The Sweet Spot

by Laura Drake

  Jimmy hadn’t so much run as gotten out of the way. She’d been so crazy back then, could she blame him for that?

  The muscles in her torso tightened, forming a shield, just in case. “I’ve been self-absorbed and selfish, Jimmy. I’ve hurt you, and I’m so sorry.” She tried with her gaze to tell him how much. “You and I have changed a lot in the past year. We don’t know each other anymore. Let’s make a pact. From now on, we both give each other the benefit of the doubt. If there’s two ways to take a comment, we’ll take it the good way, and leave it at that. Okay?”

  She knew the gears of his mind turned from his intent expression. His face slowly relaxed. He sighed heavily. “Okay, Little Bit.”

  He walked away, his voice gruff. But she took hope from the sound of her pet name on his lips.

  JB figured he had the pick of the litter as far as the bedrooms went. He couldn’t get enough of the night-released smell of grass drifting into the screened porch, and in the coolness, the humidity felt almost refreshing. He reached down to pull the drawstring of the long cotton pants—his sleepwear concession to living with a woman who was not his wife. Something seemed different. He realized he had an unobstructed view of his feet. He ran his hand over his recently flattened belly, able to feel the muscle beneath for the first time in years. Guess worry does have one good use.

  The brick floor felt cool on the soles of his feet as he crossed to turn off the lamp at the head of his cot. He stripped back the covers to lie down, one arm under his head, feeling the familiar poke of the torture bar in the center of his back.

  He missed having a bed large enough to sprawl in. He missed having walls around him while he slept. He missed the familiar routine of bedtime, when Charla would come out of the bathroom, smelling of the cucumber skin cream she’d used on her face. He scrubbed his knuckles across his breastbone, to ease the ache there. Hell, he even missed her old-fashioned pajamas. After they were married, he’d bought her little scraps of lace to wear to bed, but they seldom found their way out of the dresser drawer. He came to appreciate Charla in flannel, transforming from stodgy frump to his willing, curvy sexpot with the unwrapping.

  He and Jess had always been separate in bed. She’d kept a delicate distance between them, a demilitarized zone he was not welcome to pass. Saying she felt smothered by his arms at night, she sprawled on her half of the bed, and he lay curled in a ball on his.

  Not Charla. She’d snuggle close, head on his arm, almost purring, while he told her of his day. He loved the smell of her hair spread on the pillow and the feel of it wrapped in his hands.

  He didn’t care that she fell asleep while he talked. He kind of liked that his voice was the last thing she heard as she drifted off.

  Days later, JB strode for the Peterbilt, parked on the far side of the house. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He must have left his champion softball cap in the truck the last time he drove it. Opening the door, he used the handle to haul himself up.

  “Hoooboy.” Liquid heat poured over him. “Hotter’n the hubs of hell in here,” he grumbled, eyes scanning the interior. He pulled the seat forward to riffle through the flotsam behind it.

  Nothing. Kneeling on the driver’s seat, he dug behind the passenger seat. Nope.

  When he sat, his knee cracked against something hard. “What the heck?” He wiped a rivulet of sweat out of his eye and scanned the floorboards. Bolted to the brake, accelerator, and clutch pedal were metal footplates on welded extensions. So that’s how Charla drove the Peterbilt solo. He scratched at the sweat that rolled from the back of his cowboy hat. Very clever. He took one last hopeful glance around. No cap. He climbed from the cab and closed the gate to hell. Ninety-five in the shade, but it felt comparatively cool out here.

  He heard Travis’s rattletrap long before it made the turn at the corner of the house and settled, coughing and sputtering, in the yard.

  They were standing by the car, talking, when Ben opened the back door of the house and stepped out. He looked from JB to Travis and back. “Who’s this, JB?”

  “Ben Enwright, meet Travis Beauchane. Bull rider in training.”

  Travis wiped a hand on his jeans, then stuck it out. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Ben broke into a huge grin. “Well, it’s good to see the next generation step up. Welcome, son. Ya’ll come on in and get washed up for dinner.”

