Welcome Home, Cowboy

by Karen Templeton

  Cash thunked the toilet paper onto the flatbed, then looked at her like she was nuts. “Apologize for what?”

  Compared with not looking at her at all, she counted that as a step up. She pointed again and a twelve-roll package of paper towels thumped alongside the toilet paper.

  “Even for you, you’ve been quiet. So it finally dawned on me that maybe being out in public makes you uncomfortable.”

  One hand on the flatbed handle, he shoved the other into his front pocket. Sexiest pose ever. “In case you missed it, I’m not much for talking if I don’t have anything to say. Don’t take it personal. But I’m not uncomfortable at all. In fact…” His gaze swung to the kids, who, what with all their hooting and hollering, might’ve embarrassed her if she hadn’t been so darn pregnant. “It feels good, doing something ordinary. Something normal.” One side of his mouth lifted. “Kind of a novel experience, you know?”

  And right then she saw why nobody recognized him: because this man was nothing like the star people couldn’t take their eyes off. This man was at peace. At peace for Cash, anyway. And real. The man on the videos, in the tabloids, was like that fake marble stuff in her one bathroom—it was okay as long as you didn’t look too hard. Or expect it be something it wasn’t.

  He was absolutely right, about the illusion thing. Although Emma had never seen him wear anything other than jeans or baggy carpenter pants and a T-shirt when he performed, now it hit her that, when he was on stage he wore a costume every bit as much as Elvis had. For all his fans thought he connected with them, all they’d actually gotten was the Cash he’d pretended to be until the real one showed up.

  Although probably nobody, least of all him, would’ve expected that to be in the paper goods aisle in Sam’s Club.

  “You know,” he said, watching the kids, “I would’ve given my eyeteeth for the chance to run around like that. To not feel judged all the time.”

  The longing in his voice, his eyes, clogged her throat. “We do—did—our best to find the balance between freedom and good manners. Although to be fair this is a little more freedom than they’re usually given in a public place. Any moment, somebody’s bound to tell ’em to hush.”

  Turned out she didn’t have to, since the kids ran up, laughing and out of breath. Zoey collapsed on the flatbed with a great, dramatic sigh. “Are we done yet? I’m starving!”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” Hunter put in. “C’n I get a hot dog and piz-za?”

  “You cannot. One or the other, that’s the deal.”

  “But last time we were here you got both.”

  “That’s because one was for the baby.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cash’s smile, and she thought, Yes. Like that.

  Hunter crossed his arms, scowling. He was usually pretty laid-back, but when his stubborn streak kicked in, watch out. “Not fair.”

  Emma leaned over to cup her son’s smooth hair, kiss his forehead. A move that would’ve gotten her a distressed, “Moom!” from any other twelve-year-old boy.

  “Tell you what—you can both get churros, too.”

  “Yeah!” Hunter said, pumping his fist as Zoey nodded so hard her curls blurred.

  Crisis #9756 averted, Emma thought wearily, directing the flatbed captain to shore while she trudged along beside, thinking a drive-through baby-delivery service sounded good, right about now.

  Then, as she dug in her wallet for her credit card after going through the line, Cash stepped in front of her to swipe his card through the little doohickey, and her brain shorted out.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said, shoving him aside to swipe her own. “I didn’t ask you along so you’d pay for me.”

  “No, if I recall you asked me to come along to help you with the heavy sh—stuff. Picking up the tab was my idea.”

  “Well, forget it,” she said, flashing a tight nothing-to-see-here-move-along smile for the cashier as she took her membership card and receipt. Even so, tension vibrated between them as Cash navigated the flatbed toward the food counter. When the kids scampered ahead to get in line, she said in a low voice, “Maybe I’ve got a few more bills than I’d like right now, but we’re not destitute.”

  Exactly.

  “Didn’t think you were.” He parked the flatbed alongside the row of tables. Leaned on the handle. Lasered her with those eyes. Yeah, she was definitely seeing some quality time with her Bible and the Good Lord in her near future.

  “Then why did you—?”

