Loving A Cowboy

by Anne Carrole

  Okay, life wasn’t a fairy tale. She got that. But she was almost afraid to find out what had happened. They hadn’t been up there all that long.

  If he couldn’t at least try to see things from his mother’s perspective, what chance did she have? He’d never forgive either of them. Despite her helping him, being there for him, declaring she loved him, he only heard what he wanted to hear. When she’d challenged him about the rodeo, he only heard disrespect instead of caring. When she talked about her father, it was an either/or proposition. When they talked about the future, it was always separate futures—his rodeo, her job.

  If there was any hope for them, she knew he’d have to forgive her for walking out and trust her enough to work things through. And then, maybe, she could forgive herself.

  Unfortunately, Chance painted everything in black and white, and to her mind, the world was painted in shades of gray. Being there for her father didn’t mean she couldn’t be there for him. His being in the rodeo didn’t mean they couldn’t still have a life together. Many couples, most with children, made it work.

  Having heard Deidre’s story, it was clear the woman had sacrificed being his mother so that Chance could find a better life with foster parents. Not that the foster parents had been so great, but Chance had grown up into a responsible, successful, hard-working person. And had been indisputably better off than if Deidre had stayed with her husband.

  She twisted to face Chance as he settled on the stool beside her. A few older men sat at the far end, and a couple dined at one of the tables. That was the extent of the crowd other than the bartender, a young, handsome man who could have doubled as a bouncer.

  “Coors,” Chance said as the barkeep looked his way.

  Libby didn’t speak until the bartender had set the bottle down and turned his attention to the older men.

  “Are you angry?” She tightened her grip on her beer and mentally prepared herself for the answer.

  “Yes.”

  Her stomach dipped like she was on a roller coaster ride. There would be no happily ever after.

  “But I’m not sorry,” he said, surprising her. “Much as I didn’t want to see her, don’t want to see her, I think it gave her some peace.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not me.” He took a swig from the bottle and set it back on the bar with a clang. “Life is messy. It doesn’t tie up in a neat bow.” He hung his head and focused on the wood bar as if there was something written there. “I didn’t know what had happened to her. I thought my father had killed her and no one wanted to tell me, because I just couldn’t believe that the mother who had cared about me, at least when she was sober, could leave me behind. And then I learned she had done just that.”

  He swung around to face her. Pain creased the fine lines around his eyes.

  “You know we were dirt poor. My father allowed me only two glasses of milk a day, took two of the three pork chops on a plate for himself. My mother went without milk, without meat, so I could have a growing boy’s share. Took me until I was about eight to realize what she was doing. After that, I’d complain a lot of nights I had a stomachache so she’d have a decent supper. I had the school lunch program to feed me. She didn’t.”

  Libby’s heart clenched. She’d never had to worry about having something to eat. The Brennan family pantry was always well stocked, overflowing in fact. But she understood a mother’s love and the loss of it.

  “She may have made a choice you feel was wrong, Chance. But the choice she made was because she loved you. Not because she didn’t.”

  Chance shook his head as if he couldn’t believe that. Or wouldn’t.

  She had hoped he would have softened toward his mother. But it appeared too many layers of protection had been built up over the years to allow a simple explanation to undo it all. And then she had added to those layers.

  “Did you go to where she lived?”

  His question caught her off guard.

  “Yes. I got the address and phone number from my dad. She had gotten in touch with him a few years ago to see if he knew where you were. Seems she’d known we’d dated. She’d gone to school with my mother, so they’d been acquainted at one time.”

  “What kind of place was it?” Chance resumed looking at the bar top.

  “Where your mom lives? It’s decent. It’s a small apartment in Portland, but cozy. Clean.”

  And on the mantel were pictures of a young Chance. Happy. Smiling for the camera. And one with him sitting contentedly on his mother’s lap, another with his hand in an older man’s—the same picture she’d seen on Chance’s mantel in his great room.