  Shit. JB hated this. The awkwardness, the embarrassment, for himself and for Charla. But most of all, he hated it for Ben. Travis looked at JB, unsure of what to do. “We just ate, Ben, but we appreciate—”

  “Oh, hogswallop. How long you been here, JB? You know dinner is at noon. Now get yourselves inside and cleaned up. I’ll tell Charla Rae to set two more plates.” The screen door slapped behind him.

  He grabbed Travis’s arm when he would have started toward the barn. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m not going in there alone.” He dragged Travis to the door by the sleeve of his T-shirt. “We’ll just smooth it over with Little Bit, then we’ll get at those bulls.”

  Travis grumbled but followed.

  Charla was setting extra places as they walked in the kitchen. Ben sat beaming from his usual chair at the head of the oval table. “You boys wash up now.”

  JB watched Char walk toward him. “We didn’t—”

  “I know,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. “Just eat. It’s easier this way, trust me.”

  He trailed her to the kitchen, Travis in his shadow. “No, really, Charla, I’ll make an excuse—”

  She made that universal female tsk of irritation and turned on him. “If you don’t stay, he won’t let it go. He’ll be after me all afternoon about how rude I’ve been and that he raised me better. So please, just wash up, and sit down. It’s only leftovers, but there’s plenty.” She stepped to the stove and lifted the lid on a large pot.

  Is that Charla’s chili? His mouth watered, making up his mind. “Well, Travis, don’t stand there with your face hanging out. You heard the lady.”

  Within minutes, his boots were back under Charla’s table. Without thinking, he sat in his usual place at the other head of the table, across from Ben.

  Ben reached out his hands, one to Charla on his left, one to Travis, on his right. “Let us pray.” He bowed his head.

  Charla’s eyes skittered away, but she held out her hand. JB took it, then Travis’s, and bowed his head. As Ben said grace, JB focused on the soft skin of Charla’s hand, until he encountered the calluses. He ran his fingers across the rough pads at the base of her fingers, knowing the hours of manual labor it took to develop them.

  The second Ben said “Amen,” Charla snatched her hand away as if he’d bitten it. She passed the cornbread—the lightly browned, bits of heaven she was famous for. JB’s stomach growled.

  Ben took the tureen of chili that Travis offered. “Well, son, what do you think of our bulls?”

  That’s all it took. Once Ben found out Travis enjoyed bull riding, he started in, regaling him with stories of past exploits and dispensing advice. JB watched from across the table, mouth full of Char’s chili, swamped by déjà vu, It was as if he were watching himself at this table twenty years ago. Ben had taken him under his wing the same way, ushering him into the world of bull riding with stories and laughter. He’d stepped in as a father figure to JB and, even given Ben’s Alzheimer’s, Travis wouldn’t find a better mentor.

  The sad smile on Charla’s face as she watched the pair told JB she was remembering too. He had to give it to Little Bit. When she’d thrown him off the property that day, he’d expected her call the next. A call that had never come. She did everything herself; if she couldn’t do it the conventional way, she figured a way around it, like rigging the truck. All by herself. JB smiled. Downright resourceful. He’d put Charla up against lots of ranchers he knew, and she’d show better. He realized with a start that he admired her. At her wary look, he realized he’d been staring.

  Char attempted to flip her too-short hair over her
shoulder, trying to keep up the calm façade. Jimmy. Back in the house. It helped to have Daddy and Travis chattering like long-lost friends. But Jimmy’s familiar gestures, his smell, his hulking presence had her nerves jumping. Holy poop, how do I get into these messes?

  And now, here he sat, staring at her with a goofy grin. “Bella bought a ranch,” she blurted, for something to say.

  “New York owns a ranch? Surely not.”

  “Surely so.” She gave up the appearance of eating and set her fork beside her plate. “She and Russ bought the old Koehler place.”

  “You met this phantom husband?”

  “He’s not a phantom, he just travels a lot. He’s very sweet.” Jimmy chased a piece of hominy around his plate with his fork. Well, at least she wasn’t the only one dancing in that frying pan. The minefield yawning between them made even simple small talk, not simple. She tried again. “I’m helping her move in tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  His studied gaze was starting to irritate her. “What?”