  “Because it felt right. Nothin’ more to it than that. Oh, and by the way…I already slipped Zoey a twenty to pay for lunch.”

  “When on earth did you—?”

  “Doing things behind people’s backs is one of my many talents.”

  “Is that a warning?”

  Cash’s forehead scrunched, like he was thinking it over, then nodded. “That’s probably your safest bet, yeah. You also might want to think about getting yourself on up there,” he said, with another nod toward the counter, “before they spend it all on themselves. And get me a pizza slice and a Coke while you’re at it,” he yelled toward her back as she waddled off, thinking things were a lot easier when he didn’t talk to her.

  By the time Cash delivered Emma and the kids back to the house, it’d started to rain. Then he volunteered to fetch Annie from her art class, since Emma was obviously pooped. Those big eyes of hers practically glowed with gratitude. He’d have to watch out for that. In any case, what with the rain and the fetching and everything, the planting got put on hold for another day or so.

  Good thing, considering how Emma’d looked at him in the store, like she could see straight through all the cobwebs into that dark, dank place he called his brain.

  Because first off, he sincerely doubted she saw whatever she thought she saw in there. Shadows, was all there were, constantly shifting, insubstantial as dust. Second, he didn’t need some woman going all pitying and “I can fix that” on him. Pity, he didn’t want or need. And after all this time it was pretty obvious he wasn’t fixable.

  So what in tarnation compelled him, once he’d left the farm, to check the town’s lone hock shop on the off-chance that they had a three-quarter acoustic guitar, he had no idea. Sure, he could buy new, but he figured Emma was less likely to go all indignant on him if he gave Hunter one that was a little banged up.

  As it happened, the sunken-cheeked, ponytailed dude behind the counter had exactly what Cash was looking for. Even came with a case and a packet of new strings. Back in his truck, Cash watched the rain slither down the windshield, trying to identify the strange, tickly sensation in his chest. Eventually he decided this must be what it felt like to do something right.

  Kinda like the first time he had Greek food. Sorta weird, but not so bad once he got used to it.

  Then he got another idea, brought on by Annie’s worry about how well the plastic sheeting on the side of the house would hold up in the rain. One that sent him to Ortega’s, a kick-ass Mexican diner in town that’d been around for probably two decades before Cash’d been born and was, according to Emma, the local answer to Google—whatever you were looking for or needed to know, you were sure to find it, or find it out, there.

  Shaking water off his hat, Cash slipped inside, nodding at the dark-haired, heavyset woman behind the cash register.

  “Hey, Evangelista!” somebody called out. “What’s the holdup with my huevos, babydoll? I’m starving over here!”

  “Keep your shirt on, Teo, Jose’s makin’ ’em up special, jus’ for you. And who you calling babydoll?” she added, getting a toothless cackle in response. Shaking her head, she duck-walked over to Cash’s table, past the harried little waitress unloading six people’s orders at the corner booth. “What can I get for you, handsome?” she said, bosoms swaying as she took a rag to his table. “Jus’ took cheese enchiladas out of the oven, how’s that?”

  “Just coffee for now. Although…maybe you could help me. I recently moved into a house up on Coyote Trail, but I don’t remember the name
of the guy who did the remodel—”

  “Madre de Dios.” Evangelista straightened, one hand on her wide hip. “You’re Cash Cochran?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Chrissy!” she barked. “Get me a cup of coffee over here! Now!” Then she turned back to Cash, stars twinkling in her flat, dark eyes. “You sure you don’ want some of those enchiladas? They’re on the house—”

  Cash smiled. “No, no, coffee’s fine. Thanks.”

  The young, blandly pretty waitress hustled over with the coffee, recognized him and gasped, then scurried off, looking back over her shoulder like she couldn’t believe what she’d seen.

  “Guy you’re looking for is Eli Garrett,” Evangelista said as Cash took a sip of the strong, black coffee, ignoring the stares and whispers. And shrugs. Spotty fan base up here, would be his guess. “Him and his brothers and father, they got a woodworking shop about a mile that way.” She nodded north.

  “Eli, right. He made some of the furniture in the house. Real talented.”

