The hum of his respirator is the only sound in the wide expanse of bedroom he used to share with my mom. It’s so different than the room she shares with Ty’s father in California. His bed is the same handmade knotty pine. Even the bedspread and pillow shams are the same, baby blue gingham.
Mom’s bed at home is glossy silver. On her wall hangs three framed pen and ink drawings of Chinese symbols. On her armoire sits a simple bamboo plant.
I can’t even imagine her in this room now, but I blink and there she is, sitting with Dad in bed, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. They’re laughing about something I’m saying. I’m eight and big toothed, with skinny legs not yet used to my growth spurt, and I’m standing at the base of their bed, begging Dad to take me fishing.
“Let your daddy rest a bit, Paige.”
“What kind of cowboy says no to a fishing offer from a pretty lady?” Dad says, shooting me a wink. He hops out of bed and pulls on his jeans.
“But this is your day to sleep in,” Mom says.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he says. “And I’ll see you later,” he tells her in a voice that makes eight-year-old me think yuck, but damn if I wouldn’t beg to hear it now. To see her respond, with a smile so bright and full of love, “Have fun you two! And bring home some trout big enough for supper!”
Now Dad sits quietly staring out the window.
I swallow hard. It’s not getting easier.
I touch his shoulder and sit in the high-backed chair next to him where Mom would be if she were here.
“Daddy? I have an idea. And before you say no, please hear me out.”
His watery eyes rest on mine. There’s a bit of crust in the right one. I move for the hand towel Anna keeps over his chair to wipe it off, but stop. Retreat. I’ll tell Anna about it later. She doesn’t want me doing any of Dad’s basic care. That it would be too humiliating for him, she says. I disagree. I’m here, why can’t I help? But I honor what she wants. What he wants. I do my best to act like a normal daughter. Daughters don’t wipe their father’s sticky eyes. Maybe they do in an ideal world, but this isn’t an ideal world. Whatever. I pick my battles. I clear my throat to pick one now.
“Dad, I’d really love to try to ride that mustang—we call her Scout now—I’d love to try to ride her in the bareback competition…i-if it’s okay with you.”
His eyes twitch, his version of widening.
I swallow. “Yeah, I know. It sounds a little crazy, but I think I can do it. She’s really taken to me. Even Jake says so. If I work hard, I could get her to let me ride her and…”
I stop talking as I watch his fingers move over the device in his keyboard that gives him words.
Bareback is a whole different story, Paige, sweetheart. She’ll buck you clear off.
“I don’t think so, Daddy. I want to try.”
No. You’ll get killed, or worse, end up like me.
I blink. “Being like you isn’t worse than being dead. Don’t say that.”
He doesn’t answer. Does he mean that? Does he want to die? Does he really think that would be better?
I’m grateful for each sunrise and each sunset, he types.
“Me, too,” I say, and I am. “I want to try. I really want to try.”
Proud of you, Paige. But let’s try and think of something else, okay?
In my daydream, instead of closing his eyes to the hum of his respirator as the sun shines yellow stripes on his baggy gray sweat pants, Dad leaps up, grabs my hand with his left hand and his tackle box with his right, and together we take a dusty walk to the creek. In the new morning sun, we brainstorm ideas together, smart and brave.
In real life, I lean in close, my forehead on his arm, and I hope he changes his mind as we talk in this new way.
Chapter Forty
Then
The following week, the five of us sat around the same table in the same exceedingly uncomfortable chairs. It was Ty’s turn to talk.
“I have another problem in addition to the video game one,” he said.
“Oh?” The counselor leaned forward, actively listening.
“Yes. I’m in love with someone. A girl. But she isn’t in love with me.”
“The trials and tribulations of young love,” Mr. Fenrick said like he was teaching a Shakespeare class. I groaned and slunk lower in my chair. “Is this girl your girlfriend?”
He cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “Not exactly.”
Melt floor. Cave in. Earthquake?
“Well, does she reciprocate your feelings?”
Oh. God.
“At first, yes. But now she’s just a tease. You know those types.”
Mr. Fenrick frowned. Took off his glasses, and leaned in. “Not necessarily. What do you mean by that?”
“You know, leading you on, then backing off when things get heated.”
He was such an asshole. My fists clenched under the table. Heat crawled from my thighs to my belly where it turned into bile.
“Sounds like she’s changed her mind. As a young, responsible man, you need to respect that.”
“Exactly,” I said out loud.
The other students looked confused. Ty tipped back his chair so far I thought he would fall backwards. I hoped he’d fall backwards and split his head.
“Mr. Fenrick?” I said. “I—we…I mean, can I be excused? I need to use the restroom.”
I gathered up my stuff and fled. I ran into the bathroom and turned on the water. I splashed my face. When I looked up, Ty’s image joined me in the mirror. With a yelp, I jumped.
I spun around. “Are you insane? What are you doing in here?”
“We need to talk.”
“No.” I poked his chest. “You need to listen. You have to leave me alone. You have to stop thinking about me. What was your plan back there, huh? To out us to Mr. Fenrick—to the whole school? Don’t we have enough problems without bringing our personal issues to the public?”
