Meant to Be Mine (A Porter Family Novel Book #2)

by Becky Wade

  Needing to come down off her day of stress, Celia led Addie through the apartment and into the backyard. The two of them watered flowers, Celia with the hose, Addie with her watering can and with a stream of run-on sentences in praise of the movie, the lunch, the park, the shopping, and Ty’s character. “Mom,” she concluded, “I sure do like my cowgirl boots.”

  “I know you do, Punkie.”

  “I’ve always wanted a pair of cowgirl boots.”

  Celia translated, in the way of mothers, exactly what her daughter had really just said. It wasn’t a pair of cowgirl boots that Addie had always wanted.

  It was a father.

  On her way out the door the next morning, Celia scooped up her keys. An unfamiliar weight plunked against her palm. The Give Peace a Chance charm had magically reappeared on her key ring.

  She released a disbelieving huff. Ty had only been in her apartment last night for about a minute when he’d dropped off Addie’s gifts. She couldn’t believe he’d had time to attach a new charm or to find and reattach her old one. But clearly, he’d managed one or the other.

  Shaking her head, her lips curving into a reluctant smile, she pulled out the kitchen drawer that contained her miscellaneous junk. The old charm lay inside, where she’d tossed it when she’d stripped it off her key ring. She held the new charm next to it and compared the two. Identical. A matched set of Give Peace a Chance key rings.

  Peace times two.

  “Looks like you also need eggs, more yogurt, meat . . .” Celia jotted the items down, then went back to tapping her pen on her lip and surveying Uncle Danny’s open fridge. “You’re almost out of butter and also jelly.”

  “This is amazing.” Uncle Danny swallowed a bite of the zucchini bread she’d baked earlier in the day. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  Bless him, he praised her cooking every chance he got, and always with heartfelt sincerity. “Thank you.”

  It was Saturday, and she and Addie had stopped by Uncle Danny’s house for their weekly visit. Each time she came by, Celia took stock of his fridge and pantry, crafted a grocery list for him, brought him up to date on his bills, tidied up, and poked around the house looking for things that needed attention (like ferns dying of dehydration, stale sheets, or overflowing trash cans).

  Uncle Danny had founded an online surf shop and continued to manage its big-picture issues. But he had no head for details.

  “Will you let me sell this zucchini bread online to my customers?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure it makes much sense to sell zucchini bread and surf wax side by side.”

  “Surfers appreciate food, C.” He lifted his slice of bread into the air; it was nubby with walnuts and flecks of green. “It’s a crime not to make this available to the public.”

  There had been a time, long ago, when Celia had harbored hopes of making her cooking available to the public. “I’m glad you like it.” She closed the fridge door with her foot and set the shopping list and pen on his kitchen counter. “There’s that.”

  “Did I tell you that I’m going on a lunch date tomorrow with Sandy?”

  “Sandy?” Sandy’s American name didn’t bode well for her chances at a happily-ever-after with Uncle Danny.

  “She’s one of the women from the Party Of Eight group.”

  “I thought you told me they were all too old.”

  “What can I say? I’m desperate.” He shrugged and took another bite of zucchini bread. His tan and sinewy arms protruded from an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt that dated back fifteen years. “Sandy wheels around an oxygen tank and has a tube that whooshes air up her nose, but I’m thinking, hey, maybe I can be down with that.”

  Celia laughed. “You might want to schedule a trim before your hot date.”

  “I need a haircut?”

  “Yep.” She leaned into the dining room, where Addie sat playing a game on her new computer tablet. “Doing fine, Addie?”

  Addie nodded without looking up, so Celia moved back through the kitchen, collected Danny’s mail from the basket by the front door, and took it with her to the living-room sofa. She made stacks on the coffee table—junk, letters, bills. Then she went to work opening it all.

  Danny stood behind her, his attention snagged by the TV program that had been playing, a travelogue touting the wonders of Prague. “What time is it?” He patted his pockets, his chest, and even his head before remembering the Ironman Timex strapped to his wrist. “Ty’s probably riding right now. One of his rodeo deals is on.”

