Blame It On Texas

by Kristine Rolofson

  “1960s?” he asked. “We learned that in school.”

  “I didn’t like the sixties much,” Gert said. “I can’t say that was my favorite time, except for Martha’s wedding. Now that was a nice day.”

  “That was in 1969, right?” Kate rifled through the stack of papers on her lap. “I think I have some of those ranch records here. I could tell you the price of beef in August 1969.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” her grandmother said. “No one wants to know about business. They’ll want the human interest stuff. That’s what they’ll want to talk about on the Today show. I’m going to have to write about your uncle Hank, and my first husband, and what it was like to grow up without cars and toilets and CNN.” She shook her head and looked over to Dustin. “My grandfathers were some of the first men to ranch this territory, you know.”

  Now there was something interesting. In spite of all the things he had to do, Dustin found himself curious. “You’re related to R. J. Calhoun somehow, aren’t you?”

  “Oh,” Gert said, those blue eyes twinkling at him. “The Calhouns. Now there’s a story for you.”

  “Wait,” Kate said, leaning over to grab her laptop computer. “Let me type while you talk.”

  Dustin released the boy, who tiptoed through the piles of papers and sat at Gert’s feet. Dustin leaned in the doorway, content to stay on the opposite side of the room from Kate. She looked too good, even if she was a little too thin and too pale. He liked his women robust, blond and holding a beer. Of course, since he’d become a father there hadn’t been any women at all, robust or otherwise. The Last Chance Saloon was off-limits, as were late nights and female companionship. Maybe that’s why Kate unnerved him the way she did. Just touching her hands sent him into thoughts of bedding her. Several times. In a split second of madness, he’d wanted to lift her onto one of those old chairs, spread her legs and take her right then and there.

  He had to get a grip.

  “I’ve got work to do,” he muttered.

  “I thought you got the barn all cleaned up, Dad,” the boy said. “You said you were done.”

  “Yeah,” he said, realizing that fathers didn’t have any privacy. “But there’s always something to do around here, and I have plenty of barn left to paint whenever I run out of chores.”

  “It’s too hot,” Gert said. “Kate fixed you a nice glass of ice water. It’s there on the table behind you.” Dustin had no choice but to turn around and pick up the glass. He took a few swallows of water and cleared the dust from his throat while he tried to think up a way to get out of this house and away from Kate. He wished like hell she would go back to New York and leave him alone.

  He hadn’t thought of her much these past years, except once in a while. Like when he passed the Good Night Drive-In on his way to Marysville. Once or twice he’d awakened next to a woman whose name he couldn’t remember and he wondered—just a few times—what it would have been like to wake up next to Kate. She’d been eighteen; there had been no beds in their summer romance.

  “Dustin?”

  He jerked back to attention. “What?”

  “I said you shouldn’t be working in this heat.”

  “Not a problem, Gert. Really.” He smiled at her. “I know what I’m doing. Thanks for the water. Danny? Come on, it’s time we were on our way.”

  “He can stay,” Gert said. “Come back for dinner. We’re eating at four.”

  “Thanks, Gert, but we’re all set.” He ignored the disappointed expression on the boy’s face as Danny stood up and crossed the room. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, unless you need me before that.”

  And that, he figured, leaving the house, was that. All he had to do was keep his mind off work and his body away from Kate’s. Two weeks was all.

  Not much could happen in two weeks.

  “WOULD YOU LIKE a beer, Carl?” Gert opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. “We’ve got an extra.”

  “It’s Sunday, Mother,” Martha said, hurrying over to return the beer to the refrigerator and shut the door. “And it’s not your beer, remember?”

  “I borrowed a couple from my foreman,” her mother explained, looking entirely too pleased with herself, “for my birthday.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Knepper, but I’ll take a rain check on the beer. Your foreman, is that one of the Jones brothers?”

  “Dustin,” Martha said.