“Maybe.” He stared at me with this horrible intensity. Blink, Ty, blink. He didn’t blink. “I don’t know.”
I swallowed. He was crazy. This was dangerous and getting worse by the day. When I tried to push past him, he pressed a hand on either side of the wet sink, trapping me. “Let me go, Ty.”
“No. You’ll run off and you won’t listen to me. What happened the other night…I shouldn’t have done it. I thought you wanted to. You let me sleep in there and you smelled so good and once we started you seemed to like it.”
“I said no, Ty! I pushed you off. If you weren’t my stepbrother, if I didn’t want anyone finding out about us, you’d be in JAIL for that.”
His face was inches from mine when he growled, “Right. Who’d believe you?”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re the one putting me there.”
His face was contorted like a psychotic character in a film—angry one second, despondent and pathetic the next. Did he honestly think he’d done nothing wrong? I stopped. “Putting you there? Ty.” I glanced at the door to make sure no one was coming in. “I ended things between us. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
I grabbed his forearms, pushed at them.
“The right thing for you, maybe. What about the right thing for me?”
“I cannot be the right thing for you.” I squeezed his arms harder, tried to shove them out of the way. He held tight—his muscle tensing under my touch. “Ty, move.”
“No. I’m not going to let you run away from me. I know you want this as much as I do. Remember. Remember how good we are together.”
He tried to kiss me. I recoiled and slapped his cheek. Hard. Then shoved him so hard he fell back into the mirror. I ran out of the bathroom, ran down the open corridors. When I couldn’t run anymore, I slowed to a brisk walk, my heart pounding. Trembling, I got out my phone, dialed my mom’s number. Got her voicemail and hung up again. I thought I could control this. I thought I could control Ty. I couldn’t.
He followed me off campus. Dow
n the sidewalks. All the way home. We didn’t speak until we were a couple blocks away from anyone who might have overheard.
“I’m sorry. Wait up. Paige, I’m sorry.”
“Get away from me, Ty!” I fumbled with the house key. But what would going inside do? He’d follow me in and harass me there. Or attack me.
“I only want you.”
I shook my head so hard my brain rattled. “That’s crazy talk.”
“It’s true.” He grabbed my wrist.
“Ty. You have to stop this or…”
“Or what? You’ll tell your mom? You’ll tell your dad? You’d never.” He was smiling now, in this weird challenging way that made me want to kill him.
“Leave me alone,” I said. “You’re s-scaring me.”
His eyes changed from hostile to desperate as quick as an afternoon storm. He slumped down on our front porch. Head hanging down, he tugged his fingers through his hair. “What if I wasn’t your stepbrother? Would that make a difference?” His eyes were hopeful.
“Not after what happened the other night and just now in the bathroom. No.”
His eyes narrowed. “I said I was sorry about that.”
I looked at him. I looked at his too-big designer pants, his backward baseball cap, his two-hundred-dollar sunglasses, his sloppy come-hither grin and sarcastic quips he hid behind. Trappings. Like those glue traps people put out to catch mice and rats, leaving them to starve to death, never able to reach the glob of rotten cheese that had lured them there in the first place.
I was the mouse in Ty’s trap and I had no idea how to get out.
Chapter Forty-One
Now
Whether it’s bareback or saddled, I’m determined to ride Scout without breaking her.
I hate that phrase—breaking—and, as we approach the corral, I tell Jake so.
“Can’t we think of a term that doesn’t sound so forceful and violent? I don’t want to crush her spirit. I don’t want to make her do something against her will.”
“It’s just a word.”
“So is murder and r…” I start to say rape, but can’t. “Anyway. You know what I mean.”
He frowns. “Breaking a horse isn’t like rape or murder. Aren’t you being a bit hypocritical here, anyway? On one hand, you’re trying to get her to trust you while on the other, you’ve devised grand plans to trick her into rodeo.”
“That’s not the same thing!”
“Still. Coercion.”
I fold my arms. “Is it coercion to get a dog to sit? Or come when they’re called? No, it’s training. Training. That works.”
“Sweet feed coercion,” he says, teasing me, but I don’t want to be teased about this.
I turn my back on Jake and slowly approach Scout. She’s tentative at first, but after a few sniffs in the air tell her what she’s going to get if she comes to say hi, she eagerly fills the space between us and laps up the handfuls of sweet feed from my cupped palms. But when I try to put the rope bridle over her neck, she rears away from me, backing off.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s just a little rope. It’s not going to hurt you.”
I approach her slowly, bridle tightly gripped in my fist. I see the conflict in her eyes; she wants the feed but not the rope.
She wants me but not my tool.
She’s not weak.
She’s not willing to break her will for a bit of dessert or a scratch behind the ears.
“Okay, girl,” I say. I stop. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”
I toss the halter onto the dirt and then take a step closer and let her lap up the oats, anyway.
“At this rate, you’ll have her in full saddle cutting cattle in no time,” Jake calls over the fence rail.
“Scout and I are going to get this done, you’ll see. But I’m going to do it my way.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, exactly like he means it.
We take a break from the scorching heat, and over lemonade on the porch swing, we discuss our various options.
