by Laura Drake
Her lightning shift from weak to angry caught him flat-footed. “What?”
She stood, hands on hips. “James Benton Denny. I washed your dirty underwear for twenty years. You think I don’t know when you’re up to something?”
“Jesus, Char. I’m trying to do something nice here.”
She snorted. “Do you think you can waltz back in here and sweet-talk your boots back under my table?”
Dammit, he’d taken about all the kicking he was going to take. He felt blood rise to his face; the cords in his neck pulled taut. “Why don’t you get it all out, Charla Rae? I’m sick of all the little digs.” He lifted his boot onto the hay bale, forcing himself to relax. “Say your piece, Little Bit—have at it.”
As if his words lit a fuse, her face turned red and her jaw clenched. “You puffed-up, arrogant rooster!” Her shrill voice echoed down the barn. “You’re a self-centered, self-serving weasel!” She sputtered, but her mouth kept moving, clearly so mad she couldn’t get it out.
Maybe this was better. Quit all the dodging and sparring and finally have it all out in the open. “Oh, come on, Charla, you can do better than that.”
She shook a finger at him. “You’re a mangy, good-for-nothing cur dog. You’ve got the manners of a baboon and the morals of a goat!”
“Is that it? After all this time, that’s it?” He smiled, knowing it would fire off a bottle rocket. “You never could swear for spit.”
“Oooh, you turd! You insufferable… dick head!”
The little hellcat stood in front of him, tail puffed and spitting. “I can do better than that without even cussing. How about disloyal, low-down cheater?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s right.”
“Dirty, double-crossing, two-timing loser.”
She nodded. “That too.”
“Lily-livered sheepherder.”
The corner of her mouth curled up. “Butt-wipe.”
“Yellow-bellied sod-buster.”
She chuckled.
He felt a glimmer of hope.
An hour later, Char made the familiar turn onto State Highway 87. After the dustup with Jimmy, she’d run to pick her dad up from Junior’s. She glanced across the bench seat to where he sat, hat pulled down, staring out the window. Was he thinking—or off wandering the jumbled labyrinth of memories in his poor, damaged mind? Hard to tell. After a while, the hum of tires on the asphalt and the familiar fence line unrolling alongside the car lulled them both into their own thoughts.
Oh, she’d been mad at Jimmy, plenty mad. In the beginning. But after the initial rush of words, the mad was gone, just like that. As if the anger were a heavy bucket of water she’d toted around; she’d gotten used to its weight. Apparently there’d been a hole in the bottom, and the anger had leaked out the past year, unnoticed. Now, without it, she felt kind of… naked.
Another crutch, Charla Rae?
Mom, you’ve really got to get a—doesn’t heaven have anyone who needs advice?
No answer. She drove past a carpet of bluebonnets in a boggy section of ditch. What if Jimmy was only trying to be nice? She pictured his tentative smile as he handed her the roses, like he couldn’t wait to see her reaction to his extravagant gift. The freeze-frame photo of pins atop a headstone flashed across her brain and shame burned in the blood that pounded up her neck to flush her face.
On the other hand, her Jimmy, with no agenda? She shook her head. Not likely. But just in case, she’d be watching. Closely.
Char turned into the driveway and drove to the back of the house. Jimmy stood at the rail of the front corral, watching the two-year-olds amble around, getting acquainted with the bucking chutes.
Her dad’s hands jerked. Animation returned as his face lit up. “ ’Bout time JB got home!” He pulled the door handle before she got the car stopped.
“Daddy, he’s not—” But he was gone, walking across the yard, hand outstretched, huge grin on his face. Char stepped out and stood, one foot in the car, leaned her elbows on the roof, and watched to see what would happen.
“Welcome home, son.” Her dad pumped Jimmy’s hand.
Jimmy shot her a confused, panicky look.
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Welcome to my world.
When her dad put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulder, pointed to the bulls, and began dispensing advice, Char turned and walked to the house.
CHAPTER
17
The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning.
