The Cowboy

by Joan Johnston

  Trace lifted a brow. “What was Emma doing out there in the dark with Luke in the first place? No, hold that question. What were you doing out there in the dark with Bad Billy Coburn?”

  “We were having a beer together,” Summer said defiantly. “So what?”

  Trace swore under his breath. “Bad Billy—”

  “Stop calling him that. His name is Billy,” Summer said irritably. “He isn’t a bad person. And it isn’t fair to label him as one.”

  “He was fall-down drunk, Summer. The man is a troublemaker, a nothing, a nobody. I would’ve cut him loose a long time ago, except he’s about the best man I’ve ever seen with a rope. I won’t have him at Bitter Creek—”

  “Bitter Creek doesn’t belong to you. You aren’t the boss. When I tell Daddy—”

  “When I tell Dad you were out drinking with Bad Billy Coburn, he’ll—”

  “Trace, you can’t tell!” Summer cried.

  “Why not? Was there something more going on between you and Billy Coburn in the dark than just drinking a few beers together?”

  “No. Nothing. We’re just friends!” Summer insisted. “But Daddy wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand, either. The man isn’t worth a bucket of spit, Summer. Are you sure you aren’t slumming with that saddle tramp just to get back at Dad for making you break up with that last boy you were dating?”

  “No! I just—Billy and I— Oh, you’ll never understand, so there’s no sense trying to explain it to you.”

  “Try me,” Trace said.

  “Billy never had a chance to be ‘good,’ Trace. His father’s treated him like dirt all his life.”

  “How does that give the two of you anything in common?” Trace questioned.

  “Let me finish,” Summer said. “Billy wants to do better, but nobody around here will give him half a chance. Everybody has already decided he’s ‘bad’ Billy Coburn, and nothing he does makes any difference.”

  “I still don’t see the parallel between the two of you,” Trace said.

  Summer shot him a frustrated glance. “Don’t you see? He isn’t what people think he is. And neither am I.”

  “You’re not a spoiled brat?” Trace teased gently.

  Summer crossed her arms under her breasts. “I don’t know why I even bothered to try and explain. You don’t want to understand. Nobody does.”

  “I understand one thing, and you’d better understand it, too,” Trace said. “If Dad catches you anywhere near Bad Billy Coburn, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  “You’re not going to tell him about us, are you?”

  “Not if you agree to stay away from Billy.”

  “What about you and Callie Monroe?” Summer shot back. “What’s Daddy going to say when I tell him I saw you kissing her tonight?”

  Trace glared at his younger sister. “I’m a grown man—”

  “And I’m a grown woman!”

  “You’re my baby sister—”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore,” Summer said. “I grew up while you were off gallivanting around the world. I can manage my own life, thank you very much, without any help from you!”

  “You’re bound to get hurt if you hang around with Ba—” Trace corrected himself. “With Billy Coburn.”

  “And you’re out of your mind to be kissing Callie Creed Monroe,” Summer countered. “But you don’t see me trying to stop you from following your heart.”

  Trace hissed in a breath. “Are you in love with that bum?”

  “Of course not! I told you, we’re just friends. Which is more than you can say about Callie Monroe.”

  “Callie and I—” Trace cut himself off. He wasn’t about to explain to his sister that he’d been exorcising demons, not pursuing romance, with Callie. Instead he said, “Billy Coburn will only break your heart.”

  “It’s my heart,” Summer said. “And if I want to take a chance on having it broken, that’s my business and nobody else’s.”

  “I’m warning you,” Trace said. “Stay away from him.”

  “Or what?” Summer demanded. “Are you going to tattle to Daddy?”

  Trace met his sister’s rebellious gaze and said, “I’ll get rid of Billy myself.”

  “You do, and I’ll make you sorry you did,” Summer threatened.

  “Look, Summer, be reasonable. You can’t be friends—”

  “I can and I will. You’re not going to make me change my mind.”