  “Those boys sure had their share of trouble,” Carl said, looking every inch the successful Texas gentleman in his beige suit. Martha especially liked the turquoise and silver bolero at his collar. “That party was quite a celebration. There should be some good pictures in the newspaper tomorrow.”

  “I hope they got my good side,” Gert said, winking at him as she walked past them into the parlor. Or what used to be the parlor. The room was filled with trunks, papers, boxes and some opened maps. It looked as if her mother had dumped the contents of her closet into the middle of the room.

  “Mother, what are you doing?”

  “Research,” was the reply, “for my book.”

  “You’re writing a book?” Carl looked intrigued.

  Martha was real sorry she’d let Carl bring her here. She’d thought they might take a drive to Marysville after lunch, but Carl wouldn’t hear of her missing a minute more of her daughter’s visit home. She suspected he might be a little starstruck over Kate’s job since he’d just started talking about making television commercials for the villas. “How about some iced tea, Carl?”

  “Excellent, Martha, excellent,” he said, rubbing his hands together as if he couldn’t wait. That’s what she liked about him. Enthusiasm. A willingness to do interesting things.

  “Coming right up,” she said. “Mother, what about you?”

  “I’m having coffee right now. Kate brewed us a fresh pot.”

  “And where is Kate?”

  “Back up in the attic,” her mother said, “looking for old yearbooks.”

  “Yearbooks,” Martha echoed. “Whatever for?”

  “Because she thought she’d like to see what people looked like, so she could help me write about them better.”

  “I don’t think you should write about them at all,” she declared, getting out the good glasses from above the stove. They looked a little dusty, so she gave them a good rinse before filling them with ice cubes. She really should ignore her mother and come down and clean out these cupboards one of these days. “Why stir up trouble?”

  “Trouble?” Carl shook his head and made himself comfortable in a kitchen chair. “It’s history, Martha. And who better to tell it than the oldest woman in town?”

  “I’d like to think I have more to recommend me than my ninety years, Carl,” Gert sniffed. “Like my steel-trap memory and my scintillating storytelling ability.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I’m going to call it My Beauville—A Woman Remembers.”

  “Hmm,” Carl said. “Sounds literary.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Well, I guess it could be either, but—”

  “Ridiculous,” was all Martha could think to say. “No one’s going to want to read about Beauville. We’re boring.”

  “No, we’re not,” her mother said. “We’ve had range wars and droughts, war heroes and love stories, buried treasure and mysterious deaths—all the things that make good reading.”

  “Scandals, too,” Carl said. “We’ve had our share of scandals. Remember when that body was found out by the river? And the time the sheriff’s deputy got shot and no one ever found out who did it? Old Bishop went to his grave not telling anyone the true story.”

  “He was messing around on his wife,” Martha said. “I think she shot him and he was too embarrassed to tell. Besides, she only took his big toe off.”

  “I think she was aiming higher.” Gert chuckled.

  “Mother, please,” Martha begged, handing Carl his drink.

  “I should put that story in,” the old woman mutter
ed. She fished around the seat cushion and pulled out a pen. “I think that was in the 1970s.” She scribbled something on a legal pad, ripped off the page and handed it to Carl. “Put that on the pile next to your feet, Carl. Last time I looked that pile was the seventies.”

  “Sure.” He did as he was told and took a sip of his iced tea. “I must say, Mrs. Knepper, you have quite a collection of historical information arranged here. Are you getting ready to move?”

  “The Lazy K isn’t for sale,” Gert declared. “Dustin and I are going back in the cattle business.”

  “The cattle business,” Martha groaned. “Good Lord.”

  “I think it’s nice your mother still keeps active,” the man said. “Writing books and raising cattle at her age is remarkable.”

  She’d show him remarkable, Martha thought, if she could get him alone and out of that nicely pressed suit. Nine years without sex was starting to make her cranky. She was getting more lines around her face and she worried that the insides of her body had dried up and disappeared from disuse.

