Coming Home to Texas--A Clean Romance

by Kit Hawthorne

  Alex turned him loose and went back to his tequila.

  Things break. Sometimes they can be fixed, and sometimes they can’t.

  And other times...

  They can be made better than they were before.

  Maybe.

  “Hey, Tito,” Tony said. “Close me out. I got something I need to do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE WIND BLEW on Tony’s face through the open truck window. He’d had barely three hours of sleep, but he’d done what he set out to do, and for the moment he was content. Over to the right side of the highway, the sky had that deep blue early-morning glow, with just a few stars that hadn’t winked out. He had time. He’d get to La Escarpa before the crew, and work quietly by himself with nobody watching or getting in the way or asking questions. If he timed things right, he’d have everything ready before Dalia even made her first cup of tea, and he’d be alone with her just as the sun rose.

  And then what? Would it work? Would it change her mind? Was there any hope for them, after all these years and everything that had happened?

  He could still hear all the things she’d said to him, that night after the rodeo. She’d said she didn’t want to have to look at him anymore, and since then, he’d done all he could to make sure she didn’t have to. If the sight of his face was that sickening to her, well, then he’d keep it out of her sight.

  Just like he’d kept out of her way after she’d sent his things back.

  But he hadn’t done all that for her sake, no matter what he’d told himself. He could see that now. It had been cowardly of him, hiding that way, pushing her into breaking up with him because he didn’t have the guts to tell her the truth, and then burying himself under her rejection and letting his hurt and anger smolder underneath. Letting the gap between them get wider and wider with each year that went by.

  But not this time. He wasn’t going to go another six years without seeing or talking to her. He would own up to what he did and take the consequences. If he’d done that before—if he’d told the truth about the accident and thrown himself at her mercy—things might have been different. This time, he was going all in. She might not take him back, but if she didn’t, at least he wouldn’t have his own cowardice to blame.

  The early-morning air felt good on his face. It had been a hot fall so far, getting up to ninety degrees most afternoons. A good rain might have cooled things off, at least for a while, but all the rain they’d had over the summer was long gone, and now the abnormally thick growth of a wet summer was drying out. Humongous thickets of sunflowers, some reaching as tall as eleven feet, lush and green just a few weeks ago, were withering into woody stalks as big around as the tailpipe on Tony’s truck.

  There was always a moment, whenever Tony was driving north on the highway, when the outlines of the trees on the horizon suddenly came into the shape that meant La Escarpa was just ahead. That mott of elms along the rise by the creek. That one half-dead cedar tree with the bare branches at the very top. That big ancient post oak with the rounded crown, head and shoulders above the rest. He’d been driving this highway for a decade now, and even through those years of not seeing Dalia, still he always had that special awareness every time he passed her home. He couldn’t not notice.

  This time, as he saw it, he saw something else, over to the east. A warm, bright glow. But it wasn’t the rising sun.

  It was fire. In the grass beside the highway, in the ditch with the withering sunflowers and the dried grass and brush.

  The wind was out of the south, as usual at this time of year when there wasn’t a storm. There was no way to predict exactly what the fire would do, but most likely it would spread north and east...to La Escarpa.

  Everything he knew about wildfire and how to fight it, and the layout and topography of La Escarpa—the position of the house and outbuildings, slope, fencing and where the cattle were currently being pastured—churned around in his mind.

  He called Mad Dog. Then he did a U-turn and drove back the way he’d come.

  * * *

  DALIA HAD BEEN getting up at six in the morning for so many years now that she couldn’t remember when she’d last slept in. Her morning routine was practiced and perfected to the point that she could go through the motions swiftly and smoothly without thinking. Regardless of what sort of upheaval might be going on in her life, personally or professionally, each day by a quarter to seven she was dressed and groomed with her bed made, ready to sit down with her first cup of tea.

  Even the morning after the rodeo, with that lead weight of anger and disappointment inside her chest, she hadn’t missed a beat in her routine.

  It felt good to have something she could count on, a ritual she could perform with minimal mental energy. No matter how bad things might get, she was starting from a place of order and control.