  “Not you, too, Uncle Danny. You can’t possibly like bull riding, can you?”

  “Yeah. Oh yeah, I like it. It’s sweet.” He located the remote and flipped channels. Sure enough, the BRPC meet in Nashville appeared on the screen. “Addie told me back when she started following it. I started following it, too, and I’ve kind of gotten into it. I’m even recording them. Man versus animal, you know? The eternal struggle. Very cool.”

  Celia couldn’t chastise Uncle Danny when she herself had grown into a furtive fan. After weeks of watching it, she’d come to know every rider and bull. She followed the Bull Riders Professional Circuit on Twitter and Facebook. And sometimes during work breaks, she scanned bull-riding-related blogs and read articles online. Her unwilling interest in the sport filled her with about the same level of guilt as did, say, bingeing on homemade desserts.

  Celia craned her neck around. She could see Addie across the space, still at the dining table. “I don’t let Addie watch the rodeos live,” she said, pitching her voice low, “but so long as she’s entertained over there, we should be fine to watch it for a minute while we’re . . . um, working on bills.”

  “Sure.” He lowered onto the sofa, his eyes focused on the action onscreen.

  She handed him his checkbook and a pen, laid the first bill in front of him, and pointed to the balance. The commentators announced that Ty Porter, veteran and three-time world champion, would be coming up soon. He’d be paired with CrushEm, the most lauded bull of the season, a bull that had only been ridden for the full eight seconds once before in his career.

  Uncle Danny whistled. “Ty’s finally going to get a chance at CrushEm. He must be amped.”

  Worry overtook Celia by degrees. A cowboy had injured himself earlier in the season trying to ride CrushEm.

  “I think Ty’s got a shot at staying on him,” Danny said. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The show cut to a promo spot of Ty. Dramatic music swelled. Ty, backlit, strode toward the camera through a mist-shrouded barn. He gripped his rope in one gloved hand, his black hat rode low, and the fringe on his chaps swayed with his gait. Tufts of dust launched into the air beneath his boot steps. The hard cast of his expression promised retribution to any bull daring enough to come between him and glory.

  Celia groaned inwardly. Insufferable showboat!

  While a string of commercials aired, Celia’s nervousness continued to climb. She produced more bills for Uncle Danny. He wrote out checks, then she slid them into envelopes and stuck on stamps.

  CrushEm was a devil of a bull. That dumb promo spot likely had Nashville’s guitar-wearing starlets swooning because it made Ty appear indestructible. He wasn’t.

  Not for her own sake, but only for Addie’s sake, she’d begun to hope that Ty would make it through his rides with his head attached. The fear that he wouldn’t occasionally made her anxious. Occasionally. And just for Addie’s sake.

  The rodeo coverage returned, and Celia stilled. Ty sat aboard CrushEm in the chute, gripping and regripping the rope in his now-familiar pattern.

  The gate reeled open, and CrushEm exploded into the arena. The bull flung himself up and down while bucking and spinning to one side, twisting with jaw-dropping power, spinning to the other side. Astonishingly, Ty was keeping his seat!

  Celia pressed to her feet. “Ride!” Ty continued to fight, to move with the animal, to maintain his balance. “Ride, cowboy, ride!”

 
The buzzer sounded.

  Celia whooped.

  Ty bounded off the animal, landing and then pitching forward onto his knees and palms. The rodeo clowns distracted CrushEm long enough for Ty to leap to his feet. CrushEm ran at Ty, but Ty vaulted easily onto the nearby gates. After rushing at the clowns a few more times, CrushEm finally conceded to trot off stage.

  Celia blew out a relieved breath. Ty dropped to the dirt-covered stadium floor. He lifted his hat, smiled, and turned in a circle in front of the crowd.

  Celia became aware that she was standing and brandishing Uncle Danny’s stamped bill high in one hand as if it were a pom-pom. Danny was staring at her.

  Addie ventured into the living room, her gaze moving slowly from the TV to Celia. “Did Ty just ride?”

  Celia lowered her arm. “Yes.”

  “He stayed on CrushEm,” Danny informed Addie. “For the full eight seconds.”

