The Cowboy and the Princess

by Lori Wilde

  Her chest tightened. Her son hadn’t been ignoring her. He wasn’t willful. He simply had not heard her warnings. At times, she’d been so impatient with him. She pressed her lips together, her throat clogged with shame and regret. How could she have been so clueless?

  “Sweetie,” said a tiny elderly woman with a severe, blue-tinged bun piled high on her head and tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of her nose. She wore a lumpy floral print dress that scalloped around saggy calves and didn’t quite hide the tops of her coffee-colored, knee-high stockings.

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “Would you mind reaching that box of powdered milk on the top shelf for me?”

  Lissette forced a smile. She wouldn’t be rude like the rodeo moms. Mariah Daniels was five foot one, so even though she wasn’t particularly tall herself at five-foot-five, Lissette was accustomed to retrieving things off top shelves. “The blue box or the red?”

  “The blue, please.”

  Lissette had to stand on tiptoes to reach it, but she got the box down.

  “Bless you, my dear. Be proud of your height.”

  “I’m not that tall.”

  “To me, you’re a tower.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “And who is this little man? How old are you?” she asked Kyle.

  Busily eyeing the baking chocolate, Kyle crunched a goldfish and did not respond.

  The elderly lady bustled closer. “Are you two years old? You’re about the same size as my great-grandson. You look like you’re two years old.”

  Kyle did not react.

  The woman cocked her head like a curious squirrel. “Is something wrong with him, sweetie? He’s not answering me.”

  A dozen impulses pushed through Lissette. The defensive part of her wanted to tell the woman to mind her own business. The “nice girl” started thinking of a delicate way to explain. Her shell-shocked psyche curled the words, “He’s deaf,” around her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

  Not yet. Not when she hadn’t even practiced saying it in private.

  Instead, she completely surprised herself by blurting out, “His father got blown up by an IED in Afghanistan on the Fourth of July.”

  The gnomish woman stepped back as if Lissette had slapped her. She gasped and put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord, you’re that poor young widow that I read all about in the Jubilee Journal. Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I know exactly what you’re going through.”

  You have no idea what I’m going through, Lissette wanted to scream, but she kept her taut smile pinned in place. “Thank you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman repeated and patted Lissette’s forearm, and then a tear trickled down her wrinkled cheek. “I lost my boy in ’Nam.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Lissette stammered. She could not imagine—never wanted to imagine—losing her child. She clenched her jaw, unable to find the right words.

  The elderly woman dug into a purse the size of Vermont and came up with a crumbled tissue clutched in arthritis-gnarled fingers. “They never did find his remains.” She pressed a knobby knuckle against her nose, blinked through the tears. “Johnny Lee’s been gone forty-four years, but I think of him every single day. He was only eighteen when the Lord called him away. Just a baby. My boy.”

  Their gazes locked. Two mothers united in loss.

  Lissette squeezed the woman’s shoulder. “Is there anything else I can get you from the top shelf?”

  The great-grandmother dried her eyes. “Why, thank you for the offer, sweetie. I am running low on baking soda.”

  “Big box or small.”

  “Small. There’s nothing big about me.” Her congenial chuckle was back, but her faded gaze stayed caught in the past.

  Lissette handed her the box of soda.

  The woman raised her chin. “I’m going to tell you what I wish someone had told me. Don’t try to be brave. Don’t hold it all in. I know the grief is immense, but don’t fight it. Cry hard when you receive bad news because that’s how you will make way for tears of joy. When you can accept your losses and forgive your mistakes, then you can embrace a happy future.”

  The woman turned and vanished so quickly, that for one startling second, Lissette wondered if she imagined the whole exchange.

  Accept your losses.

  It was a strange thing to say. It felt like surrender. Lissette was familiar with surrender. She was, by nature, accepting of the circumstances she found herself in. It was far easier to give in than to put up a fuss.

