Heart of Texas

by Kirk Haggerty

  “Hi mom, hi dad.”

  Karen’s parents were in their fifties ; they were sun-tanned and wrinkled, with hands that looked like they’d worked with ropes and tools all their lives. Their son was the spitting image of Karen, with red hair and freckles.

  “Daniel, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Owens, and this is my brother, Kenny.”

  We all shook hands and exchanged friendly smiles.

  “Welcome to Texas, Daniel. I hope you’re hungry because I made us all a pot roast,” said Mrs. Owens.

  My eyes must have brightened when hearing that. “Pot roast, my favorite. My folks make that every St. Patrick’s Day in Salem.”

  Mr. Owens spoke. “Yes, we’ve heard from Karen where you’re from and why you’re here. Come on in and we’ll chat.”

  The inside was decorated in Texas ranch style; rough and rugged, with wagon wheel lighting above our heads and with deer heads and Indian paintings on the wall. The dining room table was set as if a great Fourth of July picnic was about to begin, including a red-checkered tablecloth. Fine porcelain and silver adorned the table, and a massive crock pot sat in the middle. Inside was the biggest joint of meat I’ve ever seen, surrounded by cooked vegetables and potatoes, steaming and just waiting to be eaten.

  As we sat down, Mr. Owens said the blessing on the food and we dug in. I had to remember that I was here because of business, not because I was Karen’s date. Although it was a sweet thought to entertain. Karen sat opposite me while Kenny sat at my side.

  “I hope you like Texas so far, Daniel,” said Mrs. Owens.

  I wanted to be truthful yet diplomatic. “So far, so good. This is my first experience with Southern hospitality.” I took my first bite into the roast and enjoyed how it tasted.

  “This is delicious, Mrs. Owens.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, you raise horses? No cattle?”

  “Not our specialty,” said Mr. Owens. “We've been raising quarter horses at this ranch for four generations.”

  “Um, forgive me if I ask too many questions, since I’m not from these parts, but what are quarter horses?”

  “No problem, Daniel,” he explained. “They’re horses that you can breed as working ranch animals, or for simple riding or even for racing. They thrive very well here in the Cross Timbers.”

  “What's that?” I noticed Karen and Kenny smiling at how little I knew about life here.

  “This area is what we call the 'Cross Timbers Region'. It's a mixture of tall-grass prairie, savanna and woodland oaks. It forms a boundary between the more forested region of eastern Texas and the treeless Great Plains.”

  “Well said, dad,” said Kenny.

  “So, you raise quarter horse and nothing else?”

  “Once in a while we do weddings. Folks in Texas like to do their ceremonies and receptions on ranches. Besides raising quarter horses, we have an area near Hico reserved for hunters. You can shoot deer, turkey, feral hogs and varmints.”

  I couldn’t help thinking of Yosemite Sam when I heard the word 'varmint'.

  “We use the Ruger No. 1 rifles with Remington .223 rounds to shoot the critters. Have you ever tried one, Daniel?”

  “Uh, eating a varmint?”

  The family laughed and I felt myself blushing.

  “No, shooting one,” said Mr. Owens.

  Well I’ll beee – shucks. How do I tell them that I hate guns with a passion? “Well, I shot with a .22 in summer camp years ago, but…”

  Again the family broke out in laughter. “You mean for the Boy Scouts, the rifle shooting merit badge?”

  “That's right.”

  Mr. Owens grinned. “I like you, Daniel. I think you'll be easy to train. Once you shoot your first coyote, you'll never want to stop carrying your weapon.”

  Like sleeping with your weapon in US Marine training, I guessed.

  Karen spoke up, “Who knows, maybe one day Daniel will graduate to using the Bushmaster AR-15, what do you think, dad?”

  He nodded while taking a bite of the pot roast. “Why not?”

  My ignorance was scaring me. “Bushmaster?”

  “It looks like a mini 'Rambo' assault rifle,” she said. “All the cowboys use ’em around here.”

  I took a sip of the home made lemonade. It was refreshing. “I'm sorry, I'm just not the gun type.”

