Wyatt sat down and leaned back in the old leather chair, hearing the comfortable creak under his weight. He put his coffee cup beside the laptop and pulled up his e-mail to read the topic for the first night of poetry class. The instructor wanted to start out by getting each person in the class in touch with his emotions. He read over the first assignment.
Some of us are better at expressing our emotions, while others keep them bottled up. When you’re ready, please share a few verses of where you feel you are at this time in your life.
He heaved a sigh of resignation and rubbed his hand over his chest. He hadn’t been in touch with his emotions in years. In fact, it had taken him a long time to weave them seamlessly in with his responsibilities as head of the ranch. It was much easier to justify having work to deal with than to face his demons. He stared blankly at the screen. A wave of cheers rushed from the radio. Someone had scored. Sadie, who lay fast asleep at his feet, and the occasional snap of a log in the fire were his closest companions that evening. Wyatt took another sip of his coffee and waited for someone else to respond to the exercise first. The silence in the house was deafening, and he found it unnerving that the quiet had never bothered him before—before what?
Before Aimee Worth batted her baby blues at you, you putz.
He blew out a sigh, frustrated by the battle between his brain and libido trying to justify why Little Ms. Pink Puff Jacket should have such an effect on him. Wyatt shook his head to dispel the image of her face as he’d driven away earlier and refocused his thoughts on the assignment. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d put a pen to paper. In his youth, he used to write while holed up in a seedy hotel room, forced to watch over Dalton. His mom—Eloise—used to say they were like the gypsies, traveling on great adventures. Reckless and free. To a kid of ten, it had seemed a fantastic journey, and he’d entertain himself by writing short stories and bits of prose about his imaginary life.
“It’s going to get better,” she’d say as she carefully applied her makeup in the dimly lit bathroom. Wyatt never understood why she had to dress up so nice for a waitressing job, but he never questioned her. He did as he was instructed, making another peanut-butter-and-jelly dinner for him and Dalton, believing her every word. It was exciting, this seemingly endless string of so-called adventures until the day Wyatt began to wonder if she’d ever find a place that made her happy enough to put down roots. He’d thought with Jed she’d found everything, a good husband, father, a home, security. Jed took care of his mom as well as him and Dalt. But it did no good. She left them anyway, still in search Wyatt guessed, for an elusive dream. Wyatt mourned her leaving like a death, but realized eventually even though his mother had chosen not to take responsibility, Jed had. That’s when Wyatt shed his old life like a snake and threw himself into learning all there was to know about the ranch—into becoming Jed’s son.
A small ping from his computer indicated another e-mail post. It brought him out of his reverie.
If none of you chooses to go first, then I will tell you about me. I’ve loved the idea of teaching music from a very early age and feel strongly an education in the Fine Arts is crucial in our school systems. Aside, from that, I have an infatuation with the written word and the means of communicating that can put us in touch with feelings deep inside—much like music, really.
Wyatt read the post and thought about when it was exactly he’d shut off his emotions to the rest of the world. Maybe it was when Jed became ill, ravaged by Alzheimer’s and unable, at the end, to recognize where he was or who his boys were, that he neatly switched off his emotions. After his dad’s death, he let many of the ranch hands go and sold off much of the herd. Rein found solace in building the cabins for his uncle’s dream of a healing ranch, and Dalton, well, he found his peace in the bottom of a bottle.
Wyatt hadn’t touched the dusty box he called his emotions, nor thought much about where he was in his life until reading the assignment. Further, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to continue when another student posted their thoughts. He leaned forward and scanned the first few lines.
I’m not sure if this is what you are looking for, the writer posted, but nothing like jumping in feet first.
Changes unseen, loss too difficult and unprepared for
Opened my eyes, my heart—
To changes inside.
Tears though shed, and heart still aching,
I stand in the warm rays of possibility.
Wyatt read the words and then again a second time. Though he didn’t agree with the bit about standing in the warm rays of possibility, the words touched him in an unexpected way. He checked the e-mail address, seeing the letters A & W and scrolled down to find a name associated with it, finding instead it was signed Hopeful Visionary. His brows knit together; he sat back, folded his hands over his stomach, and studied the poem. The more he read it, the more he was struck with how neatly this person seemed to articulate their emotions in such a tidy package. The idea unnerved him, perhaps out of frustration that another should express themselves so neatly, while he struggled to understand his lack of emotion.
The class moderator responded with another post.
Very nice. You’ve obviously had to deal with some difficulty in your life, yet you see the potential exists for growth, even from your adversity. Very thoughtful. Insightful. Thank you for sharing. Anyone else?
Something snapped inside. An old, familiar bitterness bubbled to the surface. He typed a quick response, a hair-trigger reaction to what he saw as a thoroughly naive mentality. His brow twitched as he read his lyrical retort. Surely this person hadn’t overcome adversity as easily as they portrayed. Perhaps this class needed a glimpse into real pain, how life could get pretty damn ugly, and how, as a result, it wasn’t always so easy to see the good. He hit the Send button with cantankerous delight.
Those days of potential
Faded gray, lifeless, in my memory.
What is real, what lasts in the here and now.
Not in hope, not in promises.