  When Jake had told her that instead of quitting the Army as he’d promised, he reenlisted and was going back to the Middle East, she had not only accepted it, she’d been secretly relieved. It was something she would never admit to another living soul. But when he was home on leave Jake was restless, moody. He had frequent nightmares and he would get up in the middle of the night and disappear without a word.

  Sometimes he wouldn’t come home for days at a stretch. He never told her where he went and if she pressed for an explanation, he’d grow surly and curt. It had been easier to tiptoe around him. She suspected he might be having an affair, although she tried not to think about it too much.

  Fearing he was suffering from post-traumatic stress, she’d suggested counseling, but Jake yelled at her and even put his fist through the wall, proving to her that he did need therapy. She’d been afraid of his rage and she’d backed down, never knowing what was going to set him off or what he was capable of. He was no longer the charming cowboy who’d swept her off her feet, but she was loyal to the bone and she kept hoping that once he was back home for good that eventually he’d heal and they could become a real family.

  The gossipers were still hogging the flour shelf. She took a step forward, cleared her throat, and opened her mouth, determined to ask them to please move, when the store’s public address system crackled.

  “Attention shoppers!” announced the store manager. “It’s Searcy’s five for five. For the next five minutes, any five items on the baking products aisle will sell for five cents. You have from three p.m. until three-o-five to get your purchases and check out. On your mark, get set, go!”

  Before the announcement finished, the baking goods aisle flooded with customers. A sea of shoppers pushed against her, tossing her farther from the flour as they snatched and grabbed at everything in sight.

  Okay, she’d go for the vanilla. It was right behind her. She spun her cart around, but a hand-holding young couple with matching facial piercings and tattoos halted right in front of her.

  Hands locked, they stared her down. The young man had a Mohawk. The girl’s hair was Barney the Dinosaur purple with glow-in-the-dark neon green streaks. Neither said a word, just glowered in simpatico, their gazes drilling a hole through Lissette. Apparently, they wanted her to move rather than force them to let go of each other’s hands so they could continue on their way undivided.

  Fine, Sid and Nancy. Let it never be said I stood in the way of punk love.

  Lissette tried to maneuver her cart off to one side, but people jostled each elbow and the cart wouldn’t roll. Some sticky crap stuck to the wheels. Flustered, she picked the cart up and tried to eek out a couple of inches.

  “Hey!” complained a woman she bumped against who was tossing a handful of garlic salt into her cart. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lissette apologized.

  The amorous duo wrinkled their noses at her, turned and stalked back the way they’d come, never letting go of each other in the about-face, even though they had to raise their coupled hands over the heads of other shoppers.

  Ah, true love. Once upon a time she’d been that young and dumb.

  Someone stumbled against her. Someone else smelled as if they’d taken a bath in L’air du Temps. Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” trickled through the music system. The irony was not lost on Lissette.

  Claustrophobia wrapped around her throat, choked her. She broke out in a cold sweat. She stood f
rozen, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole so she didn’t have to deal with any of this. She would have unzipped her skin and stripped it off if she could have. Her hands shook. Panic clawed her chest.

  It took everything she had to curb the urge to abandon the grocery cart and sprint like a madwoman to her quaint Victorian home in the middle of town. Grab Kyle up, clutch him to her chest, tumble into the big empty four-poster bed, and burrow underneath the double-wedding ring quilt that her mother-in-law, Claudia, had made.

  She ached to go to sleep and wake up to find this whole thing was just a wickedly bad dream—Jake’s death, the fact that he left his four-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy to a half-brother she never knew existed, and now today’s striking blow of learning that Kyle was going deaf.

  Her son would never be a concert musician. Never speak three languages. Never hear the sound of his children’s voices.

  She’d been utterly shocked when she’d learned her husband had not named her his beneficiary. Then bone-deep anger. Followed by marrow-chilling dread when the government informed her that because she was not his beneficiary she and Kyle were no longer eligible for Jake’s VA health benefits.

  After that blow, she’d taken out the only health insurance she could afford—a catastrophic policy with a massive deductible. None of today’s medical expenses would be covered or any further expenses until she hit the ten-thousand-dollar annual threshold.