—Ivy Baker Priest
I’m only listening here, but it sounds to me like you’re working on a plan to wrangle your way back into Charla’s life, JB.” Wiley prodded a hamburger on the smoking grill, then straightened and shot him a canny look. “Are you?”
Slouched in the plastic chair, JB took a pull from his longneck and tugged the feedlot cap down to block the laser rays shooting from the horizon. Had he bought the flowers as more than a peace offering? “At this point, Wiley, I think I’d settle for an amiable truce.”
Wiley rolled the hot dogs to a flame-free corner of the grill. “Charla Rae is a good-looking woman, you gotta give her that.”
“Yes. She is. And you’re about as subtle as a shark attack, partner.”
Wiley shrugged. “I always thought you two fit. Like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—your outies fit her innies, if you know what I mean.”
And so they had. He and Char had clicked together back in high school and stayed, locked snug, until the day Benje died. He’d thought that was how things worked in a relationship. Looking back now, from the other side of fragile, JB recognized that he’d taken that fit for granted. He now knew how rare and special it had been. “She’s changed, Wiley.”
“Given what she’s been through, it’d be strange if she hadn’t, don’t you think?” Wiley opened the sweating beer that Dana had left at his elbow when she brought the meat. “You saying that’s good or bad?”
“Both.” In JB’s mind, there were three Charlas. His wife of twenty years, comfortable, solid, known. The grieving wraith, addicted and inconsolable. Then there was the new Charla—the delicate, plucky woman with a soft new hairdo and cutting-sharp edges.
Wiley stood, spatula poised, waiting for an explanation.
“I don’t know this new Char. She spooks easy. Won’t let me close.”
“Sounds like you’re gentling a wild horse, not getting to know a woman.”
“Believe me, partner, they’re not so different.” JB took another sip of beer. One by one the connections clicked in his brain, and, suddenly, he had the answer. “The flowers were a big move. That was my mistake.”
Wiley waved away the smoke and squinted at JB. “What the heck are you talking about? A woman is not a horse, JB. You can’t—”
“Wiley, don’t you see?” He rushed on, the idea clean and perfect in his mind. “You can’t make big moves around a spooky horse. Even if it’s the right thing, it scares ’em.” He stood and paced the weed-strewn grass of the backyard. “It’s like bull riding too.”
Wiley looked at him like he’d been at the locoweed.
“When you’re in trouble, during a ride, you want to make a big move, to pull yourself out of the well on the inside of a spin. But that’s too much. You end up butt first in the dust, the bull doing a dance on your dangling parts. Small moves. That’s what gets you back to center and keeps you there till the buzzer. Why didn’t I see this before?”
“JB, I don’t want to discourage you, but—”
He clicked his bottle to the one hanging, forgotten, in Wiley’s hand. “Thanks, buddy. I got it now.” He drained the beer.
“Sounds to me like you went from an ‘amiable truce’ to courting in the time it took to cook a hamburger.” Wiley laid slices of cheese on the burgers. “Just remember while you’re making all those smooth moves, it isn’t the flowers that women love. It’s the caring behind them—knowing that you took time out of your day to think ab
out her and what would make her happy.”
JB snorted. “Now, don’t you go all cuddly on me, partner. You make me wonder about you sometimes.”
“Hey, screw you. I’ve got a warm, willing woman in bed next to me every night. You’re the one sleeping like a hound on my back porch.”
“You got a point there, Wiley, you truly do.”
Dana called from the window. “Wiley, that meat’s got to be boot leather by now. Come on in, you two. Supper’s ready.”
The kid hung on the fence, watching the bull riders, same as he had every practice for the past two weeks.
JB walked up behind him. “So, when are you going to try it?”
Travis jerked as if he’d been caught looking at dirty magazines. “What makes you think I want to try it?”
JB took off his hat, wiped his sweaty face in the crook of his elbow, and settled the hat back on his head. “I’ve been a bull rider since I was younger than them.” He waved at the high school team, huddled around the coach in the arena. “I train bulls for a living, and on most weekends, I’m at a PBR event. Do you think I don’t recognize the look?”