  Menopause hadn’t fazed her, but loneliness and boredom were about to do her in.

  “TAKE SOME OF THAT over to Jake’s,” Gert said, pointing to the oven-fried chicken breasts left in the pan. “I imagine Elizabeth isn’t doing much cooking these days, poor thing.”

  “All right. I’ll do it on my way home.” Kate set one aside on a plate and covered it with plastic wrap. “I’m leaving you one for lunch tomorrow, or in case you get hungry later.”

  “I don’t eat much,” Gran confessed. “Gives your mother fits, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Is she serious about Carl, do you think?” She put the rest of the chicken on one of Gran’s scarred plastic dinner plates and wrapped it tightly with plastic wrap. Her mother had accepted a ride home from the real estate king instead of staying for dinner, which suited everyone. Gert wanted to talk about her book and Kate hoped to avoid any more scenes of her mother making eyes at Carl Jackson. What on earth was wrong with the woman?

  “Hard to tell, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” Gran turned on the hot water and squirted dish detergent into the sink. “Your father’s been gone nine years now. Maybe she’s looking for a new husband. A woman gets lonely.”

  “She’d be better off getting a dog.”

  “Now, Kate,” her grandmother said in that warning tone Kate had heard many times before. “You can’t expect your mother to live alone in that fancy house for the rest of her life.”

  “Yes, I can,” she said, but she laughed at herself. “I depend on her—and you—to stay the same. It’s comforting to know that the two people I love most in the world are right here—you here on the ranch making cinnamon rolls and Mom fussing over the dust on the mahogany banister. I can’t picture anything else.”

  “That’s plain ridiculous. Round up the silverware and toss it in here.” She squeezed the water out of a sponge and wiped off a section of the counter closest to her, then spread a clean flour sack towel over it. “Things change.”

  Kate did as she was told and stacked the remaining dishes next to the sink. “People don’t.”

  Gran gave her a sharp look and then turned her attention back to dishwashing. “Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t. That’s what keeps life interesting. What about you? Is there a man there in New York who makes your heart beat fast when you look at him?”

  “Not right now.”

  “It’s time you started looking, you know,” Gran said. “You’re not getting any younger and it’s time you settled down and started having a family.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kate said, knowing full well her job and lifestyle wouldn’t include a husband and babies any time soon. “I’ll do my best.”

  “You should marry a Western man,” Gran mused. “They don’t come any finer.” She frowned to herself and rinsed the silverware under the running water. “Most of ’em, anyway.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SHE’D FORGOTTEN about the yearbooks—those black-and-white photographs of the class of ’55, the autographs, the recounting of dances and football games. Martha thumbed through the musty-smelling pages of the Beauville Bonanza—what a silly name for a Texas yearbook—and searched for the photos of herself with her best friend, Nancy. They’d been inseparable since first grade, had stayed friends until Nancy’s death in 1982. She thought about her nephew. Poor Jake. He’d been all alone then, out there on the Dead Horse with old R.J. depending on him. Martha wanted to take the teenager home with her, but R.J. wouldn’t hear of it. Nancy had been his housekeeper for years; together they’d raised Jake.

  The following year R.J.’s son and daughter-in-law had been killed in a car wreck, their son Bobby left an orphan. And Jake had been there for the old man, helping to raise a wild kid as best as he knew how.

  Until, of course, he’d gotten married and moved onto his own place. At least R.J. had done the right thing by leaving Jake that ranch. A man needed something of his own, her Ian always said whenever Gert made noises about them moving out to the Lazy K. Ian enjoyed his store, liked selling hardware and all that kind of thing. Martha had kept the books and they’d done real well, especially after Kate was older and Martha had taken that job at the town hall. She’d always been glad she’d lived in town.

  “Mom?”

  Martha looked up to see Kate standing in the bedroom doorway. “Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I tried to be quiet, in case you were asleep.”