  He braked the Chevy truck to a dust-raising stop in back of the Coburns’ dilapidated ranch house. The porch roof sagged, and one of the wooden steps that led up to the kitchen had rotted through. The back door screen curled away from the frame in the corner, leaving an opening for flies. Trace could see a chipped red Formica table and four mismatched chairs in the light from the single uncovered bulb that lit the kitchen.

  An aproned woman stood at the kitchen sink, her brown hair stuck in a bun at her crown. When she turned, Trace realized it was Dora Coburn, Billy’s mother. She crossed and shoved open the screen door, which squealed on its hinges.

  “Stay in the car,” Trace ordered his sister. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “But—”

  “Who’s there?” Mrs. Coburn called.

  “It’s Trace Blackthorne, Mrs. Coburn,” Trace said, stepping out of the pickup. “I’ve brought Billy home.”

  “Is he all right?” The woman hurried toward him, letting the screen door slam behind her. “Is he hurt?”

  “He’s passed out drunk. He’s been fighting, but he’s not seriously hurt.”

  He saw the resignation in the woman’s face, saw her shoulders sag as she looked up and met his gaze. “Would you bring him inside for me, please?”

  Trace let down the back of the pickup and hauled Billy up and over his shoulder. To his consternation, he found Summer by his side as he stretched his legs over the broken step and carried the drunken man inside.

  “Follow me,” Mrs. Coburn said as she led them through the kitchen and living room and down a dark, narrow hall. “His room is this way.”

  Trace saw the look of distaste on his sister’s face when she saw the filth in which Billy Coburn lived. His bed was unmade, and his room, about the size of a jail cell, Trace noted ironically, was strewn with empty beer cans and ranch magazines and dirty clothes.

  Mrs. Coburn shoved the rumpled covers aside and said, “Lay him down, please.”

  Trace let Billy fall onto the bed, which sagged down at the center with the weight of his body. He exchanged a look with his sister, whose chin, for once, wasn’t jutting. Her eyes were troubled, confused, even a little sad.

  “Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Coburn?” she asked.

  “I think it would be best to let him sleep it off,” she said.

  “His face—”

  “It’ll mend,” the woman said sharply. “Don’t you Blackthornes be worrying about my boy. He’ll be fine.”

  Trace watched Summer recoil at the woman’s harsh words. He put an arm around her shoulders and said, “We’ll be going now.”

  “I’ll make sure he’s up for work tomorrow,” Mrs. Coburn said.

  “There’s no need—” Trace began.

  “Oh, he’ll want to be up in time for work. We need the money too much for him to skip a day,” she said bitterly.

  “Mrs. Coburn—” Trace felt Summer’s hand on his arm, felt the plea for mercy. But he was doing this for her own good. “Billy doesn’t need to show up for work tomorrow. I fired him tonight.”

  “Oh. Oh,” the woman said, looking flustered. “Couldn’t you … Wouldn’t you reconsider?”

  “No, ma’am,” Trace said.

  Summer took a step away and stared at him accusingly.

  “Come on,” he said, as he clamped a hand on her wrist and began dragging her from the house. “It’s time we got home.”

  When the screen door slammed behind them, Summer turned on him. “How could you stand there and tell her Billy was f
ired, when it’s so obvious they need every penny to make ends meet?”

  “I fired him, and he’s staying fired,” Trace said. “I don’t go back on my word.”

  “You’re a heartless sonofabitch, Trace Blackthorne.”

  Trace didn’t bother denying it.

  Chapter 5

  CALLIE HAD NO INTENTION OF LETTING TRACE buy her a dress. But in the few seconds she’d had to make a decision whether to accept his invitation to the gala, Callie had realized they needed time alone to put the past to rest. And Houston was a nice, safe distance from her family and from his.

  But she’d been a nervous wreck ever since she’d agreed to go with him, trying to figure out a way to absent herself from Three Oaks overnight without raising eyebrows or provoking questions from her family that she didn’t want to answer.

  “There’s an auction in Houston I think I should attend,” she announced at the supper table on Wednesday.

  She was expecting an argument, but her father merely said, “Sounds like a good idea.”

  Her mother asked, “Where will you stay?”