  “Whole family’s like that. Although Noah’s who you want now, he’s taken over the construction end of the business so Eli can keep on with his furniture making. Big sign out front, says Garrett’s Woodworking, you can’t miss it. You wan’ that coffee to go?” she said when he rose.

  “Please.” When she returned with fresh coffee in a foam cup, Cash said, “You guys deliver?”

  “Up to your place? Sure—”

  “No, not for me. To my old…to the Manning farm, east of town?”

  “Yeah, I know where that is.”

  He pulled out a pair of twenties. “Why don’t you send a tray of those enchiladas on up there whenever you get the chance? And maybe a couple of sides to go with them? Will this cover it?”

  “Easily,” she said, taking the money. “Let me get you your change—”

  “Not necessary,” he said, taking his coffee and walking out, pulling his jacket collar up against the now-pelting rain as he contemplated that what he was about to do would either make him look like a hero for the first time in his life, or a total jackass.

  Which wouldn’t be anything new at all.

  Chapter Six

  Rubbing her belly, Emma stared blearily out the front window at the soggy gray morning. Generally speaking, she loved the rain. Like anybody else who lived in the Southwest— particularly anybody insane enough to try farming in the Southwest—she welcomed it, worshipped it, sang its praises and collected every drop she could in a dozen rain barrels set up around the house. Rain was a blessing.

  By the second day of nonstop blessedness, however, she’d pretty much had it—with the mud, the stir-crazy kids, the damp seeping in through the unfinished side of the house, her inability to get anything done that needed doing. Her stinky dog. If it didn’t stop soon, she was in sore danger of becoming cranky.

  And that would be unacceptable.

  Puffy feet rammed into Lee’s ugly-as-sin boots, a plastic poncho floating around her whale-esque body, she and her disgusting dog slogged through the wet and the goop to the barn to check on the goats, none of whom looked any happier than she did. Hunter had changed out the straw yesterday, but it was already gross, so she changed it again. The goats seemed grateful. Miserable, but grateful.

  The mamas fed and fussed over, she trudged over to the greenhouse to check on her hothouse lettuces, cukes and tomatoes, only to nearly have a heart attack when she turned to find a grim-faced Cash standing in the doorway, water dripping off his hat brim.

  “For future reference?” she said, her voice raised over the deluge on the plastic roof. “It’s not generally a good idea to sneak up on a pregnant woman.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. I called out when you left the barn, but you couldn’t hear me.”

  Emma scraped aside a splat of hair plastered against her cheek, thinking it was pathetic how good the man looked soaking wet. Even more pathetic, though, was that all it took to turn her head these days was a surprise delivery of enchiladas, refried beans and Spanish rice. And sopapillas, which would’ve done the trick all by themselves.

  She’d called to thank him when they’d arrived, of course, but she felt honor-bound to mention it again. “I got two full meals off those enchiladas, by the way.”

  “Glad to hear it. They were okay, then?”

  “You kidding? Evangelista rocks. You should try her tamales sometime. Guaranteed to cure what ails you.”

  At the puzzled look in Cash’s eyes, she grabbed a tray to collect the cherry tomatoes, her poncho crinkling like cellophane. “Didn’t expect you today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Unless somebody gives birth, not much going on.”

  “Don’t notice you lying around with your feet up. Which you probably should be doing.”

  Emma smirked. “It was get out of that house or lose my mind. Can’t stand being cooped up. Besides, these puppies can’t wait. When they’re ready, they’re ready.”

  “Need help?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Glancing over, she caught his half smile and got all warm and fizzy inside, which was wrong on so many levels. There you go, being nice again, she wanted to say. But didn’t. Cash grabbed another tray and started carefully plucking tomatoes across from her, only to suddenly look up. Frowning.

  “Why does it sound like a highfalutin restaurant in here?”

  “You came in at the classical part of the loop. But they like soft jazz, ragtime and Big Band, too.”

  “They?”

  “The vegetables. The goats, too, as it happens. Except the speaker’s broken in the barn.”

