Christmas Cowboy

by Claire Adams

  My father got into his limousine and didn't even blink when I slammed the door. He just drove off and left me under the heavy shadow of the skyscraper that bore our name.

  Chapter Five

  Kiara

  I squeezed my eyes shut and searched far back in my mind for another number to call. This time when I dialed it, it actually rang. I held the phone with both hands and waited for someone to answer.

  After too many rings, a woman answered. "Hello?"

  The agency I had called did not allow its employees to state their name or that of their employer. Or I could have prank-called some elderly woman in Queens.

  "I am a family member trying to reach a Marine," I said. I gave the woman my father's rank and details.

  The woman, briskly professional, told me to hold. I held out hope as the minutes stretched on, but when she returned to the phone, she paused.

  "Just tell me if it’s bad news," I said.

  "Your father is out of range, Ms. Davies. We suggest you wait and trust that he will contact you as soon as he is able," the woman said and hung the phone up with a sharp click.

  "Out of range," I muttered angrily. "You're the goddamn U. S. Military."

  I was already furiously tapping another phone number I remembered when my phone's screen flashed. The color washed out of the graphics and the whole screen went black.

  "Great. Dead battery." I tossed my phone across the tent and huddled back under the sleeping bag.

  I just needed a minute to gather my strength. I curled up on the thin camping mat, but the ground underneath it rumbled. A large truck, more than one large truck, was bumping its way down my driveway.

  The crew Teddy had threatened to hire!

  I flung off the sleeping bag, ripped my fingers through my tangled hair, and then scrambled out of the tent. It was probably a good thing I was still wearing the blaze orange sweatshirt the EMTs forced on me because the front-end loader may not have seen me otherwise. The driver cranked hard to the left and crunched into what used to be our living room.

  "Stop!" I howled. I waved my bright orange arms at the driver of a dump truck and the man just getting out of a flatbed truck.

  "Where do you want the dumpsters?" he called.

  "No, no, I can't afford this." I forced myself to slow down and control my voice. "I mean, I would like to hear an estimate of the costs first."

  The dumpster guy rattled off a figure that made me hurt. Then, the dump truck driver explained the flat rate he got at the dump and what exactly that, plus his time, cost. The front-end loader was available to rent by the hour, the driver cost more, but it would only take two eight-hour days to complete the job.

  "You'll have to ask the foreman what his contract runs. He should be here any moment," the dump truck driver said.

  "No, sorry. There isn't going to be any foreman or eight-hour days, or any of this." I tried to wave them all back to their vehicles.

  "We were told it was already covered. The boss even gave us bonuses for coming right away," the front-end loader driver scrubbed his chin.

  "I'm the property owner," I said. Despite the skeptical and judgmental looks that each man gave me, I straightened my shoulders. "I'm only interested in renting the dumpsters."

  "Dump truck run to the dump would be cheaper," the dump truck driver pointed out.

  "Except that then I would need the front-end loader and driver, etc., etc." I crossed my orange arms. "I'm going to do the work myself."

  "It’s already been paid for, lady," the dumpster delivery man said.

  "Would you take a credit card?" My stomach was twisted, but I tried to hand him over the last line of money that I had, but he wouldn’t take it.

  The crew was gone within minutes, having put down two, huge, green dumpsters along the driveway. The ragged leaves of my mother's long-forgotten hostas stuck out from underneath the behemoths. I hated the thought that the wreckage of my family home was going to fit inside those two metal coffins, but it was a logical first step.

  I rolled up my sleeves and headed to the garage. Outfitted in the jeans we once used for a Halloween scarecrow and my father's worn-thin, plaid shirt, I tugged on leather work gloves and faced the debris.

  Because it was impossible to know which way to approach the overwhelming task, I started at what used to be our front door. I hauled away the pieces I could carry and heaved them into the waiting dumpster.

  "Thought you might need a hand. And, maybe some lunch?"

  I turned around and jolted when I saw it was Officer Thompson. "What are you doing out here?"