  “Sure you are,” said Kenny. “You got the biceps to hold and fire them properly.”

  “Those biceps come from years of kickboxing. You know, like the ‘Fighting Irish.’”

  “So if you can box, you can fire a weapon with no problem. I'll take you out in the field and give you a few tips.”

  “You better listen to Kenny,” said Mr. Owens. “He knows what he's talking about. He's won blue ribbon prizes and is NRA certified.”

  NRA Certified, meaning he could scare the living crap out of any pregnant mother in a supermarket with his 'Rambo' gun. “Sure, thanks for the invite.”

  Mrs. Owens spoke. “So you want to hire Karen for your new bookstore, is that right, Daniel?”

  I wanted to look at Karen for a signal, but I feared that might be misinterpreted, so I focused my attention on her mother. “Yes, if she’s interested, of course. She’s already told me on the way here about her work and college experience. I think she would be a great asset at the shop.”

  Mrs. Owens faced Karen. “Did you hear that, dear?”

  Karen didn’t look up from her dinner, “Um hm.”

  “Karen, where are your manners?”

  She looked up. “Sorry, I just think we’re running too fast when it comes to the new bookstore. I think we should wait until it’s stocked and ready to open its doors before we can talk about a job. Please, don’t get me wrong, Daniel, I’m still recovering from several things, one of them is a failed business, and that’s pretty emotional for me.”

  And the other is problem was Big, Bad Willi. I nodded and said, “It’s no problem, Karen. It will take several weeks before everything’s ready for the grand opening. I need to interview and hire a couple more workers. It’s just that you’re the first person I met in Hamilton who had the initiative to run a business venture. That’s important. Not too many people can do that.”

  “And what about your magazine business in Massachusetts?” Karen asked.

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “You write for some country and garden thing. I hardly see the connection between that and opening a bookstore in the middle of Texas.”

  Mrs. Owens interrupted. “You write for a country and garden magazine, well that’s wonderful. Do you have any pictures?”

  “I do have some on my camera, in my truck.”

  “Ok, how ’bout this,” suggested Mr. Owens. “After supper, you get your camera and we’ll show you some nice sights around the ranch, before it gets too dark. That OK with you?”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. Thank you.”

  It seemed like the Owens Family was friendlier to me than the Owens daughter. After we finished a portion of ice cream, we took a look at the horse stalls, with Karen keeping her distance. We hopped into two trucks and drove around several places to get some nice shots of the ranch before the sun sank too low. Our final stop was a hill that had a nice panoramic view of the ranch and surroundings. I was enjoying my time here. The Owens had been very hospitable. I still didn’t understand why Karen was so clammed up against the job offer. I was sure I had been a polite gentleman the whole time. What was on her mind?

  When Mr. and Mrs. Owens left us for a little stroll on their own. I had perhaps a moment to be alone with Karen, since I could see Kenny coming up the hill with two rifles in his hands. “Everything OK?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said, her back was turned to me.

  “Do you think I’m not honest, or have some ulterior motive?” Why did I say that? Of course I did!

  “I just need some time before I make a decision.”

  I nodded. “No problem. Take as much time as you need. I
still appreciate the dinner and tour. The horses are beautiful too. It must be a blessing to live out here.”

  “Not for me, not anymore.”

  How should I respond to that? She had already revealed to me her hurts and wondered what I was going to do with this information.

  “Come here, Daniel,” said Kenny, coming up fast to the top. As he approached me, I saw Karen walk down the hill alone – deep in thought.

  “Here,” said Kenny, presenting me with one of his weapons. Since I didn’t want to disappoint anybody at this stage, I took it.

  “What sort of rifle is it?” I asked.

  “Remington 700 deer rifle with scope.”

  I pointed the weapon downward, toward the ground, with the stock under my arm, just as Kenny was doing. “What do I have to do?”

  Kenny took out a pointed brass round from the pocket of his cowboy shirt and said, “You load it by opening the bolt, like this.” He demonstrated with his rifle and inserted his cartridge. He gave me a round and I did the same.

