Cowboy Crush

by Liz Talley

  Maggie sighed. “Ruth, Cal’s going to ride in the next BFT series, whatever that is, and I don’t have the authority or power to change that. I’ll try to talk to him about his family’s concerns, but don’t hold out hope. After all, Cal is a grown man who knows himself better than anyone. If he says he can ride, he will.”

  Ruth looked as if Maggie had kicked her dog. “No. He doesn’t know his limitations. He’s a rodeo man and that means he’d rather kill himself than do as instructed. I thought you could help. It was a last-ditch effort to get my son to take care of himself, to think about those who love him for once.”

  “I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I think he’ll do fine. He’s determined and he’s been going to therapy and working hard to get stronger.”

  “Of course,” Ruth said, inhaling and then releasing a huge sigh. “It’s not just his shoulder, though. It’s the two serious concussions, the worn-out cartilage in his knees and the broken ankle that didn’t heal right. I don’t know how much more his body can take. How much more I can take of watching my son tossed around like a rag doll.”

  Maggie didn’t have the words. What could she say to this woman who wanted her son to quit rodeo?

  For a few moments they stood in silence.

  Finally, Ruth slapped her hands together. “Let’s go see the barn.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said, opening the back door. She wanted to shut Ruth out and lock it. She wanted to run to Cal and shake him and scream for him to stop riding bulls...to give up the sport...to stay in Texas...to spend every night beside her because she lov—

  No.

  She couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t love Cal “Hollywood” Lincoln.

  They walked out the door and found Cal hooking his trailer to his truck.

  15

  CAL WAS SO angry he could spit. So he did. Right into the dirt next to his trailer hitch.

  So Maggie and his mom were conspiring to keep him sidelined, to use the feelings he had for both of them to manipulate him?

  The thought pissed him off so bad he couldn’t think of anything else but getting the hell away from them. From everyone. Hell, that was probably why his dad had left. Every man knew it was a fact women hid their true motivations behind good intentions. I’m so worried about you. I just want you safe. Use common sense. You’re going to kill yourself. Hand me your balls so I can put them on the shelf.

  It wasn’t about their fears. It was about bringing a man to heel.

  He’d been working on the pens when he remembered he’d told Wyatt he’d send him a pair of old spurs. The kid still wanted to ride. Cal had failed to dissuade the kid, but he’d already discussed all of this with his mom. He reminded her of Wyatt’s propensity for picking up new hobbies that he obsessed over for a few months before setting them aside for something new and shiny. His mother agreed she’d wait rodeo out the same way she’d done with karate, lacrosse and countless other activities. When Cal had come up the back kitchen steps and opened the door he heard his mother pleading with Maggie to talk to him, to use the trust and affection he had for her to manipulate him.

  And did Maggie say no?

  No.

  She said she’d try.

  His heart had withered in his chest as the sour taste of betrayal coated his mouth. He stepped off the stoop, not drawing any attention to himself, stunned the woman he’d spent the past month loving and laughing with could even think about conspiring with someone to take away the only thing he cared about. How could she do something like that to him? Hadn’t he opened himself to her, telling her about what his mother and Charlie had done in the past? Hadn’t he told her how much his mother nagged him about quitting, about doing something less dangerous? Didn’t Maggie know how much his career meant to him...how much coming back after the injury meant to him?

  And she agreed to talk him out of it?

  The door opened and both the women stepped out, shading their eyes with their hands. He didn’t say anything. Just kept working on hooking the trailer to the back of his pickup truck.

  “What are you doing?” Maggie asked, moving toward him.

  “Hooking up the trailer.”

  “I can see that, but why?” She stopped beside him and he could smell the lavender lotion she’d smoothed over her legs when she’d gotten out of the shower earlier that day. He’d told her he loved the scent of lavender...that it made him horny. She’d put it all over her body. Cal had swept her into his arms, tossed her on the bed and made love to her just to prove how serious he was. Now the scent rubbed his face in the betrayal.