  He smiled, and shifted from one foot to the other. "It’s my lunch break, and I figured you'd be out here. I don't know if you like burgers…"

  "Thanks," I said.

  We stood around the hood of his squad car and demolished burgers and a large basket of fries. I made sure to keep my back to the wreckage because my stomach was already twisting over the first solid food I’d had for a long stretch.

  "How about I help shift a few of those bigger beams?" Thompson asked.

  "No, thanks. I can't let you get your uniform dirty," I said.

  "Luckily, our uniforms were made to get dirty. Step aside, Officer Shiny Shoes," Old Jim elbowed Thompson as he strolled past out of nowhere.

  He and his son plunged right into the debris without another word and got right to work. Not to be outdone, Thompson pulled on his navy police department windbreaker and his leather driving gloves. I couldn't let them do all the work themselves, so I marched over and helped the young police officer shift the frame of the front door.

  The more I moved, the more soot I kicked up. Soon, I was covered and had smudges of ash everywhere. Then, I saw whose car was gunning along the uneven driveway, and I wished I could disappear in a cloud of soot.

  Young Jim tossed down two stones that had framed the fireplace and put his fists on his hips. "Now look who thinks he can just cruise right in here," he muttered, stripping off his work gloves.

  The contrast between the gleaming yellow Lamborghini and the ash-dusted driveway and hulking dumpsters was shocking. I wondered when in Teddy's day he had had time to switch out sports cars. Then again, he changed vehicles the way that some people changed shoes. I looked down at the filthy winter boots I had found to wear and cringed.

  I froze when Teddy jumped out. He was crisp in a white polo shirt and navy blue blazer, looking every inch the billionaire who had just had lunch at his club. He tipped off his silver sunglasses and peered at us.

  "Where's the normal crew? Who are you guys?" Teddy asked. Then, he spotted Officer Thompson. "Sorry, sir. Whoa, this isn't a crime scene, is it?"

  "Not yet," Young Jim muttered with a clenched jaw.

  Both his father and I tried to stop him, but Young Jim marched out of the debris and went toe to toe with Teddy. "Are you the son-of-a-bitch who caused all this?"

  "Yes. I mean, no. I'm Teddy Brickman. Kiara's neighbor." Teddy took a step backwards. "Speaking of, where is Kiara? Have you seen her?"

  Officer Thompson chuckled and turned to me. "And on that note, I'm going to have to say goodbye. Good luck, Kiara. I'll swing back and check in when I can."

  "Thanks for lunch, Officer Thompson," I said.

  "Please, call me Luke."

  Teddy was locked on me with a look of shock until Officer Thompson reached out to shake his hand. "Thanks for stopping by, Officer?" Teddy said with a confused look on his face.

  Young Jim huffed away and began hauling the largest pieces of framing that he could handle. I turned my back and started tossing more debris into the wheelbarrow the Jims had brought. Over my shoulder, I could still hear Officer Thompson talking and shaking Teddy's hand.

  "Thanks for coming out yourself, Mr. Brickman. It's great to see such a good example of real neighborly concern. You're an inspiration to all of us," the young man babbled.

  Teddy walked the police officer to his car and waved as he drove off down the driveway. Meanwhile, the Jims made six trips
to the dumpster, and I struggled to push the wheelbarrow across the gashes of what I discovered was our old kitchen tile.

  I was still staring down at the blackened tile when Teddy caught my arm and pulled me gingerly out of the soot.

  "What happened to the crew I hired?" he asked, not letting go of my arm.

  "This isn't your property, so you have no right to send crews here," I snapped.

  Teddy frowned. "I was trying to help you. They have worked for us dozens of times, and I highly recommend them. Isn't it cheaper to hire a dump truck to cart all this away?"

  "I can't afford the crew you sent over, and I'm not letting you pay for it. Next, you'll be claiming that you developed the land and are really better suited to be the owner." I wrenched my arm free and ducked through the empty shell of the kitchen window.

  Teddy hesitated, but followed me into the black dust. "There has got to be a hundred other ways to clear this out."