  “The rounds are Winchester .243, enough to stop an adult deer,” he explained. “Now push the bolt downward.”

  Not knowing anything about bullet sizes and calibers, I obeyed. Either I was going to love this or hate it.

  “Now remove the safety, like this.” I did.

  “See that old stump, half way down the hill? Aim your scope there and put your finger on the trigger.”

  Fortunately the stump was in the opposite direction from where Karen was walking, so I had no fear of shooting anybody.

  “You aiming at the stump?”

  I peeked with one eye through the cross hairs. Nothing. I turned my head to get a better view through the scope with my other eye. The old stump appeared closer now through the sight, although my nose was butted up against the rifle stock. “Yes, I see it.”

  “Ok, pull the trigger?”

  I did.

  The noise was unbearable, as if somebody had screamed loud in my ears. But that wasn’t the problem – the butt of the rifle kicked back against my face so hard that I felt part of my nose collapsing! This was worse than a vicious punch to the face.

  “Ahhh!” I dropped the rifle and fell to the ground, writhing in pain, holding my hands to my face. My hands were already covered with blood.

  Through the ringing in my ears I thought I heard Kenny say, “Oh, shit!” and Karen screaming, “Daniel?”

  Chapter Seven

  I don’t remember what happened afterward. The pain was so great I couldn’t respond and my ears were ringing so loud I couldn’t hear a thing. I was picked up and placed in the back of a pick-up truck with a blanket covering me. The ride was bumpy and I thought I felt someone stroking my cheek and forehead, comforting me.

  A long time passed, I have no idea how long. The pain made it seem longer. The truck stopped and I was moved onto a rolling bed and into a hospital room with bright lights. I don’t know if I blacked out from shock or was sedated.

  I woke up in the hospital room. I was surrounded by the Owens Family. My mother was also there with a nurse.

  “He’s waking up now. Daniel, can you hear me?” It was my mother.

  I felt groggy but answered, “Yes. Hi mom. Sorry for ruining your evening, Mr. and Mrs. Owens.” I sounded funny – like someone was pinching my nose hard. I believed my face was partially wrapped in a bandage.

  “You didn’t ruin our evening, son. It was one of those things that happens with a rifle,” said Mr. Owens. “Docs say you’ll make a full recovery.”

  I thought Mr. NRA-certified had told me how to do everything. I guess it was the awkward angle of my head and the kickback that did it. What a jerk I was. I decided I’d never pick up a weapon ever again. I’d probably develop an allergy to them.

  “It’s broken, is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a partial fracture, Mr. ‘Preece’” said the nurse.

  “It’s ‘Price’, nurse,” said my mother.

  “Sorry. We want to keep you overnight for observation and you can go home tomorrow. You’ll have to wear a splint for a couple weeks.”

  Well that sucked rocks – I was thinking major asteroids.

  I spent the next few days at home in my new house, not wanting to socialize with anybody. I looked in the mirror and almost cried as I observed the plastic splint covering half my face. I swear I looked like Jason from the Friday the 13th movies. If it was Halloween I would have been a hit with the kids as I opened the door for treats. I wrote my latest blog entry and told them this is what happens when gun freaks gave me a lesson on shooting with deer rifles. It couldn’t have been my fault – was it? I was in a state of denial. Of course it was my fault. My nose was in the wrong place at the wrong time – that’s all. I couldn’t blame it on Kenny, which would have been unfair to him and his family, and wouldn’t have made a good impression on Karen.

  But why was I so fixed on Karen? I had Debbie, didn’t I? I hadn’t heard from her in a long time, as usual. Her trip to the mountains in upstate New York was ages ago. Something had to be wrong.

  I texted her about my injury, hoping that maybe I would get at least some sympathy, and Brownie points. Finally she wrote back.

  Hi Daniel. Sorry about your nose. I’m sure you’ll get better soon. I hope you don’t mind if I go away with a friend to Canada? We met in the Adirondacks. We’ll be gone for a while. I don’t know how long. Never been to Canada. Please don’t feel bad. I know you’ll understand.