  “I was just thinking. I imagine that her tenderfoot husband could use some help. He’s bound to know less than nothing about ranching. I’m not working tomorrow. I could ride out with you.”

  She thought about Jimmy’s offer. Russ would need someone to show him the ropes. And Jimmy could probably use a friend. It was about time she stopped being selfish. “I’m leaving around nine.”

  “Good. I’ll be here.” His chair squealed on the linoleum as he scooted back from the table. “Thank you for lunch, Charla Rae. I surely miss your cooking.” He scrunched his napkin, as he always did and, setting it beside his plate, stood. “Come on, Travis, daylight’s burning. At some point you have to stop talking about riding bulls and actually do it.”

  JB walked to the door of the mudroom but then turned back. “You coming, Ben? We can’t do this without an expert.”

  Smiling big, her father scrabbled out of his chair like it was on fire, and snatched his hat from the counter. “We’ll teach this Yankee whippersnapper a thing or two, JB, see if we don’t.”

  She caught Jimmy’s eye as he settled his hat on his head and mouthed Thank you.

  He shot her a shy grin, winked, and walked out.

  Danged if she hadn’t always been a sucker for that grin.

  CHAPTER

  20

  To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.

  —Louis B. Smede

  JB pulled open the door to Keller’s Western Wear. “No one’s going to throw you out for being a poser.”

  “But I don’t need a cowboy hat.” Travis hovered, scanning the shop window.

  JB let the door fall closed. He looked at the faded, saggy-crotch skater shorts and dingy T-shirt, not wanting to imagine this kid’s home life. Travis had gobbled lunch at the diner so fast it had him wondering when the boy had last eaten. “Come in and look, that’s all I’m saying. Believe me, I’m not wasting money on a hat you’re not going to wear.”

  A frown creased Travis’s brow, but he followed. JB’s boots made a satisfying hollow thumping sound on the old wooden boards as he took in his favorite smell: the heady scent of new leather and saddle soap.

  Hats hung on the back wall, their brands conjuring the history of the American West: Resistol, Bailey, Stetson. “A straw hat is more practical.” JB reached for a pinch-crowned Panama in natural ivory. “It’s going to get dirty, and these are pretty easy to clean. See how it’s ventilated? Not as hot that way.”

  Travis grimaced and looked away. “Isn’t there something not so… old?”

  JB scanned the merchandise. “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, cowboys aren’t real big on change.”

  “Duuude!” Travis hurried away, focused as a hawk spying a rabbit kabob. JB trailed him to a sale table tucked under the stairs to the second floor. There, on top of a stack of boxes, sat a hat. But it wasn’t like any cowboy hat JB’d ever seen. The black felted wool had been airbrushed with a pale gray skull and iron cross on the high crown and front brim. A hand-painted red flame circled the crown, and the black leather band sported silver studs protruding a good half inch. Travis lifted the hat off the pile as if it were a crown.

  JB snorted. “That’s not a hat. It’s an abomination.”

  Travis walked to a full-length mirror, settled the hat on his short white spiked hair, and grinned ear to ear. “Maybe. But it’s me. See? It fits.”

  JB had to admit it matched the kid’s look, but he was going to get stares wandering around town in that thing. “Damned thing’s wool, Travis. It’ll be hotter’n the firebox on a steam train.”

  Travis removed the hat and looked inside. “It’s marked down to twenty dollars!” He ran his finger reverently over the airbrushed cross. “Can you believe that, a piece of art like this?” He looked at JB, little-boy want on his face.

  “Yeah, kid, you can have it.” Travis’s whoop fired a warm spot in JB’s chest as he pulled out his wallet.

  A few days after their trip to the store, JB sat leaning on his saddle horn, watching Travis practice. “God dang it, Kid, how many times I gotta tell you? You’re looking off again!” It had been a long Sunday afternoon, and they were only an hour into it. Travis seemed distracted and out of sorts. The humidity was up today, and JB could feel the sun burning his skin, right through his shirt. A veil of dust hung in the air, stirred by bull’s hooves.