  “Oh, I stay up later now that I don’t have to get up for work in the morning.” She shut the yearbook and set it aside on the nightstand. She’d been sitting on the edge of her bed and had been so engrossed in the yearbook she hadn’t even put on her nightgown yet. “I guess your grandmother stopped writing?”

  “Yes.” Kate smiled and sat down on the bed beside her. “She let me straighten the piles. And I even swept the kitchen floor before she sent me home. I left the computer with her, though, so she knows I’ll be back tomorrow.” She reached over for the Bonanza. “Is this your class?”

  “Yes.” She waited while Kate thumbed through the book and found her picture.

  “You were so pretty. You don’t look like Gran, though.”

  “My father said I was the image of his mother.” She gently took the book out of Kate’s hands and held it on her lap. “Enough of all that,” she said. “You’ve been digging around this stuff all day. What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “Emily and I were going to try to have lunch together if she could get a sitter. I told Gran I’d be out in the afternoon to do some work on the book and then I thought we could all go to the Steak Barn for dinner.”

  “It’s closed on Mondays.”

  “Oh. Well, we’ll go on Tuesday night instead.”

  “This is supposed to be your vacation,” Martha sighed. “I can’t believe your grandmother is making you help her write a book just because she wants to be on television.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s fascinating, actually.” Her beautiful daughter smiled her father’s smile and Martha blinked back tears. She missed Ian so much. “It’s giving me ideas for the show,” Kate added.

  “Speaking of the show, my goodness, Kate, every time I turn it on someone’s always pulling someone else into bed.”

  Kate laughed. “That’s what the viewers want to see. Romance.”

  “Romance,” Martha repeated, thinking of her own situation. “Well, I guess we could all use a little more of that.”

  “Are we talking about Mr. Jackson?”

  “No, we are not.” She stood up and went over to her dresser to find a nightgown. “He’s just a friend.” For now, though he’d kissed her goodnight tonight.

  “Emily said he’s quite the town bachelor.”

  “Emily’s mother-in-law keeps inviting him over for dinner.”

  “Does he go?”

  “I don’t ask,” she said, picking out a chaste lavender gown. “It’s none of my business.” But she knew anyway, of
course. Carl had gone once, thinking he was going to a dinner party. Party of two was more like it, but Irene had always been a little sneaky like that. Like not giving anyone the correct recipe for her lemon bars that year they’d tried a Christmas cookie swap.

  When she turned around, Kate had the yearbook again. The girl had a one-track mind, just like her grandmother.

  “Your best friend married your brother? That must have been wonderful.”

  “It should have been, but Hank wasn’t an ideal husband.” There. She’d spoken the truth without saying anything. It was a skill she’d honed over the years. Even Ian, bless him, never suspected a thing.

  “Why not?”

  “He drank. Like his father, Mother’s first husband. Handsome, charming, all Texas good ol’ boy, but with a streak…”

  “A streak of what?” Kate prompted, an absolutely fascinated look on her face. For heaven’s sake.

  “A dark side,” Martha said. “Like those people on your soap opera. Nice on one side, yet not so nice on the other. I guess alcohol can do that to a person.”

  “I guess. So Nancy married your charming, handsome alcoholic older brother. And then what?”

  “Older half brother.” Martha made a move toward the door. The bathroom was just across the hall and as good a place as any to hide from her daughter’s questions. “They didn’t live happily ever after,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “The usual things that happen when a husband spends more time in bars than at home. Kate, I’d like to get dressed for bed now.”

  “Oh.” But she held on to the yearbook. “Do you mind if I look through this?”

  “Of course not, but it smells,” she pointed out. “You should air it out for a few days.”

  “I’ll take it to show Emily tomorrow. It might take her mind off being ten months’ pregnant.” She kissed her mother good-night before leaving the room. “See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Kate,” Martha said, wishing Gert had never started this book-writing business. What was past should stay in the past.

  And some secrets should stay buried. For everyone’s sake.