than they can bear, but you do get close to the line sometimes.”
JB knew from experience that when he got a headache from ramming his head into a problem, it was because he’d stopped listening. As he rolled to his side, the support bar dug into his ribs. “You got my attention, Lord. I’m all ears.”
No reply.
The cricket concert slowly released the day’s tension from his body, but sleep didn’t come as easily.
Bella cleared her throat. “I just stumbled across it online.”
“Don’t you hate how you can’t surf the web nowadays without hitting pop-up ads for bull trainers?” Char chuckled. “It’s okay, Bella. I’m not going to call New York and tell them you’ve taken an interest in ranching.”
“Look, do you want it, or do I chuck it?”
“Oh no, I want it. I appreciate you thinking about me.” Char jotted the number on the pad at her elbow and hung up. Clever Bella. It would have never occurred to Char to search online for a trainer.
It felt so darned good to take her life in her own hands and do something instead of cowering, waiting for the next disaster to hit. Maybe I’m finally beating my way out of the weeds and onto the road to recovery that the grief counselor talked about. She hadn’t had a pill in four weeks, two days, twelve hours. The chores, formerly an unending series of pratfalls, were becoming routine. The cattle were fat and sleek, grazing on the spring grass.
Thank you, Great-Grandma. The china had sold for more than she’d dreamed. She’d banked enough money to fund a trainer for a year, at least. Char glanced to the china hutch, filled now with her mother’s colorful collection of floral patterns. Smiling, she whispered, “Good to have you back in the kitchen, Mom.”
She ripped the trainer’s number off the pad. There was more than one bull trainer in Texas. She tucked the scrap of paper in the back pocket of her jeans as she walked to the living room.
Her dad napped in the rocker, and Rosa stood at the sliding back door, speaking into her cell phone. “I’d say it’s going very well. His condition is advancing, of course, but he’s adapting and seems calmer.” She turned and started, seeing Char. “I have to go now. I’ll call you later with a full progress report,
all right?” She snapped the phone closed and slid it into her pocket. “That was a relative, calling about another patient.” Still watching Char, she reached for her purse, perched on the edge of the table. The back of her hand hit it, knocking it to the floor. She grumbled and bent to retrieve the scattered contents.
“Rosa, you’re allowed to get a phone call now and again. Don’t worry about it.” Char knelt beside the rocker. “Daddy? Rosa’s leaving. Do you want to say good-bye?” As she rubbed his forearm, he jerked awake.
“Wha?” He frowned down at her. “Peggy. Did you get the liniment from Junior’s?”
Her heart gave a painful pinch. He’d mistaken her for her mother. Would she ever get used to this?
Rosa touched her shoulder. “This disease can be harder on the caregiver than the patient. You should try to get away sometime, Charla. Take a vacation.”
Yeah, maybe the family villa in the South of France…
“You are my vacation, Rosa. I’m so grateful that you ran into Rev. Mike that day.”
“Lot Number twenty-three: sold, to bidder number five forty-six.”
JB tuned out the auctioneer’s drone. He should load the calves he’d bought and hit the road. It was an hour and a half ride from Austin back home. But it felt good to relax in the anonymity of a crowd of strangers. No frowns aimed his way, no behind-the-hand whispers.
As the stands cleared, he put a boot on the riser in front of him, rested his arm on his knee, and watched the workers prep the ring for the next lot.
When he’d shown up for work at the feedlot on Monday, Junior had seemed relieved. And he must have at least partially forgiven JB, because buying calves beat shoveling shit any day.
He had a job now. That was one problem off the plate. As to the rest—
“ ’Scuse me.”
A big man slid into the open seat next to JB. A light gray Stetson covered black hair, cut short, and there was a bronze cast to his high cheekbones.
Some Indian blood there, I’ll warrant. Whipcord tough, weather-beaten, and tired, he looked like the Marlboro Man, from those cigarette commercials in the sixties. JB touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy.”
The man nodded, studying the auction catalog in front of him. “Is the Kobe lot next?”
“Not sure. I’m done buyin’.” He stuck out a hand. “JB Denny.”
The man’s grip was as hard as his face. “Max Jameson, High Heather Ranch.”
“Well, you sure aren’t from around here. Nothin’s ‘high’ in East Texas.”
“My ranch is outside Steamboat. Colorado.”
JB whistled softly through his teeth. “A long way to come, for a cattle auction.”
The man watched the activity in the ring, rolling the catalog in his hands. “I came to check out the Kobe calves. I’m thinking about running them on my place. Price is three times my steers, and they dress out heavier.”
JB snorted. “No offense, but you don’t look like the type to be massaging cow flesh.” Kobe beef come from a genetic strain in Japan, where ten head was considered a large herd, due to the labor involved in raising them. “Ranchers” brushed their cattle and massaged sake into their coats. He’d heard a real Kobe steak was worth every penny of the two-hundred-dollar price tag.
Not that he’d ever eaten any. He even couldn’t afford to pay attention, lately.
“I misspoke. I’m looking to run Kobe-style beef.” Max let out a dry cough that might have been a chuckle—except he didn’t look happy. “Anything gets massaged on my spread, it’s gonna be me.”
“I hear that.”
He turned. “How’s the beef business in Texas?”
Seeing Max’s expression, JB realized he wouldn’t want to be the one who put that pissed look there. “I manage a feedlot, part-time. The owner doesn’t look like he’s going hungry.” The man would have no way of knowing what an understatement that was.
