by Lynn Shurr
“Hi, darlin’. It’s Bodey. I got to tell you I won’t be paintin’ this week. I have business out of town. I tracked down some cows from the line of Bodacious, the meanest yellow fucker who ever lived. I need to go check ’em out and make an offer.”
“Only you, Bodey, would be interested in mean cows. I’m surprised you still want to paint, considering last night.”
“Hell, Red gave me seven hundred for my little squiggle. I might have a real future in art. Now, don’t get upset. I know he was payin’ for my name signed in the corner. Would have cost him nothing written on a scrap of paper.”
“That’s the art world for you, fickle. Still, it wasn’t a bad night for me entirely. After I dropped the Sisters off—poor dears, they slept most of the way back to the Academy, too much excitement—I went back to the exhibit. A woman from Dallas approached me about doing a landscape with the Treaty Oak in the center—before it was poisoned, of course. She wants scenes of Texas between the branches and a bigger canvas. She didn’t even flinch when I told her how much Hardy paid for his painting. Hardy had one of his work crews build the stretchers and staple the canvas, too. Of course, Hardy expected extras for the price and didn’t get them. I’ll have to pay someone to make the next canvas for me.”
“That’s a Texan for you, big-hearted, free-spendin’ people. As for Hardy, I’m hoping you won’t take up his offer.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Overheard last time I was at the studio. You won’t be movin’ into his townhouse, will you?”
“No, I won’t. I was trying to find a way to tell him without losing the commission—which doesn’t say much for me. It’s strange, though. Hardy barely bothered with me before he saw us together at the Rainbow Art Walk. Suddenly, he was pressing me for my favors. You gave him some competition, I guess. Then, last night, he never mentioned the subject. I had to detach him from Amanda and find a place to tell him definitely no. He wasn’t upset.”
“Hmmm,” Bodey said happily. “Might have been a case of who has the biggest dick in the pasture when he saw us together, or that little black dress you were wearin’, but whatever, I’m glad I didn’t have to flatten a rich patron of the arts for you.”
“Speaking of flattening people, I did not appreciate what you did to Evan. Okay, maybe I did. He was being obnoxious, but then, so were you.”
“Dicks again, but I thought I was protectin’ your honor. Now, that’s a lie, and I’m not given to lyin’. About drove me mad to think you let him paint you nekkid, that you might have been with him and Hardy, too, after we were together.”
“That shows how little you know me. If you had taken a closer look at the painting you would have seen Evan did it from memory. That woman is considerably younger than I am. She has no tiny lines near her eyes. Her breasts are higher, her waist and hips smaller.”
“I’m lookin’ at her right now. She catches the first mornin’ light across from my big, lonely bed. She looks mighty good to me. It was the tub threw me off. I’ve seen your tub.”
“You’ve seen considerably more than my tub and evidently didn’t notice the details. You know, Evan used my bathroom, too, just like you did. As for your lonely bed, I’m sure you could fill it with someone more youthful than me.
“Your details are fine. As for my bed, I could have put three honky-tonk angels in it a few nights before I proposed, but when you’re lookin’ for quality, you don’t go for common stock.”
“Are you comparing me to your mean cows?”
“Nope. Never. I wouldn’t do that, not ever.”
Whoo-ie, that was a close one. He needed to get off the phone. As it was, he’d need a hand job or a cold shower fairly soon between the picture of the young Eve on the wall and the voice of the real Eve, low and warm, and maybe even teasing on the phone.
“Anyhow, I’m headin’ for Oklahoma this afternoon. You’ll be here when I get back, right? No slippin’ off to San Francisco?”
“Judging by who comforted Evan last night, I’d say that yacht has sailed with another passenger aboard.”
“Will you miss me, honey?”
Eve laughed, hearty and loud. She hung up on him.
****
Eve did miss Bodey Landrum. It seemed as if Bodey had ridden into Rainbow bringing thunder and lightning with him that first night and had electrified the town. When he rode out again, he took that energy with him, and the hamlet of Rainbow returned to its serene and isolated self.