Travis’s too-cool slouch gave nothing away. “What look?”
“The look of somebody who wants to put themselves up against an animal a hundred times stronger than they are, just to see if they’ve got the guts. To be on top of a force of nature, to see if you can ride it—because if you can, it shows you something about yourself that no one can ever take away from you.” The words surprised JB. He hadn’t known he’d felt that way until he heard them. “The coach is a friend of mine; I could introduce you.”
A naked bolt of wanting flashed across Travis’s face before the mask of studied teenage indifference fell once more. “Yeah, like I’m gonna hang with those HJs.”
“Huh?”
“Hitler-Jugend. Nazi youth party.”
JB glanced to the arena. “What’re you talking about? They’re just a bunch of country kids.”
Travis snorted. “Yeah, and they march in lockstep. Trust me, it’s a closed society.” He nodded at the crowd. “Even the uniform. Notice how they’re all wearing white hats?” He shook his head. “Stupid. They watch too many Duke movies.”
JB looked Travis over. Backward cap, oversized T-shirt, untied Skaters. “Yeah, like you’re any different.” He pointed to the kid’s oversized pants, held on his skinny hips, God knew how. “You gonna tell me that’s not a uniform? Besides, that isn’t the point. Riding isn’t about such foolishness.”
Travis shook his head. “You don’t get it. Do you think I’m ever gonna fit with that crowd?” He snorted. “Like I’d want to, anyway.”
“Oh, well, I guess that excuse is as good as any.” JB turned to leave, took two steps, and tossed back over his shoulder. “Ask yourself, though: Is that crap gonna hold up in ten years, when you’ve wished you would’ve tried it?”
Twenty minutes later, JB turned in at the ranch to see Char driving toward him, Ben riding shotgun. She braked and rolled her window down as they pulled alongside each other.
“Hey, Ben.” Blank stare. Bad day. “Afternoon, Charla Rae.” The sunlight fell sharply on her face, aging her. She looked overworked and overburdened. He felt a pang of regret. He should have been here for her, they could have shared the burdens, instead of where they both were—alone.
“I’m taking Daddy to the doctor, then to the hospital, for a PET scan. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Without waiting for a reply, she rolled on, making the turn at the bottom of the drive.
God, how did she keep it up? There was Rosa, but still… His tires crunched gravel as he accelerated up the driveway. He noticed a hoe propped against the house amid the half-weeded garden, and he got an idea. He smiled, threw the truck into reverse and scattered gravel, heading for the garden supply store in town.
Char pulled the brush through her hair, watching a blush advance from the collar of her rayon pajamas. It was one thing to cry when she’d found her raggedy garden made perfect, but to blubber on the phone when she called to thank Jimmy, that was flat embarrassing.
He’d weeded, fertilized, and spread cedar bark to keep down the weeds. The roses were pruned, the tomatoes were planted, and a big section was reserved for her favorite: cucumbers. A riot of colorful perennials marched around the border, a cheerful splash of color against her white house. Her smile wobbled. She’d have never let him do it, if he’d asked. He’d just gone ahead and done the one thing that would make her happy. Despite all the chores he had to do, he’d done that for her. This was the Jimmy she’d fallen in love with. Was he back? She didn’t know. But she’d be watching.
She stood tall and smoothed the rayon down her sides. “It’s not fair. How can you be underweight and still have a belly?” The unrelenting fluorescent light spotlighted her pasty face, finding every wrinkle, freckle, and line. She thought of Jimmy, with his ex-cupcake, naked. She shuddered. How could a middle-age single woman ever let a man see her naked, with all the firm, shapely sexpots out there?
She looked into her own eyes in the mirror. Are you really thinking of going to bed with Jimmy? She took one more swipe at her hair and put down the brush. Heavens, no. But someday, going to bed with a man sure would be nice. She lifted her hand to the not-so-tight skin of her neck. “Maybe I could find a blind one.” She clicked the light off and walked to the bedroom.