Rather by what can be touched, breathed deep, experienced—
Not by potential, but a raw will to survive.
He leaned back, slowly rolling his warm coffee mug between his hands, waiting with particular interest to see what Hopeful thought about that. Even though this was a poetry class, it was, in his opinion, ludicrous to wrap real pain in a flowery poem. It was raw. It hurt. To his way of thinking, the sooner Hopeful accepted pain for what it was, rather than trying to change it, the better off they’d see the world for the way it really was. Much to his dissatisfaction, the moderator responded and not the way he thought, about his offering.
Montana, it sounds as though you may be struggling with something deep inside of you. Perhaps this class will allow those feelings to flow on paper and you’ll be able to find the strength to let go of whatever that is.
“Yeah.” He eyed the screen sullenly, debating whether to log off and forget this touchy-feely bunk. To his surprise, Hopeful posted. He narrowed his gaze on the post. Hell, they even used a fancy-looking font making him think they were likely of the female persuasion—clearly one that hadn’t lived through enough of life yet.
I used to feel like you, Montana. Life doesn’t always have the pat answers we think we are looking for, and maybe even feel we deserve. However, without the possibility of what may be, life would hold no mystery, no adventure. As the song says, I would have missed the dance. Pain and sorrow can blind us and while it may seem a fragile thing now, possibility gives us an entire future of precious moments.
Wyatt laughed aloud. Sadie raised her weary head and gave him a strange look. After a moment, she yawned, laid her head on her paws, and glanced up at him as if to say, “Please keep a lid on the noise, trying to sleep here.”
Just as he suspected. Definitely female. Maybe she was newly split from her boyfriend? He toyed with offering his response to her Zen-like e-mail, but decided with someone like that there was little way of rationaliz
ing his view and he wasn’t up for a debate tonight. Though it was evident she was in a state of denial, her know-it-all response grated him the wrong way. “You don’t know a thing about my life,” he grumbled and swallowed the rest of his now-cold coffee. He scratched the sandpapery stubble of his day-old beard and peered at the screen. The moderator, apparently detecting the feud about to ensue, posted the assignment for the next day. As he feared, the class was proving to be far different than he anticipated.
Tonight has been a great start to tapping into expressing emotions. Next time, I want you to share with us what is important to you. Put into verse one of your happiest childhood memories. Be sure to print out these classes for future reference. I’d like to encourage each of you to participate in this one. We’ll see you tomorrow night.
Wyatt minimized his e-mail screen, checked the weather and news first, then played a few rounds of online solitaire to try to diffuse the edginess caused by the next assignment. After beating the idea to a fine pulp, he decided he had two choices: either finish the class or quit. To quit was not his style, at least with the tangible things in his life. Besides, it would be like tossing good money down a drain. Before he could change his mind, Wyatt brought up the assignment to refer to and pressed the Print key. He pulled out the first sheet from the printer and heaved a sigh. He’d run out of ink. Frustrated, he eased back into the chair and stared at the offending printer. Once again, Rein had forgotten to stockpile another cartridge. This of course, required another trip to town and so too, another possibility he might run into Aimee, unless he went during school hours. Satisfied with that decision, he saved the assignment and logged off.
Wyatt stood, stretching his arms over his head and a sudden image of the room years ago, filled with holiday decorations and a tree, popped into his head. A little boy lay on the couch, watching the colored lights of his first real tree….
A sudden pang of sadness twisted Wyatt’s gut. He jammed his hands in his jean pockets, turned away, and looked out on the moonlit snow-covered backyard. The sky, clear and sprinkled with stars, stretched beyond the forest of pine. The brilliance of the moon made it possible to see the rise of the mountains on the horizon. The vast beauty of the plains and mountains never ceased to fascinate him. Many things used to hold a similar magic for him. Despite his issues with the holidays personally, he used to watch Jed in rapt interest, wishing, wondering how a man his age could possess such a childlike enthusiasm about Christmas. To Wyatt, Jed was the true measure of the holiday spirit, a persona that Wyatt could neither match nor understand. When he’d died, it was as though he’d taken the joy of the holidays with him.
Possibility gives us a future of precious moments.
He looked at his reflection in the window. Behind him, the glow of the fireplace flickered in the dimly lit room. It reminded him of days past, not just Christmas, but several occasions when Jed gathered his ranch hands and their families into his home for some type of celebration. It didn’t take much. Just about any reason was good enough an excuse to invite people into their home, but the Christmas season had been his Jed’s favorite. They’d have a potluck at the ranch on Christmas Eve. The aroma of sizzling steaks hot off the grill and fresh-baked rolls from Betty’s would make his mouth water. The dining room table became a banquet feast, laden with pies, casseroles, and salads of every sort. And without fail later in the afternoon, Santa, dressed as a cowboy, would stop by. He’d with thanks of appreciation, hand out the bonus checks to the ranch hands, and visit with the children, calling each of them by name. Wyatt knew, of course, it was Jed dressed as the jolly old man, but he’d make a point of asking Wyatt to keep it their secret, so as not to disappoint the younger children.