  “Someplace cheap,” she replied.

  “Can I come along?” Luke asked.

  “I need you here,” her father said.

  As simply as that, her escape had been arranged.

  Of course, she was going to have to attend the auction, but she didn’t think that would be a problem. The sale was being held on Saturday afternoon. The event at the museum wasn’t until later that evening. But she’d have to leave for Houston earlier than the time she’d agreed to meet Trace in town.

  Callie debated the best way of contacting Trace to let him know they’d be traveling separately to Houston and to set the ground rules for their “date.” Finally, she decided to ask Lou Ann Simpson for help. They’d been friends all through high school, but Lou Ann had gotten married instead of going to college. Callie had never confided to her friend about her relationship with Trace, because Lou Ann would have given her too hard a time about “sleeping with the enemy.”

  Callie had never told her best friend the truth about Eli, so Lou Ann had no reason to suspect the relationship that had existed between Callie and Trace in the past. At the same time, Lou Ann already knew Trace was interested in Callie, because she’d heard him ask Callie to dance.

  Wednesday night she called Lou Ann and said, “Can you do me a favor?”

  “What do you need?” Lou Ann asked.

  “Invite Trace Blackthorne over for supper on Friday night.”

  “No problem. I owe him a dinner anyway. What’s the special occasion?”

  “I need a chance to talk with him before Saturday.”

  “What’s happening Saturday?”

  “Trace asked me out on a date. In Houston.”

  Lou Ann whistled. “I could see the sparks flying between the two of you on the dance floor, but my dear girl, I had no idea things had gone so far. Trace Blackthorne and Callie Creed. I would never have figured the two of you together.”

  “It’s Callie Monroe,” Callie reminded her. “And I only agreed to be his date for some charity event at the Museum of Fine Arts. Will you do it?”

  “Sure. Just call me Cupid.”

  “That isn’t funny,” Callie said.

  Lou Ann laughed. “See you on Friday at seven.”

  It was easy to get away from the house on Friday. Callie simply told the truth. “Lou Ann invited me over for supper. I won’t be late.”

  Of course that meant no dressing up. No wearing makeup. Not that she needed—or wanted—to dress up for Trace. There was no need to impress him. They weren’t an item, even if Lou Ann planned to play Cupid. Callie put her hair into a French braid, slipped on a clean pair of jeans and a plaid Western shirt, and gave her boots a quick buffing.

  It was too late to change when she noticed the worn-through elbow on her shirt. She told herself she wouldn’t have changed shirts anyway. Not everyone was as rich as the Blackthornes. Most people had to get the fullest use out of the material things they owned before they could discard them. She wasn’t about to let Trace make her feel uncomfortable about a frayed shirt.

  Trace was sitting in a wicker chair next to Dusty on the back porch of the Rafter S ranch house, drinking a Lone Star, when Callie arrived.

  “Don’t get up,” she said to both men as she stepped down from her pickup.

  Trace was clearly surprised to see her. She’d assumed Lou Ann would have told him she was coming, since her friend was notoriously bad at keeping secrets.

  Had he always been so handsome? Callie wondered. His black hair was wet, as though he’d just come from the shower, and he’d shaved, since his cheeks and chin were smooth. She thought of the time he’d left whisker burn on her cheeks when they’d spent an evening necking, and how ever after he’d insisted on shaving before he came to her. She’d missed the rough, prickly feel of his beard against her skin.

  Suddenly, she realized he was eating her with his eyes as voraciously as she’d been consuming him. She brushed absently at a strand of hair that blew across her cheek as her body responded to the gleam of fascination in Trace’s eyes—oh, yes, she could remember how delicious it felt!—as he gazed back at her.

  “Lou Ann’s in the kitchen,” Dusty said. “She’ll be out in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the hanging porch swing that he knew was Callie’s favorite place to sit.

  Callie would have been more comfortable in the kitchen with Lou Ann, but she settled herself in the wooden swing as Trace handed her an opened longneck from the bucket of iced beer sitting on the porch between the two men. She managed to take the Lone Star from Trace without touching his hand and took a greedy gulp. The ice-cold beer tasted wonderful going down, and the bottle gave Callie something to do with her nervous hands.