His posse vanished, too. Hardy left Eve strictly alone. Renee Hayes called to cancel her art lessons indefinitely. She planned to take a trip to the west coast with Evan who had asked her to say good-bye for him. The coward, Eve thought. No apologies for painting her without her permission or his remarks at the art walk would be forthcoming. The great Evan Adams would crawl out of town on his belly exactly like he did the last time in Houston.
Eve should have appreciated the return to quiet and calm. She had the time to paint and research the Texas project without men showing up at her studio and calling unexpectedly. An advance allowed her to pay for the stretching of another huge canvas. She found a picture of the oak before it was vandalized, made a list of scenes she wanted to include, the Alamo being a must, bluebonnets instead of iris, cattle rather than alligators, more than enough to keep her mind occupied. The two large pieces would give back five years of life striving to pay off medical bills. Why was she restless? Why wasn’t she happy?
Sitting at lunch with the Sisters, Eve absently asked them if she could bring them a dessert. “It’s Lent, dear,” Sr. Helen reprimanded.
“Sorry,” Eve apologized, finally noticing that Sr. Nessy dined on a large, dark roll of bread and ice water. “I thought you usually fasted on Fridays.”
“We are doing an extra penance this week. At our age, we are allowed a clear soup in the evenings to prevent our dropping over dead, but Sr. Helen and I have forgone it.”
Eve smiled sadly. What could two elderly nuns have to atone for—impure thoughts? No, that one would belong to Eve come her next confession.
“Pride,” said Sr. Inez. “Even at our age, we have pride in accomplishments whose credit should be given to God.”
“Pride,” Sr. Helen agreed. “One of the deadly ones. It wouldn’t be gossip if we told Eve what we heard this morning. It would be spreading the good news, right, Sr. Inez?”
“I should think so.”
“Amanda and Hardy Courville are going to renew their wedding vows right here in our chapel the last week in May on their twentieth wedding anniversary with a gala reception to follow on the Academy lawns. Their sons and daughters will be attendants, and there will be wedding cake!” Sr. Helen informed Eve with a glance at the dry stub of the roll remaining on her plate. “Gluttony, that’s another one.”
“I’m sure God will forgive you, considering the wonderful news. Don’t most people wait until their twenty-fifth to do that kind of thing?” Eve asked.
“Amanda and Hardy have rediscovered each other and could not wait, thanks be to God,” Sr. Helen replied.
“And to all his saints,” added Sr. Inez. “How are things going with the stimulating Mr. Landrum? I mean, how is he progressing with his art?”
“Isn’t curiosity a sin?” Eve chided.
“No, I don’t think so. Nessy?”
“Definitely not. This is a polite inquiry into the progress of one of your students, Eve.”
“He’s gone,” Eve told them.
The sisters exchanged upset glances. “Gone, both he and Mr. Adams?”
“How did you know Evan had left?”
“Renee Hayes stopped by to tell me that she had sold one of her paintings at the art walk. Mr. Evans said her style would certainly draw attention in San Francisco. She went with him to pursue a career as an artist,” Sr. Helen informed Eve.
“She was boasting, and never a word of thanks to her teachers or to God who gave her whatever talent she has,” Sr. Inez snapped.
�
�Pride,” said Sr. Helen again. “It’s never good to have too much pride.”
“About Bodey—has he moved back to Texas?” Sr. Inez nudged the conversation back where it belonged.
“Oh, no. He’s going to look at some mean cows out west for his bull raising business.”
“Mean cows and bull raising, an interesting man, Bodey Landrum, if a little rough around the edges,” Sr. Inez reflected.
“Yes, but in some ways his manners are better than Evan’s. At least, he seems sincere and doesn’t look down on people of other races or with less money.”
“Bodey has a good soul,” Sr. Helen said with conviction.
“Well, I’m not sure about that. I think it might be sort of spotted like those paint horses he likes to ride. I just don’t know what to make of Bodey Landrum.” Eve sighed.
The Sisters smiled. “It will come to you with time and prayer.”
Chapter Ten
Bodey studied the cows milling in a corral made muddy from an early spring rain as the animals looked for a way back to freshly green pasturage. Each cow showed the slight hump of Brahma ancestry and the yellow hide of the offspring of Bodacious.