  “She said she didn’t need any money.”

  “She looked comfortable enough, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But you decided to interfere anyway.” He took a long sip from the bottle and stared after the bartender.

  “I just thought…”

  He swung his gaze in her direction again and assessed her with clear-eyed skepticism. “I know what you thought. If only I could see my mother’s side to things, all would be right.”

  “I just felt you’d like to know about her.”

  “No, you thought I should want to know about her.”

  “Yes, all right?” Libby couldn’t hide her frustration. “Did you at least give her a chance to tell her side?”

  He nodded, and she said a silent prayer of thanks for small favors.

  “I’ll admit, things aren’t as clear cut as I thought, but all that means is that the prospect for getting hurt in this world is pretty much guaranteed.”

  “A lot like bronc riding, then. Getting hurt being pretty much guaranteed, I mean.”

  He snorted. “I guess so.”

  “And still you get back on that saddle and ride, even after being hurt. Even knowing getting hurt is more a question of when than of if.”

  He stared at her a minute, as if considering. “Only this hurt is deeper—and lasts longer.”

  Libby could see it in his sad eyes. She’d opened up old wounds, wounds that went beyond his mother, wounds that led to her. She’d so wanted this to work. But he wouldn’t let it work, ever.

  “I never thought you were scared of anything.” Had she thought about it, she wouldn’t have blurted out such a thing as soon as it popped into her head. But maybe he needed to hear it.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. You’re scared of getting hurt. More than of being alone in this crazy world. But have you thought about when there are no more broncs to ride? No more events to enter? When you truly are alone. I know you think you’re cut out to be a loner, but I know you. You need someone in your life. Someone who loves you. Someone you can love. I want to be that person.”

  He stood up. “I need to go, Libby. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  With that, he walked away and took her hopes with him.

  Chapter 21

  The announcer at the Pendleton Rodeo called out Chance’s name, and he settled onto the bronc. With music blaring, the gate opened, and the thunder of hooves mingled with the roar of the crowd. Five seconds, six seconds, twist, turn, the buzzer. Chance hung on, waited for the pick-up man to close in as the horse continued whirling and bucking.

  “Let me down easy,” he told the rider as he was lifted off the bronc. They all knew about his injury, but it didn’t hurt to remind them. Some days the thing throbbed and swelled up so that he could hardly put a boot on. But each time slightly less.

  When he felt the hard turf under his soles, he settled his legs and looked up into the crowd. What he was looking for, he wouldn’t admit, not even to himself. But as he scanned the seats closest to the rail, his eye caught a flutter of blue, a head of brassy blonde hair, and a face he could never forget even if he tried—and he’d given up trying. Deidre Cochran was staring right at him. She waved as she realized he’d spotted her.

  Without waving back, he lumbered off, lifting his hat to the audience before he slipped behind t
he iron-bar gate and headed down the cinderblock alleyway. What was Deidre doing at the rodeo? Why was she turning up in his life? What would he do if she showed up at the locker room?

  He’d be polite, of course. But he had to make it clear he didn’t want to be part of her life. But the question of what she wanted gnawed at him like a beaver working wood.

  These last few weeks, since Libby had shown up with Deidre and the subsequent aftermath, he’d felt lost, like he didn’t know who he was anymore. Or who he could be.

  He thought rodeo had settled that. He was the guy on the bronc who could be a world champ. But Libby had unsettled it. Had given him a glimpse of a bleaker reality. Because one day he could be nothing but an ex–world champ and wondering if that was all there was.

  He didn’t want to be that guy—the guy who relived glory days ad nauseam. He’d met enough of them at rodeo confabs and among the trailers. Guys who’d had a decent run—and then nothing. And now, alone and forgotten, they traveled the circuits looking for answers, looking for another chance to grab the brass ring.

  He reached the end of the walk. This was when the throbbing usually started. Only not today, not yet. He nodded to the sports doctor in attendance to signal he was okay and drew back the curtain to the locker room.