  Thanks

  Deb

  “Oh, of course I understand,” I muttered. “ No problem, you backstabbing bitch. Go off to Canada with this new ‘friend’ of yours and freeze your ass off for all I care.”

  I should have figured it out a long time ago. How could I have been so naïve? Why do I always think everything is supposed to work out my way? Is it because my parents are rich, or because I’m a spoiled, rotten brat who has had everything his way since childhood? OK, maybe that’s it. I was having an inward temper tantrum. Maybe I’d placed my nose on the rifle stock as I shot, just to attract attention, but pain isn’t the best way to do this.

  Maybe this stroke of bad luck was the perfect opportunity to get things right with Karen. After all, I did lie to her concerning my job. What would she and her family think of me when they discovered that I didn’t work for a country and garden magazine? It was a matter of time before the word got out. If Mr. Bo Hopkins at the other bank already knew, and as he had a reputation of being the ‘meanest man in Hamilton’, then I was screwed. He would have heard about my loan from the other bank by now. Was he out for revenge? Was I just a paranoid bastard?

  A phone call from Mr. Bronsworth interrupted my train of thought.

  “I read your last story about how you broke your nose, Preis,” he said, extra loud and clear in my ear. “I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. I’m sure you’ll recover soon.”

  “It could take a few weeks,” I answered him coolly.

  “Well, you’re not going to sit around and do nothing in the meantime, that’s for sure. I got a couple of assignments I’m sending you off to.”

  “Sir, I have to wear a mask splint.”

  “All the better; that way nobody will recognize your face.” He laughed – I didn’t. I wished someone would punch him in the nose. “I’m sending an email right now; get your truck ready for a little driving. You’re going to see some places.”

  “Oh, wonderful.”

  “You’ll be surprised. Write something good. See ya.”

  I was sent to a rodeo in Waco. I’d never been to one before so I thought it would be harmless fun. I found it odd to see American Indians ride in during the grand entry with their traditional costumes and feather headdresses carrying the flags - I would have expected them instead to bear banners saying 'Remember Wounded Knee'. I must have gotten sunburnt after watching for three hours in that arena under the hot sun. Now I knew everything I needed to know about calf-roping, steer wrestling, bronco and bull riding. How and why do some me
n want to break their necks for a living? I sometimes wonder how certain events can still be practiced in an age where animal rights activists would have shut down these events a long time ago. But I guess nope, not in Texas. Folks just can't sit on their saddles all day and watch Fox News; they need a little exercise, especially when there's no Monday Night Football. The nose splint at least protected me from the smell of horse sweat, hay bales and horse farts.

  Another event that Bronsworth sent me to, later that week was an official NRA public shooting event near Austin. This particular event was called 'Freedom Shooting' with an emphasis on survival training. They even had an outdoor full-automatic machine gun firing demo for the public. I had never seen so many weapons fire in all the war movies I saw when I was growing up. It was like an army of adult kids having a good old time with their awesome and scary WWIII, post-apocalyptic shooting contraptions, destroying old cars surrounded by actual propane bottles for that extra kick when the explosions occurred. I hope they at least scooped up all those mountains of spent bullet casings for recycling.

  When I returned from Austin, the first visitor to my house was my mother. She seemed peeved with me.

  “You’re travelling too much,” she said.

  “That’s my job. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m doing all the work organizing the shop. This is supposed to be your baby, not mine.”

  “Tell that to my boss, he’s the one who cuts the paychecks for me.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve got enough work to do right here. We have a date set for the grand opening.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “In three weeks. I’m putting it in the newspapers tomorrow. I’ve already interviewed four potential workers. I want you to look through my evaluation sheets on them. After all, you’re supposed to be the boss, not me.” She tossed a folder on the sofa next to me.

  Well, that was a first. I never thought I would see the day my mother would say that she was NOT the boss of something.

  The following day I returned to the doctor to see how my nose was healing. He removed the Jason hockey mask from my face and I felt a bit freer. But when I looked in the mirror, my nose was abnormally swollen and blue!