  “Because I’m leaving early.”

  “You’re leaving early?” Maggie repeated, stepping back as he brushed by her. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand. The pens aren’t finished and you said you weren’t leaving until Wednesday.”

  “I changed my mind,” he said tersely. It would be better this way, anyway. No more dreading Wednesday, no more making love to her and growing almost weepy at the thought of leaving her. Rip the bandage off and forget about it. Done. Over. Finito.

  “Why? We were going to go to that steak house in McKinney. Wait, what’s wrong? You’re acting crazy.” She tried to put her hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off. Half of him wanted to stop and talk things out. Tell her she couldn’t control him that way. Tell her using his feelings against him was so wrong. But what would it matter? They were over in a few days, anyway. And he didn’t want to talk about his goddamned feelings. He wanted to ride. Conquer. Prove he was worthy in this world.

  “I’m fine. Just realizing I need to get to Mobile early. Clear my head.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice full of tears. That sound tore at his resolve, pecked at his heart, but he wouldn’t be tricked. He wouldn’t be moved by her tears or anything else. He was a man resolved.

  “I do,” Ruth said, setting her hands on her hips. “You’re running. Just like your—”

  “You know, Mom, I’m not like him. You don’t have a right to say something like that. What happened between my father and you is your hang-up. You’ve used it as a crutch your whole life and you’ve allowed it to shape our relationship. You need therapy and you need to stop trying to control me, Wyatt and Gary. No one’s leaving you. No one thinks you’re not important. My dad was a shitty man who hurt you. That’s been over for a long time so let it go. Just let it go.”

  “You heard,” Ruth said, her features shifting into the face she’d used when he’d refused his peas or knocked a glass of iced tea onto the floor.

  He stared flatly at both of the women he loved and set the cowboy hat he’d left on the bumper on his head. “I’m going to Mobile. I have a career and a life to live. No one is going to force me to live her vision of it. I choose to be a cowboy. I choose the life I’ve always had because that’s who I am.”

  Maggie grabbed his arm. “You think I’d try to stop you?”

  He pulled away. “Honey, I heard what you said. You’d try to talk to me, try to make me see reason. I know what kind of woman you are. You live safe. I don’t.” With that, he turned and strode to his truck. He’d left his toiletries and his favorite pair of jeans inside the Triple J, but he wasn’t stopping. He had to get away before he did and said something he’d really regret.

  He needed space.

  Wide-open space.

  He’d drop the trailer at Charlie’s place, drive to Mobile and get his mind right. He had a ride waiting on him there. He had a name to uphold, a career to resurrect.

  Firing the engine, he put the truck in Reverse, watching Maggie and his mother move back so they wouldn’t get run over. He felt like an ass, but even more than that, he felt deep, utter anguish.

  Maggie didn’t understand him, after all.

  * * *

  RAIN HAD COME that afternoon and washed away some of the heat and dust. For once it felt decent outside. Not cool. But decent. Like sweat didn’t roll down her back and her shorts didn’t stick to her thighs. The evening came soft like an
apology.

  Maggie stood in the far pasture, watching the grass sway against the paintbrush sky spread out before her. Tears streaked her cheeks, half of them over the stubborn, dumb-ass cowboy who’d driven away a few days ago and half for the loss she held in her hands. Bud had elected to get a simple urn for his ashes. Ever the pragmatist in things such as this, his romantic nature was captured only by the place he’d requested his ashes be spread.

  His children hadn’t wanted to do it and when the ranch was left to the girl who “thought she was somebody,” Julian had delivered the ashes to her and told her she could deposit the ashes since she was the one who now owned the place.

  He’d said deposited. Like it was no big deal.

  She looked down at the urn. “Well, I did what you wanted. I brought you back to the place you loved. Even fixed it the way you would have expected me to.”

  Pulling the lid off the urn, she said, “Here you go, Bud. Be at peace.”