  “Yes! CrushEm? Really? Can I see it?”

  The three of them sat on Danny’s sofa. They rewound and watched Ty’s amazing ride four times in a row while Celia puzzled over what she’d just done. Had she really jumped to her feet, pushed her fist into the air, and yelled “Ride, cowboy, ride!” in front of witnesses? She, who didn’t even like Ty . . . except for Addie’s sake?

  Honestly! Ride, cowboy, ride?

  Ty’s high-scoring ride on CrushEm propelled him to a blockbuster victory in Nashville. At the close of every rodeo, the event’s winning cowboy stood on an elevated platform in the arena’s center. Ty planted his boots on Nashville’s platform, looking impressive, looking confident, looking like he’d been born to win rodeos. Jets positioned in a circle around him shot steam and confetti high into the air.

  Once she’d tucked Addie into bed, Celia attempted to relax while watching a cooking show and snacking on apple slices and organic crackers. The recurring memory of Ty on that platform with the confidence and the confetti wouldn’t let her unwind.

  In need of baking therapy, she went to work on a batch of snickerdoodles. The moment the cookies came out of the oven, warm and tempting, she transferred the most deformed one onto a napkin. As usual, she felt honor bound to eat the ones no one else would want.

  She was saving her fourth homely snickerdoodle from scorn when she received a text from the triumphant cowboy.

  Did you know that Holley is called the Color Capital of Texas? he asked. The town’s known for its flowers. Think of all the flowers you could grow in your new garden.

  I have flowers in my current garden, she typed back, the flavors of cinnamon and sugar thick in her mouth. My flowers and I are happy where we are.

  “Mommy?”

  Celia spun to see Addie walking toward her with her white blanket clutched in her hand. “Hey, Punkie.” Celia set aside her phone and enclosed Addie in a hug. “Is your stomach bothering you?”

  Addie nodded.

  “How about some chamomile tea and a snickerdoodle?”

  July rolled by, its days warm and sunny. When at home, Celia kept her sliding door open so the breeze and the fresh air could invite themselves in. Addie swam in the River Run pool on the weekends, with Celia acting as lifeguard from a lawn chair nearby.

  Celia soaked the heat into her skin, watched her flowers bloom, and wished she could enjoy it all more. Her money woes made enjoyment of anything difficult. She moved her income around in creative ways so she could meet her most urgent bills. But no matter how inventive, she couldn’t catch up. Her debt grew heavier. A creditor or two began to call.

  To make matters worse, Ty stepped up his campaign to convince her to move to Holley. Several times each week, he insisted on talking to her over the phone. Each time, Celia scolded him and reiterated her request that they communicate through text.

  He proved immune to her scolding.

  Ty arrived in Boise on a gray and rainy Thursday early in August. He ate dinner with his rider buddies, same as always. Ran on the treadmill the next morning, just like usual. For his first ride of the event, the BRPC randomly paired him with Meteor, a mediocre bull he’d met five times and bested four of those.

  Even so, all day on Friday, tension hung over him. He wasn’t hungry, but he made himself eat the same thing he always ate for lunch the opening day of an event: a foot-long turkey sub. Just like the rest of the bull riders, he had his superstitions and stuck to his routines.

  When he arrived at the arena, he made himself at home in the locker room. He put on his clothing in the same order he always followed, then settled his Resistol black felt hat—the same brand he’d used since he’d started riding—onto his head.

  He found a quiet spot in one of the backstage rooms made available for riders and worked his gloved hand up and down his bull rope’s length, making it tacky with rosin, preparing it to do its job.

  He’d spent the summer traveling around the country, same as always, staying in hotels in all the familiar cities, competing in and winning events. He had more fans than ever. They came out to watch him, sent him messages over the Internet, asked for his autograph, and shook his hand.

  He pored through investment magazines each night before bed and worked out in hotel gyms each morning. He followed NASCAR and UFC. He read the sports pages in order to keep up-to-date with his Cowboys preseason. He had friends on the tour. He had money to burn and freedom and time.