The light of the lamp on the nightstand made the fresh bed an inviting haven. She shuffled to the edge and kicked off her slippers. Sliding under the covers, the cool of the sheets sent a shiver up the sensitive skin of her backside. She reached for the book Healing Wisdom: Easing a Path through Grief. She’d gotten into the nightly habit of choosing a quote at random, always surprised at how often it touched close to home.
Forgiving others is the first step on the path to forgiving yourself.
Oh well, it couldn’t be right every night. She thumbed a few more pages, ran her finger down the page without looking, stopping near the middle.
Forgiveness is me giving up my right to hurt you for hurting me.—Anonymous
“What a load of bull hockey!” Char slammed the book shut and tossed it to the nightstand. It skittered off the edge to land on the hardwood floor with a thump. “I’m not surprised the author didn’t sign his name to that.” She snapped off the light and snuggled into the covers. In spite of the tiredness that tugged at her limbs, her brain kept churning.
Funny, how she still slept on “her” side of the bed. Unconsciously, her hand slid to the relinquished half. The smooth, taut sheet made her wish for the rumpled mess that she’d always nagged at Jimmy for making.
This had always been her favorite time of the day. Whether they’d made love or not, she always ended up in Jimmy’s arms, his strong chest at her back, her rear snugged up against him. She’d lay, head cradled on his bicep, and they’d talk, about everything, about nothing. Char smiled into the dark. The subject was just as likely to be politics as local gossip; it was their way of winding down and finding their way back to each other after a day spent apart. Regret-tinged longing squeezed around her heart. God, how she missed that: the rumble of Jimmy’s deep voice, so close that it reverberated through her own chest. She’d lie safe and sheltered and listen to that voice as she drifted off to sleep, knowing all was right in her world.
Would the world ever be that safe again? How could it be, when children could die, spouses could leave, and you could discover a dark side of yourself you hadn’t known existed?
CHAPTER
18
It is very easy to forgive others their mistakes; it takes more grit and gumption to forgive them for having witnessed your own.
—Jessamyn West
JB looked up from the beef futures report when Travis slouched into his office at the feedlot. The laces on his untied tennis shoes slapped the linoleum as he crossed to the only guest chair and plopped into it.
“So let’s say I do want to try bull riding.” His gaze roamed the booksh
elf, the bulletin board, out the window. Anywhere but to JB.
JB leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Why are you telling me?”
Travis held the disinterested pose for a few seconds, but then the bravado evaporated and his shoulders slumped. “I really want to do this. But I’ve got a problem, and, um, I was hoping—”
“First, if you’re man enough to be a bull rider, you’re going to have to act like it.” Travis looked puzzled. “Sit up straight, look me in the eye, and ask me. There’s no shame in asking for help, and you’re a damned sight more likely to get it if you’re polite about it.”
Travis sat up and leaned forward, elbows on the chair arms. “I want to learn to ride, but there’s no way I can walk out there and ask to get on a bull. I’d be laughed out of school. This isn’t something my friends would understand, and I’m sure not going to fit in with the team either.” Shrugging his shoulders, he held JB’s stare. “And in between is no-man’s land. See what I mean?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Back when dirt was invented, I was in high school myself. I don’t imagine it’s changed all that much.”
“Would you teach me?” Without the cocky attitude, his face looked all of his sixteen years.
JB’d always been a sucker for a kid. God knows, Benje managed to wrangle almost everything he’d wanted out of him. Except he never did get that tree fort. The acid-etch of guilt bit deep.
“I know you were a great bull rider. I looked you up. You rode Rock Em Up to a standstill in the PRCA finals back in ninety.”
“You don’t have to suck up. I’ll help you. Just give me your mom’s phone number so I can get her okay. I’m going to need her written permission too.” He jotted down the number Travis rattled off. “Now get out of here. I’ve got to think about how I’m going to make this happen.”
Travis jumped up as if he’d been granted a hangman’s reprieve, a huge grin on his face. He leaned over the desk to pump JB’s hand. “You’ll see, when I really want something, I work hard for it. You won’t be sorry.” He walked to the door, then turned. “Thanks, JB.”