  “You stayed on,” JT announced as if surprised.

  Chance moved to his bag in the corner. “Better believe it. And don’t go looking any prettier up on those horses, JT. I need this win.”

  JT smirked. “You’re closing in on the top fifteen, so what are you jawing about?”

  “I need to be in the top fifteen.”

  JT shook his head, then popped his hat on. “Keep going like this and you will be,” he said as he walked out the door.

  If he could just shake off his feelings for Libby, maybe he could keep going. She said she wanted to be his wife, the mother of his children, the support he’d never had. Libby had a habit of jumping into things without thinking. Their marriage had been proof of that.

  She’d met his mother and hadn’t gone running. But she’d never met his father. Never knew, thank God, the beast that lay within that man’s chest—and might be lying inside of his. Did she really know who he was?

  Hell, he didn’t even know who he was anymore.

  Libby had called him a few times and left messages. He’d texted her to say he was doing all right. She’d text back asking him to call. He hadn’t.

  At least this time he hadn’t fallen apart, and his scores these last few rides attested to that. But, despite using those meditation techniques that had once worked so well, he hadn’t been able to turn off his mind as easily as he avoided her calls. After every rodeo, he had wondered if she’d be waiting for him again, surprising him. He imagined her running into his arms, but his imagination never moved beyond that point. His dreaming had never flash-forwarded to the home they would make together or the children they would have.

  He had to face facts. When he left her at the bar, he’d effectively closed the door on any future with her. And besides, she had her hands full, no doubt, with nursing her father.

  He’d just have to come to terms with that solitary existence she had warned him about. He was never meant to be the object of someone’s love. Not a mother’s, not a wife’s, not a child’s. Some men were made to be family men. He was destined to be a loner.

  Looking around the nearly empty locker room, a question drummed through his head—why had his mother come, and why hadn’t she tried to see him?

  * * *

  Chance’s heart was pounding like he’d been running a race instead of walking up a few stairs to her apartment. It hadn’t taken more than an Internet search and a check through the phone book to find out where his mother lived. As he stood outside the door marked 205, he looked around at the small complex tucked between a convenience store and a gas station.

  The place contained about thirty units. Paint was peeling from the sides of the clapboard building where the Portland rains beat on it. White railing was strung along the outside, defining the second-floor porch-like walkway, which no one would mistake for a balcony. Still, there was no litter strewn across the parking lot, which had been recently paved, if the tar smell was any indication. And the neighborhood seemed reasonably safe and well tended, with bigger condo complexes dotting the sides of the two-lane highway.

  Chance took a deep breath as he asked himself what he was doing there. Or, more importantly, what he hoped to gain by being there. His mother had already told him her story. He’d been thinking a lot about what she had said. And whether her version mattered to him.

  She hadn’t wanted to leave him. Or so she said. She’d tried to protect him. Or so she told herself. Did he believe her? Or did he just want to believe her? Was that why he’d come?

  Never one to run, Chance tapped on the door. Maybe she was at work that Monday afternoon. He could tell himself he tried.

  The thud of footsteps told him someone was home. He braced himself.

  The door flung open.

  “Chance!” It was more of a scream than a heralding. The tears in his mother’s eyes that mingled with pure joy said it was more from surprise than fear as she cradled her head in her hands.

  “Deidre.” He stood at the door, not knowing whether he should go in or what he would say if he did. “I saw you at the rodeo.” It sounded like an excuse.

  “Come in. Come in.” She practically squealed the invitation.

  Chance squared his shoulders and stepped into the tiny apartment. The door opened right into a small space that contained a well-worn plaid sofa that most would have called a loveseat. There was a rocking chair covered in the same red-and-brown plaid as the sofa, with a skirt around the edge, and a pine coffee table that had seen better days. But the place was neat. As he scanned the room, he lit on a shelf, above the newer TV, that was jammed with photos in brass frames. He turned his gaze back to the small woman in a black uniform. She stared up at him with eyes that held too much emotion. Too much emotion to handle.