Tonight Wyatt’s heart felt cold, as if he carried a lump of coal in his chest. He blamed the class for spawning the sentimental memories, but remembering them had never made him feel so damn lonely before.
***
Aimee pulled out the earplugs attached to her iPod. She found the music helped to free her mind during the online creative writing class. She mused how Sally was going to ride her about taking on the strangely morose and seemingly combative student going by Montana. His insistence to see the glass half empty intrigued her, and she’d hoped only to generate discussion among class members; instead however, it brought the class to a complete standstill. She assumed that their online verbal fencing match must have intimidated the other students. She sent Sally a private e-mail to apologize for the banter. In response, she received a smiley face and a note of “no worries, talk tomorrow.” Just the same, the incident left her wondering what type of life experiences could leave a person with virtually no hope.
She pressed the button to print off the next assignment and received a pop up indicating she was out of paper. Certain she had extra paper in some unpacked boxes in her walk-in closet; she clicked on the light in the room nearly the size of her kitchen and began to search for the box. In the process, she discovered a few other treasures she’d forgotten about and sat down, leaning against the wall to sift through them.
A loud thump against the closet wall startled her and sent shoes raining down on her from the shelf she’d recently installed. Throwing her arms over her head, she guarded herself from injury, and prepared to beat her fist against the wall in retaliation. Her neighbors, she’d discovered, were newlyweds and already Aimee had had to listen to their antics through the shared wall of her bedroom. A low moan caught her attention and she paused, listening intently with a shred of guilt that perhaps someone had hurt themselves. Another thump caused another shoe to topple off the shelf, but she caught it with one hand, giving silent thanks for her skills in softball.
“Oh, oh…yes, baby, oh yeah…there….”
Seriously? The closet? Aimee rolled her eyes, unsure if her frustration with the amorous couple was simply jealously. Regardless, there’d been times of late, when the paper-thin walls had depleted her of sleep. She glanced at her watch, smiling with amusement to time this particular tryst.
A throaty, male groan punctuated a series of repetitive thumps against the wall. Aimee cradled her cheek in her hand and waited. In an odd way, it made her feel better to know someone in no man’s land was getting some, though it made it difficult to strike up a normal conversation when they met outside the building. She wondered if she should perhaps find a way to mention how thin the walls were.
“Oh, oh…wait, there’s a hanger poking my shoulder. Oh don’t stop, don’t stop,” the woman ordered.
Aimee chuckled and picked up an old high school yearbook. She flipped through its pages amid the dizzying crescendo of moans and sighs. Then all was silent. She waited, fighting the urge to break into applause. Instead, she struggled to her feet, painfully aware they’d fallen asleep as the blood rushed back through her veins. She replaced her shoes on the shelf, hearing titters of laughter coming from the other side of the wall and tried to sidestep the twinge of envy poking at her heart. To make matters worse, she emerged from the closet more restless and aware of her solitary status, flushed with thoughts of Wyatt and their the insane kiss. and hadn’t found the paper she was looking for in the first place. She made a mental note to run to the drugstore over her lunch hour the next day.
Tense from her closet experience and visions of dark-eyed cowboys, Aimee padded to the bathroom and changed into a comfy men’s flannel shirt that hung to her knees. Clenching her toothbrush between her teeth, she fished through her dresser for a pair of ragg wool socks, and sat on the bed, drawing them over her chilly feet. She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror and stopped, assessing her less-than-sexy ensemble. Perhaps there was good reason no guys ever ventured up to her apartment. She sighed and sauntered back to the bathroom sink, rinsed her mouth, and pressed the towel to her lips. For a moment, she held it there, imagining the sudden kiss. She’d jumped to a conclusion. Granted, a wrong one, by her suggestion of his sexual inclinations, but she hadn’t anticipated how he would choose to prove her completely
incorrect. That kiss was intended to make a point and it had, straight down to her core.
Butterflies took flight in her stomach as she thought of how his mouth fit hers. The memories dominated her thoughts, made her weak in the knees. The taste of his lips, the scent of him—a heady combination of leather and winter wind. She placed her hand on her chest and felt the rapid thud of her heart. Her thoughts conjured the memory of his dark eyes, framed with absurdly long black lashes, staring at her, hanging on her every word.
“Complicated.” She spoke to her reflection in the bathroom mirror and reiterated Betty’s warning. “Intoxicating is more like it.” She checked the front door, turned out the living room lights, and hurried to get into her small double bed. Pulling the blanket and two quilts over her, she snuggled in.
Another thump on the wall made her grimace and with a sigh of resignation, she reached over and turned out her bedside light. The familiar sounds from next door began again. Aimee stared at the bright patch of light on her ceiling created by the parking lot outside. She let her mind drift to her mysterious cowboy, mentally peeling away the sexy duster and stained T-shirt. Visions of him, like sugarplums, danced in her head as she listened to the couple next door. That, combined with her torrid thoughts about Wyatt made her restless and she tossed off the blankets, her body too warm, from reacting to her wayward fantasy. She lay awake listening to the activity on the other side of the wall, and try as, she might couldn’t keep Wyatt Kinnison, if only in her dreams, from sneaking into her bed.
Chapter Six
Rugged Hearts Page 8