“Well, I’ll tell you, no ranchers are fat and happy where I come from.” Max swore under his breath. “That’s reserved for the rich tourists and ski-resort owners, who can afford it.”
“I read that y’all are having a time of it. Property taxes killing you?”
“Between that, the beef prices, and the BLM threatening to shut down grazing on Federal land, my damn ranch is close to failing.”
JB grimaced. “Shoot I got you beat—my whole damn life is failing.”
“Tell me about it.” Max stared at the arena that JB was sure he didn’t see. “My girl just left me for the rancher down the road who’s in bed with the developers.” His lip curled, but it looked more like a wolf’s leer than a smile.
“That’s going to make for a crowded honeymoon,” JB said, then immediately regretted, as Max’s glare smoked a hole in him.
Wrong move. JB straightened, lightly fisting his hands.
Max studied him for a long few seconds. Then he chuckled, and held out his fist for a knuckle-bump. “I like you.”
Glad not to be feeling those hard knuckles anywhere else on his body, JB bumped. “Once this lot is done, you want to grab a cup of coffee? I’d like to hear more about your spread.”
Dinner over and the kitchen cleaned, Char and her dad sat on the couch before a crackling fire. She closed the McMurtry novel she’d been reading aloud. Usually the solitary, windswept descriptions of the Old West transported her, but tonight they left her restless and melancholy. “How about some hot chocolate, Daddy?” Uncurling her legs from beneath her, she looked over at her father.
He stared into the fire, silent tears glistening down the long furrows bracketing his mouth to his chin.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” The ravaged desolation in his eyes sent alarm racing down her nerves.
“I miss them, Little Bit.”
“Who, Daddy?” She took his hand, running her thumb over the parchment-thin skin.
“Your mother. Benje. JB.”
A startled sob burst from her. They hadn’t talked about it, any of it. Ever. Her dad was a private man about his emotions. She didn’t know if his silence was due to reticence, or if he’d lost those memories. For his sake, she’d wished the latter.
The naked pain on his face tore something open in her, something hot and festering.
Of course she’d cried when they’d lost Benje. Isolated in a bell jar of agony, she’d done nothing else for weeks afterward. But when the raging emotions finally ebbed, they left behind a desiccated husk. On the day Jimmy left, there wasn’t enough moisture left for tears.
“Why did everyone leave, Charla Rae?”
Hot, acid tears flooded her as she choked out, “I don’t know, Daddy. I wish I did.”
Her father’s arms came around her, and she fell into his chest, sobbing. The trauma from the last maelstrom of grief left scars. At the deepest part of her, Char lived in dread that another bout would shatter her so completely that the pieces would scatter, impossible to gather. Instead of a tornado, this felt like a soaking spring rain. Cradled in the safety of her daddy’s arms, his chin on her head, they rocked together and let the tears have their way.
CHAPTER
12
Mistakes are a part of being human. Appreciate your mistakes for what they are: precious life lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it’s a fatal mistake, which, at least, others can learn from.
—Al Franken
The office chair creaked when Char stretched, yawning. This morning she felt lighter, as if last night had washed something poisonous out of her system. She’d fallen into bed and slept like a child, sweet dreams and all.
Staring through the office window at the sun-baked yard, she longed to saddle Pork Chop and ride out to check on the calves in the nursery pasture. Instead, she swiveled toward the desk, whistling softly. The last office chore lay before her: the bull trainer’s resume. Once Bella had given her the idea, she did a thorough online search. Every trainer she’d called was contracted elsewhere. The one who agreed to talk to her quoted a rate twice the one Bella had
given her.
Reaching for the phone, she hesitated. Maybe I’ll check email first. Her fingers flew as she signed on to the Internet. No mail. Maybe one game of solitaire.
Dang it, why the procrastination? The answer popped to the front of her brain. The past months had been brutal. Life was just now feeing safe again, as if she’d spun a soft cocoon around the ranch and snuggled in. Bringing an outsider here would change that.
You sure you don’t feel a little bit bad about cutting Jimmy out, Charla Rae?
She sighed. Yeah, Mom, maybe just a little.
Her old life now seemed a happy dream. She hadn’t realized how much easier Jimmy had made her life. She’d taken it for granted. And lately he had been awfully sweet to her. He was trying, that much was plain. But then she remembered Jess and bitter poured over the sweet, smothering it. Jimmy sure hadn’t looked back. Darned if she would. Reading the phone number at the top of the sheet in front of her, she dialed.
“Yeah.” The smoke-rough voice at the other end of the phone sounded annoyed.
“Red Gandy?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Gandy, my name is Charla Denny, of Denny Bucking Bulls. You sent me your resume?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, well, I was reviewing it. You’re obviously experienced. Seven ranches over the past ten years. I recognize several breeders’ names. I was wondering if you could send me a list of references?”
“Yeah. I’ll email ’em to you.”
“Providing they are in order, would you be willing to come out for an interview?”
“Sure. But if your husband likes me, will he make a decision that day? Laredo to Fredericksburg is a long way to drive for an interview.”
She should have anticipated that. But she hadn’t. “I’ll be doing the hiring.”
Silence. “Yes, ma’am. Is room and board included? I don’t need much, just a stall and a cot.”
“Oh no, that wouldn’t be—” Whoa. No need to tell her circumstances to a stranger, not when she lived so far out of town. “I’m sorry, we don’t have the room. I can recommend an inexpensive place downtown.”