  And yet he no longer felt like himself because his passion for bull riding, the one thing he’d always counted on, had left him. He was riding just as well. In fact, he was right at the top in the standings and having one of his best years. What had changed wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t about performance. It was mental.

  He readjusted the rope and went to work on another section of it.

  What kind of father would he be to Addie if he only saw her once a month? Celia hadn’t pressured him to visit more often. In fact, he got the feeling she wanted him to stay away. But he knew it wasn’t right. He hadn’t grown up with a missing father. His father, John, had been at the dinner table every night saying grace and scoring the biggest piece of beef.

  Since his last visit to Corvallis, a voice within him had started whispering. It told him—occasionally at first and then more often—that he’d had his turn, that it was time for him to step down.

  He’d been listening to his own loud and headstrong voice for so long that he hardly recognized that other, softer, voice. And he sure didn’t trust it, because it made no sense to him. He’d taken up riding eight years ago, during those aimless months after returning home from the Marines. It had been what gave his life purpose and success. He wouldn’t be anything without it.

  Besides, he’d made commitments and signed contracts. He had to finish this season. At the end of October his schedule would wrap, and he’d have more than two months off back home in Holley. He could see then where his head was at. He’d always planned to buy himself a big plot of land and raise rodeo stock once he retired from bull riding. He’d think seriously about that come October.

  It was almost his turn to ride. He’d talked to Addie earlier in the evening, but he hadn’t spoken to Celia. His hand paused its motion. He needed to hear her voice.

  Looping his bull rope, he walked to his locker. His cell phone notified him that he’d missed a call from his parents. He’d told his family about Addie a month ago. It had taken his mom a few days to recover from her shock. Every day since, she’d called and pestered him because she, and all the rest of the Porters, desperately wanted to meet Addie.

  He dialed Celia. While the phone rang, he ground his boot heel into the floor. She didn’t answer.

  He tried again, knowing she wouldn’t pick up. She didn’t. And then any time he’d had to spare ran out.

  He mounted Meteor inside the chute just the way he’d done hundreds of times. Inside himself, though, something was wrong. His thoughts had gone black. His heart had turned to lead.

  The cowboys operating the gate waited for his signal. The huge crowd waited for his signal. No turning
back.

  He nodded to the gate man and the bull surged free. Ty’s body took over, muscle memory kicking in and keeping him seated. The bull moved and he countered correctly. His focus intensified. He was doing fine—

  Faster than he could blink, as if giant hands had reached down and jerked him from the bull, he lost his grip and his seat. He went airborne. Sprawling. He landed on his right side with so much force that it knocked the breath from him. Dazed, he looked up to see the bull’s hind legs lifting, close. Above him. He tried to pull himself out of the way. Couldn’t. Meteor’s hooves came crashing toward him.

  Again, he tried to move, to roll—

  Too late.

  Chapter Ten

  Celia watched a few of the early riders in the Boise event, got impatient, and started fast forwarding the prerecorded show while scanning images. Her chest lifted on a sigh. She was sitting on her couch for the umpteenth Friday night in a row about to watch Ty Porter—her ex-husband who was only an ex in her heart, the man she’d once loved who’d rejected her outright—ride bulls.

  This was not, perhaps, the most emotionally healthy of pastimes. One might suspect that some normal thirty-year-old women were out on dates tonight.

  She spotted Ty. Pushed the Play button.

  He looked as unforgivingly handsome as ever, she tried not to notice, in his black clothing and hat. He’d been paired with Meteor. Decent level bull, but not wicked difficult.

  Meteor burst loose and the ride begin. As usual, Ty moved well and looked firmly in control—

  He lost his grip. Just that suddenly, in the space between heartbeats. The bull’s upward thrust sent him into the air. Ty, an expert at landings, landed all wrong, dropping hard onto his side without breaking his own fall.

  Celia bolted to her feet.

  Meteor spun, bringing his hind legs terrifyingly close to Ty.

  “No,” Celia gasped.

  The rodeo clowns ran forward but were too far away to intercede. Meteor’s hooves punctured the dirt, then went up again, drawing nearer to Ty with inexorable and deadly precision. “No!”