  He’d made a mistake coming there. He’d no plan, and worse, no exit strategy.

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? I’ve some crumb cake that still should be good. Are you hurting from your ride? Do you need something?” The words tumbled out of her in a big whoosh. She was trembling too.

  This was a bad idea.

  “Are you getting ready to leave for work?” Maybe that was his exit strategy.

  “Not for another hour. I’ve the supper shift at the cafe near Route 30.” She was rubbing her hands one over the other. “It pays pretty good,” she added.

  He nodded. “Coffee would be good.”

  “Great. Have a seat,” she said, eyeing him as if she was afraid he’d bolt. She might have been right on another day. But, he’d come this far…

  She hustled off to the kitchen, and he heard cabinets opening and cups clattering. Chance strode over to the collection of photos. A lump caught in his throat as he looked across the frames. Every one held a picture of him. Chance on his mother’s lap. Chance in his high chair. Chance riding a pony. Chance in his cowboy hat. Chance standing with his grandfather—the same picture he had on his mantel in his living room. There was even his official PRCA website photo printed on copy paper and framed, the only one of him as a man.

  Chance’s legs felt wobbly. He needed to sit.

  The plaid sofa felt soft as he plunked down. He could imagine Deidre sitting there night after night, alone, watching her TV. Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe she had a man in her life. Or friends. He knew nothing about her. And had never cared to know.

  “Here we are.” She bustled in, easily balancing a tray of coffee cups, plates, and half a crumb cake cut into squares. She set it on the coffee table with ease.

  “I didn’t know how you liked your coffee,” she said, sounding a little anxious, “so I brought cream and sugar.”

  “Black is good for me.”

  She nodded and, still smiling, sat on the edge of the
rocker.

  Chance took a sip of the coffee. It was hot, strong, and smooth, just the way he liked it. “Good coffee.”

  Her smile widened. “I wouldn’t be worth anything as a waitress if I couldn’t make a good cup of coffee.”

  Chance fumbled a piece of coffee cake onto one of the blue-and-white patterned plates and took a bite.

  “You were at the rodeo today,” he said after a swallow of the sugary sweet.

  Deidre lowered her eyes as if he’d rebuked her. “Yes. I’d never seen you ride. Live, that is. I’ve watched you on TV, of course. During the NFR. I’ve always wanted to go to that. To see you. But the tickets…”

  “You didn’t stop back.”

  “I thought about it. But then, I didn’t think you’d see me. Not after…” The sadness in her voice shot straight to his heart. Hell.

  He shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

  “You don’t need to give a reason. I’m just glad you are.”

  He glanced up at the pictures of his young self. Behind that little boy’s smiling face was a lot of fear for the man standing off in the shadows. Except with his grandfather. Granddaddy Winslow had been a good man. A kind man. But tough if he needed to be. The beatings of his mother didn’t start until after his granddaddy had died. Because Granddaddy Winslow would have killed Jess Cochran if he’d touched his daughter or his grandbaby. The drinking hadn’t started until after Granddaddy’s death either. But his father’s temper had always been there. Lurking. Waiting.

  Deidre followed his gaze. “You remember riding Stan Sherrington’s ponies when your father worked for him? You loved horses and riding. When your father had been working ranches, you got a lot of opportunities to ride. You were a natural.”

  “I’ve a lot of memories from growing up. Can’t seem to get rid of them.”

  Deidre’s mouth pulled in as she gazed down at her hands. She looked small, frail, vulnerable.

  Okay. He shouldn’t have said it. But it was hard to remember the good among all the ugly.

  Deidre lifted her head, stared straight at him, though her eyes were moist. “I don’t suppose either of us will ever be free of those demons. But we can’t let them keep us from living in this world—or the demons will have won.”