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “No, the speaker’s really broken—”

  “About lettuce liking music.”

  “What can I tell you? We get something like twice the yield with music playing than we do if it’s silent.” She met his incredulous gaze. Held up her hand. “Crazy earth mother chick, here. Although I draw the line at crystals.”

  Cash actually laughed, then scanned the three rows of two-foot-tall raised beds, teeming with veggies in various stages. “You sell all this stuff?”

  “Most of it. Local restaurants, the farmers’ market. Sometimes a roadside stand when the weather’s good. My church gets whatever doesn’t sell to give to whoever needs it. Obviously we do more during the summer, but this definitely keeps us going the rest of the year. That, and our canned goods. I usually make delivery runs two, three times a week.”

  “Busy lady.”

  “Name me a farmer who isn’t.”

  “Whose idea was the raised beds?”

  “Lee’s,” she said, straightening to ease her aching back. Realizing she no longer imagined seeing her husband out of the corner of her eye, giving pep talks to the peppers. “Took him most of that first winter to build them. But this way we can control the soil and irrigation much better than in-the-ground planting. And plant crops closer together. Small-farm agriculture was his emphasis at New Mexico State. That’s where we met.”

  “I wondered. What’d you major in?”

  “Animal husbandry. Always thought I’d have a ranch, someday. Like my folks did. In Texas.”

  “Did?”

  “Mama and Daddy sold the ranch proper when Daddy started showing symptoms of Alzheimer’s a few years ago. Nothing left but the house and garden now.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emma shrugged. “Your daddy, is he…?”

  “Still hanging in there. I keep trying to get Mama to get in some help so she could get a break every now and then. But all she says is, what if he has a lucid moment and she’s not there?” Tears threatened; she blinked them back. “We talk several times a week, but we hardly see each other anymore. I can’t leave here, and she won’t leave him. She won’t even be able to come see the baby after he’s born.”

  “Damn,” Cash said gently. “You’ve had it rough.”

  Emma knew if she looked up, saw the compassion she heard in his voice, she’d lose it for sure. “Tak
ing the bad with the good,” she said, yanking tomatoes off their vines, “that’s just life. But the challenges…” At last she met his gaze. “The challenges make you dig deeper, to listen harder for the good in the midst of the bad. Because that’s what gets you through.”

  Not for the first time, Cash felt chastened by Emma’s soul-deep belief in whatever it was that kept her going, kept her from acting the martyr. Her courage. Her grace.

  Her unfeigned goodness.

  Because there was a difference between doing the occasional good deed and being good. Not that he could define it, exactly, but he sure as hell knew he fell into the first category, while Emma stood firmly in the second.

  “Your folks…they had goats?” he said, changing the subject.

  “A few,” she said with a quick glance in his direction. In the humid greenhouse, curls sprouted around her face, little wispy things that made her look a lot younger than her mid-thirties. “To go with the sheep. They also had llamas, ostriches and a zebra or two.”

  “That’s not a ranch, it’s a zoo.”

  She laughed. Man, he was gonna miss that laugh. “Daddy’s dream was to someday turn the ranch into a wildlife refuge. That was as close as he got.”

  “What about you? You have the same dream?”

  “Not even. I’ll stick with goats, thank you. For now, anyway.”

  They harvested in silence for a few minutes, violin music weaving through the rain’s relentless pummeling. Cash had to admit, the music was soothing. Maybe he’d add a string accompaniment to his next song.

  The thought startled him. Although, when he’d picked up his own guitar this morning to bring it along with the one he’d bought for Hunter, his fingers had tingled…

  “You keep increasing your herd,” he said suddenly, making Emma’s head snap up across from him, “you’re gonna need more room.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Moving down the row, she said, “Lee said this was originally several hundred acres?”

  “What my father owned outright, yep. Did a lot of grazing on government land, too.” Following Emma’s lead, Cash set the full tray on a nearby shelf, grabbed another. There was also something soothing about picking vegetables, the calm repetitiveness of it, the cool feel of them in his hand, the smell of the earth. Being around a woman who, for a change, seemed content with who she was. What she had.