  "A hundred more expensive ways," I pointed out. "The point is, this is the way I'm doing it."

  He caught my arm and tugged me over to him. "You don't have to do it alone, Kiara."

  I stuck out my chin. "I'm not alone. My friends stopped by to help."

  Teddy nodded at Old Jim, but kept his attention on me. Then, he pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped it across my cheek. I flinched away, but he held me tight and gently erased the smudge. The corners of his eyes were crinkled with real concern. I was close enough to smell his aftershave—close enough to hear the steady beat of his heart and feel the solid strength of his figure.

  "Done, Brickman?" I asked, though the kind caress had weakened me. I fought the urge to lean against his sturdy chest.

  "Kiara, please. Just accept my help. Let me call my guy," he said.

  I shoved away from him and bruised my shoulder against the still-standing, but charred refrigerator. "For the last time, you are not going to butter me up with offers of assistance and then try to buy the property out from under me."

  I kicked down a post and hauled it to the wheelbarrow. Old Jim was tugging Young Jim out of the pile that was left of the front porch. I shoved the wheelbarrow along to them and set it down.

  "You've got to get back to the gas station," I said. I hugged Old Jim. "Thank you so much for coming out here."

  "We have a truck you can borrow," Old Jim said.

  "I fixed it up myself," Young Jim added.

  Old Jim refused to hear my protests and waved goodbye. "You just stop by when you need it."

  "How about we drive out with you," Young Jim called to Teddy. "Make sure you don't scuff that pretty toy of yours."

  Teddy grinned. "No, thanks. I'll stick around a bit and help Kiara. Thanks for stopping by."

  The Jims left, and I turned back to tackle the misshapen boards that used to be the front steps. Teddy jumped back out of my way, but made no move to help.

  "Kiara, this is ridiculous. Even with the full team, it would take two full days to clean this all up. With you working like this, it could take until it snows. How are you going to deal with the fireplace and the parts of the structure that are still standing?"

  "I'll make it work," I said, stepping around him to gather another armload.

  It was hard not to stumble when I caught sight the dark clouds gathering out over the water. By the churning movement of the clouds, I knew I didn't have much time. And, I certainly did not have any time to argue with Teddy Brickman.

  He stepped gingerly over the charred debris and picked his way carefully through it just to list all the reasons his plan was better than mine. "Aren't you worried about missing that much work? I'm assuming you work, right? Wait, what do you do?"

  Teddy chatted quickly as if we were at some fancy luncheon and he was just passing the time. I turned my back on him and started to fill the wheelbarrow again. The storm clouds were rumbling, and the weather looked too bad to ignore. Still, I felt the urge to pretend that Teddy wasn't right. Stubborn work would see me through. It always had.

  "That's funny. I don't even know what you do," Teddy continued. He crossed his arms and took an easy stance, his back to the cumulating thunderheads. "Let me guess."

  "I'm a law student," I snapped. "I got fired from my internship because of this, so, no, I don't have to worry about getting back to work."

  Teddy cocked an eyebrow. "You? A lawyer? I don't see it."

  "You don't know me," I snarled, shoving the heavy wheelbarrow past him again.

  "I know they don't fire interns for acts of God," Teddy said. "So, what happened? Your heart wasn't in it?"

  "How would you know?" I asked, heaving debris into the dumpster with heavy clangs. "You've never had a job in your life."

  "Are you kidding?" he asked. "This whole playboy image is my job. Just ask my father. Did you know that our fathers were friends?"

  I only knew that my father spoke very highly of Mr. Brickman when he was home. The only image I had of Teddy's father was the imposing man who yelled commands and marched everywhere he went. It always surprised me that my father would like someone like that. His years in the Marine Corps made him quiet and deliberate.

  The absolute opposite of how I'm acting, I thought as another melted screen hit the bottom of the dumpster with a metallic clang. It would take thousands of trips just for me to cover the bottom of the dumpsters, and everyone had been sure I would need two.

  It was an overwhelming task, even with help, and I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear off the itchy flannel and stiff jeans and just dive into the churning, cold waves of the Atlantic. I'd do anything before I asked Teddy Brickman for his help.