  She tipped the urn, making sure the wind was to her back and carefully began emptying the contents. As she walked along the hard Texas terrain, she said a prayer for the man who’d been such a part of her life. There was a sense of rightness in her actions, even as the tears dripped off her jaw, landing on her T-shirt. Perhaps she should have worn something nicer than shorts and a T, but Bud would have scoffed. Too hot to be uncomfortable.

  “Goodbye, Bud.” She set the lid back onto the urn, wondering what she was supposed to do with the thing now. What were the rules for a used urn?

  She carefully stepped through the grass and walked back to the rental car. She should have worn her cowboy boots, but hadn’t bothered with being practical. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, crying into her sweet tea when she’d seen the box in the pantry. The signed offer sent over by Hunt Turner sat on the counter. The man had given her a fair price, more than she’d expected. With a heavy heart, she’d scrawled her signature on each marked blank. The Triple J would belong to someone else and she’d go back east and figure out her life. And with that grim thought, she had gotten up, grabbed the box with Bud’s ashes and driven to the back pasture. As if a demon was on her heels, she felt the need to complete her original task.

  She opened the box to set the urn inside and spied a letter she’d not seen earlier.

  On the outside was scrawled Margaret Anne Stanton in Bud’s handwriting. Maggie lifted the envelope, set the urn in the box and climbed onto the back of the car, wincing at the heat of the trunk.

  “Damn Texas heat,” she muttered, ripping the seal and pulling out a handwritten note on Bud’s personal stationery.

  Dear Maggie,

  I’m sure you’re wondering how I knew you’d be the person disposing of my ashes. Rest assured I know what value I was in the eyes of my children. I felt confident you’d see my wishes carried out. You always do.

  It has also occurred to me you might question why I would leave you a place so far from where you call home. Suffice it to say, I had a hunch. As a child you lounged on the couch in my office, staring at the photos I’d taken at the Triple J and eagerly sat, eyes wide, when I told you stories of my time at the ranch. You were the only person who listened to my tales with any interest.

  As you grew into a smart, lovely young woman, I began to imagine you more my daughter than the housekeeper’s girl or the assistant who filed my contracts. A shrink could probably make much of that, but it comforted me to think of you that way. I had not ruined you by giving you too much or loving you not enough, and you pleased me with your tenacity, adaptability and loyalty. I wanted to give you something I thought would be perfect for the dreamer beneath the business suit. In you, I saw myself.

  So I leave you the only place I felt myself. Your first inclination will be to sell the place. But I am betting if you spend any time there, you will find a place to belong. You’ve enough grit, smarts and sass to pull it off, Maggie. Don’t be afraid to be less than practical. When you follow your heart rather than your head, you end up with a life fulfilled rather than one merely lived. Thank you for caring for me, dear girl. You have been a delight and deserve only the best. That’s why I left you a piece of Texas.

  With love and appreciation,

  Bud

  * * *

  THE WORDS BLURRED as a sob ripped through her. Guilt mixed in with her grief as she thought about those papers she’d signed a mere hour before. Bud had loved her enough to give her a future he thought she deserved and she’d let it go. Why? Because she thought it sensible. And it was.

  She’d convinced herself she didn’t belong here. But maybe she did. Where someone belonged was up to them, right? Just because it made sense to go back home and rely on her skills to create a life didn’t mean she had to. After all, the past few weeks she’d spent in Texas hadn’t been good just because she’d fallen in love with a cowboy. No. She’d fallen in love with the Triple J. With the sad horse and the freshly painted porch. With the way the sun fell through the windows onto the warm wood floors...and that soaker tub had her name written all over it. The cat had given birth to kittens in the barn yesterday. Five scrawny, mewling kitties who rooted for milk. The feral cat had even allowed Maggie to pick up one kitten. Wasn’t that a sign? Even the barn cat thought she belonged.

  Because deep down underneath her sensibility she longed to keep the Triple J.

  She longed to be at home...finally.