  “I didn’t expect to see you before tomorrow,” Trace said.

  “That’s why I came,” she said. “We have to talk.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I’m still going to Houston,” she hurried to say. “But there are complications we need to discuss.”

  “There you are, right on time,” Lou Ann said as she used her hip to shove open the screen door. An immense stack of picnic items was balanced precariously in her hands and tucked up under her chin.

  “Let me help you with some of that,” Callie offered, leaping to her feet and grabbing for the bottle of catsup, the mustard, and a jar of pickles. She followed Lou Ann to the picnic table just beyond the porch, where Lou Ann let everything tumble out of her hands onto a checked tablecloth. Silverware placed strategically at the four corners kept the wind from sending the cloth flying.

  “I decided on a cook-out, because the day turned out so nice,” Lou Ann said. Giant hamburgers sizzled as Lou Ann dropped them one at a time onto the hot grill.

  “Where are the girls?” Callie asked as she helped Lou Ann arrange plates and condiments on the picnic table.

  “Sallie and Frannie are on a Girl Scout camp-out this weekend. Leaving me and Dusty all alone,” she said, her eyebrows wagging up and down suggestively.

  Dusty blushed. “Aw, hell, Lou Ann. Not in front of the neighbors.”

  “Trace and Callie know we sleep together, darling,” Lou Ann said, as she crossed and sat down on Dusty’s lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “For once, I’m not giving away any secrets.”

  Dusty’s blush deepened.

  Trace’s laugh was cut off when Lou Ann turned to him and said, “What I want to know is where you two are planning to sleep this weekend.”

  Callie choked on a swallow of beer. She avoided looking at Trace as she replied, “In different hotels.”

  Lou Ann laughed. “If you say so.”

  “I thought you were planning to stay in your parents’ penthouse on Woodway,” Dusty said to Trace.

  “Callie and I are going to take a walk,” Trace said, rising from his chair. He snagged her hand, set both their beers on the picnic table, then headed toward th
e shade of some cottonwoods along Bitter Creek.

  “Don’t hurry back,” Dusty said, as his arms encircled his wife.

  “Don’t forget about the hamburgers,” Callie called over her shoulder.

  “Hamburgers?” Lou Ann replied with a dazed look in her eyes, as Dusty nuzzled her neck.

  “Come on,” Trace said, tugging on Callie’s hand. “The sooner we finish our business, the less charred my hamburger’s going to be.”

  Trace held on to her hand until they reached the creek. He released it to bend down and pick up a stone, then skipped it across the creek. It quickly plopped in.

  “I used to be better at this,” he said, bending down for another stone.

  Callie leaned back against a cottonwood, to avoid joining him. She didn’t want to be friends. She just wanted things settled between them, so that Trace could go back to wherever he’d come from and leave her alone.

  “What complications need to be resolved?” Trace asked, when the second stone performed no better than the first.

  “I have to leave early in the morning, in order to attend an auction in the afternoon in Houston.”

  “No sweat. I’ll fly you over in the morning. Next problem.”

  Callie was stunned. “There really isn’t any other problem. But I can’t—”

  “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t rather fly than face that drive on Route 59,” Trace said. “What time do you need to be in Houston?”

  “The two-year-olds go on sale at one o’clock.”

  “We’ll leave at eight. That’ll give us time to shop at Neiman’s for a dress, then freshen up at the penthouse before you—”

  “I’m not staying with you, Trace.”

  “Why not? It’ll save you the cost of a room.”

  “I won’t sleep with you,” she corrected.

  He skipped a stone halfway across the creek. “You can have your own bedroom.”

  She thought of the kind of motel room she could afford, then imagined the luxury of the Blackthornes’ penthouse apartment in Houston. She was tempted to agree to his offer. But she knew better. There were dangerous pitfalls lying in wait, if she spent the night under the same roof as Trace.

  “Nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen, Callie.”