  "I'm sure your father would accept our help. Have you reached him yet?" Teddy asked.

  It was the final straw, and I felt it snap in my chest. I breathed in hard, but no air would come; there were only sobs fighting their way out of my chest. I flapped my hands and then balled them into fists, fighting to get control of myself.

  Teddy waded through the remains and wrapped me up in his arms. "Whoa, it's okay. It's not like he's got an easy office to reach. I've got a good relationship with a senator; maybe he can pull some strings and get your father on the line."

  "Is that all you can do?" I shrieked. Teddy's arms loosened in surprise, allowing me to shove away from him. "All you can do is stand there and offer to throw money at the problem or foist it off on one of your connections?"

  "What do you want me to do? I'll do it," he said, reaching for me.

  I pulled back and stumbled over the skeleton of a dining room chair. I fell to the ground in a puff of ash. The dark clouds were now stretching over our heads, and I heard the growl of coming thunder.

  Teddy reached down to help me up, but I smacked his hands away. "I wouldn't want you to get dirty," I snarled.

  "Is that it? You're mad because I'm not wading around in this lost cause, trying to make some grand gesture?" Teddy grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'work smarter, not harder?' Or are you too stubborn to accept there may be better ways to do this?"

  I scrambled to my feet and pressed an ash-covered finger to his chest. "I can't afford any other way, and I'm not taking your charity. I'm not going to end up owing you and letting you guilt me into selling this property. I'm not leaving."

  Teddy finally looked up as the sky grumbled again. "Whether you like it or not, it's time to leave. I've got to get my car in the garage before the storm hits."

  I snorted. "Of course, your car is more important than actually helping someone." I held up a hand to stop him. "I'm not talking about writing a check or asking someone else to do it for you. I'm talking about the kind of help where you just roll up your sleeves and get dirty."

  "Dirty? This place is going to be a muddy hell-hole in about an hour, and I'm not going to let you get swallowed up." Teddy started to drag me towards his car.

  I spun out of his hold and marched back to the pile of my front porch. "Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Brickman. Better get that pretty, shi
ny car in the garage before a raindrop smudges it. I wouldn't want people to talk about how you've lowered your standards."

  "Fine!" Teddy threw his arms in the arm. "Stay here and drown in your stubbornness, Kiara. Have it your way, but don't say I didn't offer to help."

  He got in his flashy Lamborghini and drove away, leaving me standing among the charred boards of my front porch.

  I refused to think any more about it, just like I refused to acknowledge the darkening sky and the rough winds. I finished five more heavy trips with the wheelbarrow. My arms ached from flinging the debris up and into the large dumpsters, but at least I was making progress. It was going to be slow, but it wasn't impossible.

  I was going to show Teddy Brickman.

  Finally, I stripped off the old jeans and flannel shirt and jumped into the shelter of the old tent. There, the Jims had left me a gift: a brown paper bag of clothes they had borrowed from Old Jim's niece and my cell phone, fully charged. I tugged on a soft, pink sweatshirt, content with the unicorn stitched over the heart. As long as it wasn't blaze orange and reeking of smoke, it was an improvement.

  I brushed my hair and thought about what number to call first. There was something in the way that brusque woman had put me off before that had me reaching for my phone. I found the number and hit redial. The same woman answered.

  "Hello?"

  "My name is Kiara Davies, and I would like to be patched through to my father. It's something of an emergency," I said.

  "Hold, please," she said.

  I gritted my teeth but put the phone on speaker and prepared to wait. I tugged on a pair of black yoga pants and smiled at the sight of a glittery, pink pair of socks. They were warm and soft, and even though the wind buffeted the tent, I was starting to feel like everything was going to be all right.

  "Ms. Davies?" A new voice picked up the line. He spoke in a careful, light tone that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  "Just tell me. Don't worry about polite phrasing. Just tell me the bad news," I said.

  "Not bad news," the man said, "just a reminder that you have to be patient. Your father is, as I understand it, part of a specialized team."