Bodey glanced down at the man in the wheelchair. At first, he had been had thrown by the fact Connelly’s ranch manager was a paraplegic, but once the conversation turned to cattle and rodeo, he’d grown comfortable with Patrick O’Shea and forgotten about the chair. O’Shea knew the business and did his job well, regardless of any handicaps. Bodey could respect that.
“Connolly said you could take your pick of the heifers, he’s that pleased to be doing business with Bodey Landrum, but the cows with calf aren’t for sale. Year or so, you’ll be the competition.”
“I plan on keeping the breeding operation small scale. I’m giving some thought to branching out into training bull riders, professionals and dudes lookin’ for a thrill.”
“That won’t step on our toes any. Point out the ones you want, and Clyde will cut ’em out for you.”
Bodey eyeballed the circling herd. He noted some of the feistier heifers who kicked out when crowded. “Let’s load up the one with the stripes on her flank and that black-eyed beauty over there. How about the one that’s nearly cream-colored for the third?”
O’Shea motioned to the rider who moved among the cows, his horse working with him to isolate the chosen animals and steer them toward a chute where another hand waited to work the gates that would move the heifers into Landrum’s livestock trailer. Cows with calves by their sides pushed their young protectively behind them and bellowed at the passing rider. Some lowered their heads and pawed the earth, more like bulls than cows. These were tough old ladies who wouldn’t hesitate to take on any predator trying to get at their babies. Clyde and his mount ignored them and continued to pursue the black-eyed heifer.
“Now that’s a pretty sight, a good man on a good cuttin’ horse.”
“He ought to be good. That’s Clyde Michener who made his mark on the circuit doing just that. He retired maybe ten years before you did. Most of us are retired rodeo here. You have time for a meal? It’s about nearly dinner, and the rest of the boys will be in soon. They’d all like to meet the great Bodey Landrum.”
“Be my pleasure.”
His big biceps pumping, Patrick O’Shea led the way to the kitchen. The man’s chest had grown broad from years of controlling the wheelchair. Below the waist, denim covered two shriveled legs stuck into cowboy boots. O’Shea went up a ramp and through a kitchen door someone on the other side had left ajar.
“Wash!” a loud-voiced woman shouted.
“Sarah Ann, Clyde’s wife. She’s the cook, mouthy but not mean.” Obeying, Patrick pulled up to a low washroom sink and scrubbed his hands with Bodey following suit.
Patrick parked himself at one end of the table and motioned to Bodey to sit next to him. Sarah Ann continued to bark from the kitchen.
“Wipe those boots. Hang up that hat. No one eats with a hat on in my kitchen.” She placed two big tureens of beef stew chunky with quartered potatoes and onions and golden coins of carrots on the table, then slotted biscuits still in the pan between the steaming containers. Sarah Ann, cradling a wooden bowl, moved around clacking the salad tongs. “Y’all want salad.”
“No, ma’am,” said a young cowboy.
“You misheard me, boy. Y’all want salad. Eat your greens. Dressing is on the table. Pass it around. Sugar your own tea. Once I set down, I’m not getting up again.” Sarah Ann made sure each and every side bowl was filled with salad before she took her seat at the other end of the table next to her husband.
Settling her ample hips, Sarah Ann announced, “Peach cobbler for dessert. Prayer before eatin’. This ain’t the public schools.” She swatted a hand that reached for a biscuit, but kept the prayer mercifully short.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Sarah Ann is Clyde’s wife but everyone’s mother,” Patrick O’Shea said to Bodey.
“She reminds me of my own, especially the hand-washing and eat your greens parts. Bets didn’t cook much though. I took most of my meals at the diner where she worked. After she married Big Ben Barnum, she had someone to cook for her.”
“Big Ben was a great guy. He never turned away a cowboy who needed a meal or a small loan to keep going,” Clyde Michener recalled.
“He put me on a calf at the age of eight, and I just kept going up in size from there. When I went on the road, he’d come bail me out of any trouble I got into and ream me out good for worrying my mother before he left. She’s gone now.”
“Yep, I remember when you were going for your fourth World Bull Riding Championship. You stayed on for an extra eight seconds in her memory. I was just a kid, but that was something to see,” the young hand said.