“My dad isn’t thrilled with the idea of me trying the bareback thing,” I say, “but I think I can convince him.”
“From the looks of it, neither is Scout,” he says with an eyebrow raise. “You planning on convincing her any time soon?”
I make a face. “It’ll take some time. She doesn’t trust me yet. She thinks I’ll jump on her back and scare the bejesus out of her like I heard some cowboy around here did.”
“Just doing my job,” he says with a grin.
“Well, baby steps.”
He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “Even if things don’t work out with Scout, cutting would make the most sense for you. We’ll bring some calves down from the herd on the hill. A few that ain’t burned up…”
“Burned up?” That’s an odd expression. I imagine a pile of calves on a bonfire. Not a pleasant thought.
“Used up—you know, used to people—so they’ll still be spooked by you and Scout. We’ll need another for the event, too. I can herd hold but we’ll need another turn back person…”
“Slow down, cowboy. You’re losing me here.”
“Sorry,” he laughs. “I tend to forget how rookie you are. You used to know this stuff. Don’t you remember any of it?”
“Not really.”
“Well,” he scratches his head, thinking. “I got a DVD we can watch together which will explain it better.”
“Ooh, a DVD. Do they still make those?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Making fun of me, Cowgirl?”
Damn it. Why does he have to be so cute? “Haha, sort of. No one at home watches DVDs anymore. It’s all streaming and Netflix and…” And I’d already had this conversation with Anna. “Never mind.”
“Well, if you want to learn your stuff, you better get on board with our ancient Wyoming technology. Don’t worry. Our TV is actually in color.” He sips at his lemonade. It must be killing him to drink something other than Diet Dr. Pepper. “Have you ever ridden freestyle? I doubt your dad would’ve let you do that when you were little, but you never know.”
“No. I tried once but fell off.” I laugh at the memory. “I was pretty wild back then. Constantly dirty. My mom had to wrestle me into the tub at night.”
“Well, you’d better get used to that all over again if you’re gonna give this a try.”
“That’s fine.” I’ve certainly lived through worse than getting dirty. “I want to try.”
Nodding, he takes a long drink of lemonade from the strawberry print tumbler. I guess that’s the end of that. Wanting to try is enough for Jake. I’m feeling proud, and a little nervous—what am I getting myself into?—when he says, “You know how Indians used to break the wild mustangs?”
“Native Americans or East Indians?”
He looks at me blankly. “They took them down to the creek, set them in the middle of the water, then jumped on their backs. The mustangs buck like crazy, but because they have nowhere to run, if you get thrown, you end up with a mouth full of water and wet boots instead of dead.”
“That sounds fun. Is that your plan?” I ask.
“Nah.” He waves his hand in the air. “I like getting tossed onto the hard dirt. Builds grit.”
“Grit and a broken coccyx I’d imagine.”
We both laugh and then are quiet for a minute. The swing creaks when it rocks back and forth.
“So, if we try this cutting thing, you’ll be there with me?” I ask, softly.
“Sure,” he says. “Of course.”
I’m about to thank him, but since he’s always giving me a hard time about that, I stare into my lemonade. I shake the glass around, listening to ice cubes clink against each other and hiss in the sweet juice.
“Barrel racing is another one,” he says, and I’m grateful for the change of subject. “But takes the training I don’t think we have time for. The deadline to enter rodeo is next week.”
“I’ll do whatever you think will give us the best chance
of winning the prize money.”
His long legs bend over the swing. His palms spread across the thighs of his dirty blue jeans. “This is an interesting change, you actually taking my advice.”
“This is different. This is about saving the ranch.”
“Ah.” He’s still looking down, but I can see his mouth turn up into a half smile as the heels of his boots gently rise and set on the wood of the porch moving along the smooth rhythm of the swing, of our conversation. When the swing stops, he looks at me dead on. “You got a lot of gumption here, Paige, but remember. Even if we train hard—and believe me, we will—we’ll be competing against folks who’ve trained their whole lives. Authentic rodeo folks. Genuine cowgirls. I don’t want you to be disappointed if we don’t win this thing first time out the gate.”
I smile. “Once upon a time I was a genuine cowgirl, remember? And at this point, losing isn’t an option.” My throat swells with the need for him to understand the importance of this. “You told me to come up with a plan, and this is what I came up with. It has to work.”
Then Jake’s hand is on my thigh, lightly, gently, but there.
As if on cue, Anna wheels Daddy onto the porch. Jake’s hand flies, spooked, off my leg. He jumps up, and the absence of his weight on the swing causes it to swing sideways and some of my lemonade to swish out onto my shirt. Terrific.
Anna grabs one of the hand towels she keeps draped over the back of Dad’s chair and pats down my chest. Even better. Why does spilling drinks on myself, of all things, have to become a trend?
“It’s okay,” I say, leaping away.
Jake leans against the porch rail, looking like he’s about to start laughing, his lanky body, like his words, filling up so much space with seemingly such little effort. Did Anna see his hand on my thigh? Was she listening to our conversation, or does she just have incredibly bad timing? Was he planning on just a supportive pat or would it have lingered there if we hadn’t been interrupted?
“How was your nap, Daddy?”
Paint My Body Red Page 16