  JB nudged his horse to the bull’s side, hazing him to the exit. When the animal cleared the gate, he closed it and trotted to the center of the corral. Travis had picked himself out of the dirt and was dusting himself off. “You do that every time you get in trouble. I keep telling you, you go where your eyes look. If you’re staring at the dirt, you’re sure’n hell going to end up there. Before the buzzer.” He dismounted.

  Travis pulled off the helmet and pulled out his mouth guard. His lips twisted in a pout, he frowned and looked away.

  “At this rate, you won’t be ready when the season starts. Is that what you want?” Travis shrugged. JB’d had it with the sullen attitude. “I’m out here sweating my guts out because you asked for my help. I’m not wasting any more of my time on someone who doesn’t care.” He spun on his heel. “I’m done.”

  Ben’s sharp voice brought him up short. “Now you just hold up a minute, JB.” Ben stalked toward them, bent, bowlegged. Angry, from the look.

  “Ben, I’m sorry to drag you into this. It’s been a waste of our time. The kid’s too scared to make a bull rider.”

  “Well, good on him. Shows he’s got some sense. More’n you, I’d wager.” Ben smacked dirt from the sleeve of the Western shirt JB had loaned the boy. “You’re doing fine, son. Any bull rider who isn’t afraid is either loco or headed for a box in a hurry.” He cut his eyes to JB. “And I seem to remember you, standing in this corral, bottom lip a-wobblin’ and me telling you the same thing.”

  His icy blue eyes burned right through JB’s anger. He did seem to remember…

  Ben turned to Travis and grasped his shoulder. “You’re trying to think of too many things at once and not getting any of ’em done. Forget about looking pretty up there.” He drilled JB with another disgusted stare. “Just forget all that crap.” He fingered the whistle hanging from a hank of twine around his neck. “We’re going to a ten-second ride instead of eight. Your job is to stay ’holt of that rope till you hear the whistle. The only thing you have to remember is to keep your hand shut.” He shook Travis’s shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re hanging down, up close and personal with that bull’s gonads, as long as you have the tail of the rope in your hand when the whistle blows, the ride counts. See?”

  Travis, frowning in concentration, nodded.

  “Style points don’t count for spit if you don’t make the whistle, and no kid on that team is going to look down on you for having bad form if you get a score.

  “You’ve got grit, kid. Don’t you doubt it.” Ben patted him on the back. “JB, you go run another bull under this
cowboy.”

  The kid’s shoulders straightened and his head came up. As JB mounted, Travis looked up at him like Benje used to, expression hopeful, trying to gauge his mood. JB wasn’t blind. He knew the kid looked up to him and was turning himself inside out to please. Guts twisting, he wheeled the horse away with a snort of self-disgust. What kind of man lost sight of that? A sorry excuse for one, that’s what kind.

  Outside the corral, he dismounted, tied the horse, and walked the pole fence to the holding pen. Gorge rose, and he tasted bitter regret on the back of his tongue. Why was he like that? Push, push, push; nothing’s ever good enough for JB Denny.

  He didn’t need a head-shrink to know that his parents dying young and him taking responsibility for his grandparents had something to do with that relentless push. Palming the Hot-Shot from his back pocket, he prodded the two young bulls into the alleyway. This isn’t about Travis, you idiot. It’s about you. It seemed he’d always had that twitchy drive and the whisper in his brain, telling him he needed to be in charge, so he could keep control of his world.

  He remembered the morning of his wedding day to Charla, feeling he’d won something far more precious than the lottery, because her strong, loving family came as a dowry. The drive hadn’t lessened after their marriage; if anything, it pressed harder at his back. Every success upped the stakes, giving him that much more to control. That much more to lose.

  Drive wasn’t all bad, was it? He’d used it to become a champion bull rider. He worked his ass off to learn the bull business, then to grow his own operation. And, dang it, he was proud of his job as PBR announcer. He liked the spotlight. What was wrong with that?

  Lots. The raw truth stopped JB in his tracks. Wrapped in a self-woven blanket of glory and ego, he’d let that drive push him too far. JB’s pride leaked into the dust with every dragging footstep.

  It pushed him to put his son off, when all he wanted was for his dad to build him a tree fort.

  Pushed him away from his wife, who needed him, and into the arms of a hero-struck young girl.