  The only thing she knew for certain was that the money she’d been anticipating to provide for her and Kyle would not be forthcoming. Beyond a tiny nest egg in an untouchable retirement account, Jake’s cutting horse and her Queen Anne Victorian, she had only five thousand dollars left from the money the Army had given her to bury Jake. If he hadn’t told her numerous times that he preferred cremation to burial, she wouldn’t have had even that small sum.

  In this real estate market her house was more liability than asset. The only thing she had of any worth to sell was Jake’s cutting horse and the accompanying horse trailer, but she just hadn’t made herself go through the motions yet. She had to do something and soon. Today, she’d worked out a payment plan for the medical services Kyle had undergone, but this was only the beginning.

  “Damn you, Jake,” she whispered. “For treating us this way. Damn you for refusing to get help and killing what little love we had left.”

  It struck her then, that she couldn’t really remember what Jake had looked like. Big guy. Strong. Muscled. Smelled like protein. John Wayne swagger. But that was it.

  They’d been married for four years, but he’d been in the Middle East for a big chunk of that time. If she broke it down into consecutive days, they probably hadn’t been together more than six months total. She’d had his child, but she’d known nothing about the secrets he kept tucked away under that Stetson. She never asked about the war. She believed in letting slumbering dogs alone. Besides, she hadn’t really wanted to know what horrors he’d seen. The things he’d done.

  Ostrich. Sticking her head in the sand.

  But now? She had to do something to stretch her budget.

  What bothered her most about losing the money was that the mysterious half-brother had never shown up. He didn’t call nor had he even written to express his condolences. You would think four hundred thousand dollars would at least earn a sorry-your-husband-got-blown-up-in-Afghanistan-thanks-for-the-money card.

  “I’ll help you as much as I can, Lissy,” Claudia said, but her mother-in-law was little better off than she was.

  Lissette’s own family was upper middle class, but their investments had gotten caught in the real estate crash and they were cash strapped as well. Besides, whenever her parents gave her money, there were always strings attached. So far, she’d been too proud to ask them to help, but she was going to have to get over her pride, accept the strings. She had a part-time job making wedding cakes for Mariah’s wedding planning business, The Bride Wore Cowboy Boots, but her salary barely covered her mortgage.

  Which was why she was at the grocery store.

  Survival.

  On the way home from Fort Worth, an idea had occurred to her. Cowboys had been her downfall, but clearly she wasn’t the only one mesmerized by the fantasy. Why not take advantage of her infatuation? Do what you know, right? Add cowboy-themed baked goods to her repertoire to supplement her wedding cake business.

  Her mind had picked up the idea and ran with it. Pastries straight from the heart of Texas made with indigenous ingredients. Velvet Mesquite Bean Napoleons. Giddy-up Pecan Pie. Lone Star Strudel. Bluebonnet Bread. Mockingbird Cake. Chocolate Jalapeño Cupcakes. Prickly Pear Jellyrolls. Frosted sugar cookie cutouts of cowboy boots and hats, cacti, longhorn cattle, spurs, and galloping horses.

  Even though it meant going out on a limb with her remaining five thousand dollars, she’d grasped at the idea. It gave her something to think about besides Kyle’s diagnosis. But now that she was here amidst the five-minute sale madness, the idea seemed stupid. Throwing away good money.

  What else was she going to do? Baking was all she knew. It wasn’t as if she possessed the skill set for anything else.

  Bake.

  It was an edict. She fixed on the word.

  Bake.

  Something comforting. Something sweet. Something life saving. Cookies and cakes, doughnuts and cream puffs, strudels and pies. Salvation in pastries.

  Bake.

  Kyle dropped his sippy cup, arched his back, let out a screech of frustration. One high bounce off the cement floor sent goldfish splashing up and down the aisle.

  A woman behind Lissette let out an exasperated huff and pushed past her, crunching goldfish underneath the wheels of her cart.