He wasn’t much more than a kid now, maybe nineteen at the most, but Bodey still felt a twinge of old creeping up on him. He switched the subject. “Clyde, I know you took a few buckles in your day.”
“Mostly for roping and cutting, some steer wrestling. Me and Sarah Ann married young. She wouldn’t have me doing any of the rough stuff when we had three boys to raise.”
“Smart woman, Sarah Ann,” Patrick remarked. “If I’d had a wife like her, I’d still be whole. Two ton bull came down on my spine when I was only twenty-one, one of Connolly’s bulls. Wasn’t Connolly’s fault, but he asked me if I could use a computer. Of course, I couldn’t. So, after I did my rehab and got used to my chair, he sent me off to learn. Said he was too damn old for that stuff and wanted a man who could keep track of bloodlines and the finances and bookings on a computer. He took the training costs out of my paycheck over the years because he said he didn’t take on charity cases. He left me my self-respect. There’s another good man for you.”
Words of agreement passed around the table like the pans of biscuits. Bodey took a second biscuit and used it to wipe up Sarah Ann’s rich gravy. The portion covering his plate was large enough not to be an insult to the cook. She smiled down the table at him.
“Your real daddy must have been proud of you, too, Bodey,” Sarah Ann said.
“Never knew him. My mama said she’d introduce us if he ever passed our way, but that never happened. Big Ben taught me all I know.” He never had told the press the circumstances of his birth and wasn’t about to tell these strangers.
“We used to kid Pat when we watched you on the TV. He’s got your eyes, I’d say, and that same chin. The resemblance is even plainer right here in person,” Sarah Ann insisted.
“Any man would be proud to have Bodey Landrum for a son. He wouldn’t hang back on bragging about it,” Pat O’Shea said, shaking his head in denial and smiling at Bodey.
His smile, his chin, his thick, curly hair turned an iron gray, but most of all his blue, blue eyes, the eyes his mama could never forget, looked right at Bodey Landrum like a reflection that had aged him twenty years. Even as a prickly teen who didn’t want mothering, Bodey had tolerated Bets running her hand over his dark hair and saying, “Your dad
dy had the most beautiful eyes, Irish eyes,” when she’d had a few too many margaritas. Those eyes were his only clue to his origins. The biscuit he’d just eaten wadded up in his stomach.
“You ever do the rodeo in Lafayette, Louisiana, Pat? That’s right down the road from where I’m livin’ now.”
“I had the time of my life in Lafayette, big win, big party afterward. I swear I was still hung over a week later when I rode a bull for the last time. Maybe if I hadn’t partied so hard my reflexes would have been better and I wouldn’t be in this chair now. Hindsight. Hell, what does anyone know when they’re twenty-one and think they’ll never die?”
“I had my own worst moment around that age,” Bodey said. Eyes turned toward him. Ears waited for a story.
“I was twenty-three, had just lost my traveling companion and best friend to a shotgun wedding. Ole Rusty, he always took care of our gear, made certain I got back to the room and on to the next event if I’d been out carousing. He said it made up for my providin’ the truck and horse trailer to get us around, but he didn’t have to do it. I was kind of lost without him there for a while, and sure enough, I left some of my things behind in a motel room. I got to the next meet and didn’t have time to go back before my turn came with the bulls, so I figured what the hell, I could borrow a bull rope.”
Pat O’Shea whistled through his teeth, and other men around the table who had ridden bulls murmured. Bodey pointed at the youth. “Never borrow someone else’s bull rope.”
“Oh, no, sir,” the youth replied so earnestly that the older men laughed.
“I was four seconds out of the gate, and I came flyin’ off that bull, got tangled in the borrowed rope. I swear that bull nearly turned himself inside out tryin’ to get at me. He hooked me across the back. If the clowns and bullfighters hadn’t gotten in his face, I’d be long gone. As it was, I nearly lost a kidney, was out eight weeks, finished so low in the rankings I thought they’d never let me ride again. Worst of all, my mama begged me to quit. Worked out all right, though. Sobered me up, and I came back a better man. The next year, I won my first All-Around. When Cody Lambert came up with the Kevlar protective vest, I was first in line to get one. Those things have saved some lives, and only a fool would ride without one now.”