  Bud had given her a fresh start. The Triple J was that fresh start and it belonged to her.

  Two minutes later she bumped to a halt beside the pretty white farmhouse. She climbed out and gave a wave to Charlie who had just fed Sissy. Maggie had caught him cooing to the kittens earlier. The man hadn’t smelled like bourbon in over a week. He looked better as each day passed. More alive.

  Maggie looked over at the house, the earlier grief slinking away, the heartache softening just a bit. It looked like home. Because it was home.

  Cal had hurt her when he’d thrown ugly accusations at her. She’d not had a chance to defend herself against his words. He’d left, like a little boy taking his toys away. Maggie had known he had an issue with people he loved meddling in his life. But she hadn’t been doing that no matter what he thought he’d overheard. His leaving had hurt and she’d spent the entirety of two nights in bed, crying over the injury done to her heart.

  She’d cried this morning, too, when she’d awoken alone.

  When she’d drunk her hot tea alone.

  When she’d accepted the real estate contract delivered by courier.

  But now she knew she could heal. She loved Cal, but she wouldn’t allow him to break her and send her running back to Philly.

  Her cowboy boots sat beside the front door she’d painted teal blue. Like a symbol of her future. Like they were waiting for her to claim who she was.

  Maggie kicked her flip-flops off and slid her feet into her boots.

  Then she went inside the house to tear up the real estate contract.

  16

  CAL HADN’T EVEN made it to the Louisiana border before he knew he’d been a jackass. And by the time he crossed into Mississippi, he felt like turning around.

  But he didn’t.

  Because he was a man and there was this thing inside every man called pride. And pride liked to toss out comments like “don’t be such a pussy” or “you don’t need that shit” or “plenty of fish in the sea.” Pride was the trash-talker, the destroyer of romance and the chief instigator of divorce, job loss and world wars. Pride needed its ass whipped, but Cal wouldn’t do it because it all felt too raw.

  So he kept driving, stopping for an occasional Red Bull or a can of Skoal in order to push through to Mobile. He arrived in the middle of the night, exhausted, haunted by his behavior and wired on too much caffeine. No bars were open, so he grabbed a motel on the outskirts of town and bought a six-pack at an all-night convenience store where a prostitute asked him if he wanted some company.

  No. Company was the last thing on his mind.

&nb
sp; He went back to his room, drank three beers, showered, dried off with a stiff towel that smelled like bleach and collapsed onto the squeaky bed. When he woke up, it was one o’clock in the afternoon and his head felt like a ripe melon waiting to split open.

  A drive by the arena proved useless. It was as dead as a cemetery but with fewer flowers. So Cal checked out of his room, drove down to the Gulf coast and got a hotel room at a casino. For the next few days he gambled a little, walked the beach and religiously performed the stretches the physical therapist had given him to do daily. He also stared at his phone, praying Maggie would call.

  But, of course, she wouldn’t. And didn’t.

  Why would she? He’d acted like an immature asshole. Accusing her of meddling in his life, storming off like a little kid. The whole episode embarrassed him, but at the moment he’d been so incensed. Anger and hurt rampaged through his body, making him like the bulls he rode—irrational, dangerous and too stupid to know he overreacted. He’d been terribly wrong to leave that way. He’d told her it would be a clean break, no hard feelings, no leaving her hanging with the ranch. But he’d not upheld his end of the deal.

  Had he hurt her?

  He knew he had. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d lashed out.

  So why didn’t he fix it? Call her, tell her he was an idiot, beg her to come to Mobile...or stay in Texas. Forever.

  But he knew the answer. He was scared of needing Maggie. Never before had he needed anyone other than himself. His life had been simple—get up, work out, ride bulls. That had always been enough, and he didn’t want that to change. Cal didn’t need that sort of weakness in his life. Love made a man soft and cowboys weren’t soft. They cowboyed up and rode hurt, so how much different was a busted heart from a busted leg?