  Kyle wailed, made a grasping motion toward the scattered crackers.

  The gossiping women still hogging the flour shelf glared at her.

  Yes, I’m the villain.

  Finally, they turned and stalked away.

  About time.

  Kyle howled, tears dripping down his cheeks. Lissette snatched the sippy cup from the floor, and then thumbed through her purse for more goldfish crackers, but the bag was empty.

  Get the ingredients and get out of here. He’ll calm down in a minute.

  Ignoring everyone else, she started grabbing what she needed. Let’s see. Cake flour, check. Pure cane sugar, check. Vanilla, vanilla. Real vanilla. Not that fake stuff. Where was the real vanilla?

  She searched the shelves, going up on tiptoes and then squatting down low, pawing through extracts and flavorings. Almond, banana, butter, coconut. No real vanilla. Dammit. The locus of budget-conscious shoppers had wiped it out. Now, she’d have to drive to Albertson’s on the other side of town.

  Couldn’t one simple thing go right today?

  C’mon, c’mon, there had to be one bottle left.

  Without real vanilla she couldn’t start her new baking project. Without her new baking project she couldn’t afford to get Kyle the best deaf education. Without getting him the best education, her son’s future was indeed bleak.

  Oh, there was so much to think about! She had no idea where to start. The medical brochures and jargon only confused her more. She knew nothing about deafness. She’d never even met a deaf person. How could she help her child? The pressure of tears pushed against her sinuses and an instant headache bloomed, throbbing insistently at her temples.

  She couldn’t let her son’s life be destroyed. She had to get that damned real vanilla.

  But the cupboards were bare and Kyle was shrieking.

  “Ma’am, ma’am,” a pimple-face stock boy in a Black Keys T-shirt came over. “Your baby is disturbing the other customers. Can you please take him outside?”

  Harried, Lissette looked up from where she crouched, the floor strewn with baking products and crushed goldfish crackers. It was all she could do not to let loose with a string of well-chosen curse words. The mother inside her managed to restrain her tongue. She stood, wrapped her arms around her so
bbing child and tugged him from the cart.

  Head down, she rushed toward the front door.

  “Would you like a sample of Dixieland cinnamon rolls?” called a woman at the end of the row dishing out samples.

  Lissette spun to face her, Kyle clutched on her hip, his face buried against her bosom. “I bet it’s made with fake vanilla, isn’t it?”

  The woman looked taken aback. “I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with the world,” Lissette said. “Fake food. Nobody knows what they’re eating. We’re all getting artificial, prepackaged garbage dished out by corporate marketing departments—”

  Stop the rant, Lissette. This woman is not the enemy. Canned cinnamon rolls are not the enemy. Fake vanilla is not the enemy.

  Three months of anger and shock surged to a head. For three months she’d been at loose ends, not knowing where her future was headed, but there in Searcy’s Grocery, just weeks from Halloween, everything she’d ignored, tamped down and shut off, erupted. She stormed from the store, leaving slack jaws hanging open in her wake.

  Her heart slammed against her chest with jackhammer force. Her negative energy flowed into Kyle. He fisted his little hand in her hair, yanked on it, his hopeless shrieks piercing her eardrums.

  Calm down, calm down.

  But she’d lost all ability to soothe herself.

  Bake. The no-fail solution to runaway emotions. Bake. How could she bake without real vanilla?

  Get real vanilla.

  It was a nonsensical edict. Of course it was, but the command stuck in her brain. She made it to Jake’s extended-cab pickup truck. She’d wanted a Prius and this was what she ended up with. The key fumbled at the lock, but she finally wrenched the door open and got Kyle buckled into his backward-facing car seat.

  By the time she slid behind the wheel she was only breathing from the top part of her lungs. Her diaphragm had shut down, paralyzed, seized. Puff, puff, puff. Short, fast pants swirled through her parted lips.

  Hyperventilating.

  Real vanilla, whispered her mammalian brain.