  She’d showered and dressed and had her work stuff ready to go in her room, all plotted out from last night, her bullet journal lying open beside her laptop and phone. All she needed now was that cup of tea.

  With the kitchen still at loose ends, the electric kettle was camping in the living room, along with Dalia’s tea things and her mother’s coffee and French press. Dalia filled her latte mug with water, poured the water into the kettle and pushed the button down. The kettle began to hiss, softly at first and then louder. By the time its hard little click had sounded, she had the infuser filled with one slightly rounded teaspoonful of loose-leaf tea. She poured the steaming water over the tea leaves and set the mechanical timer. It started ticking away—a soothing sound.

  By now, she could hear her mom moving around in her room.

  “You want me to start some water for your coffee?” Dalia called out to her.

  “Please,” her mom answered.

  She filled the kettle again and depressed the button.

  Only then did she look out the big front-facing living room window.

  She stood frozen for a moment, at first not understanding what she was seeing, and then not wanting to believe it.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  Her mom opened the door and came hobbling out. “Yes, sweetie?”

  “I think we’d better call the fire department.”

  * * *

  TONY DROVE SOUTH before turning left on Craddock Road and cutting across to Ybarra. Another left took him to the gate of the low acreage.

  The gate was secured with a padlock, the same one that’d been there since the days of Marcos’s pasture parties, and the combination was Marcos’s birthday. It was still fresh in Tony’s mind from when he’d helped set up for the firefighter fundraiser.

  The roadbed ended just a thousand feet or so past the gate, where the livestock trucks parked to load cattle, and where Marcos’s friends used to set their tailgates down and open up their coolers. Beyond that, it was just cattle trails, too narrow for his truck.

  Looked like he’d have to hoof it. He knew the way, but it’d be slow. A four-wheeler would be better, if one just happened to drop out of the sky right now, but even that would be a tight fit.

  Then he saw something even better.

  A beautiful sight.

  A buckskin gelding, barely a football field’s length away.

  Buck was watching him, head high and alert, ears forward, like he remembered Tony and wasn’t too impressed with him.

  “I’ve ridden a bull,” Tony said softly. “I can handle you.”

  Dalia’s father used to have different calls for the stock. It was pretty cool, really. For cattle, he would plant his feet apart, throw his head back and let loose with a wild cry.

  For Buck, he used a long, high, piercing whistle.

  Buck flicked his tail, as if to say a punk like Tony could not possibly know how to whistle like that.

  Tony raised both hands to his lips. For everyday cheering and crowd control, the one-handed circled-thumb-and-f
orefinger method was more than enough, but this situation called for the two-handed, middle-and-index-finger combo.

  His whistle rang out across the low acreage and echoed back again.

  And Buck came running.

  Little puffs of dust kicked out behind his hooves. He covered the distance in a few seconds and came to a smooth stop. Tony bowed his head close to Buck’s and ran a hand along his neck. Buck accepted this for a few seconds before whuffling and nudging Tony, like, Dude, enough. Get on with it.

  He didn’t have a lick of tack on him, but that couldn’t be helped, and maybe it was all right. It’d been a while since Tony had ridden any horse, let alone his ex-girlfriend’s horse that he had a not-so-great history with. Longer still since he’d ridden bareback. But once upon a time, he and Alex used to spend long summer twilights in the paddock at their grandparents’ place, riding Suerte and Bizcocho—riding bareback, much of the time, because their grandfather thought it was a valuable exercise in horsemanship.

  Tony used to be able to mount a bareback horse as easily as he could swing a leg over a bicycle, but that was a lot of years ago. Could he still?

  He had to.

  He grabbed a handful of mane just before the withers, gave a sort of skip, and let the momentum of his swinging leg carry his body up and over the horse’s back. Partway up, he grabbed the withers with his other hand to pull his upper body into place.

  He swung a little harder than necessary, and for a second there it looked like he’d keep right on swinging and come off Buck’s other side. But he managed to correct, and then there he was, seated on that broad back exactly as he was supposed to be.

  “All right, Buckleberry Finn,” he said. “You’ve got a pretty good deal at La Escarpa. But if you want to keep it that way, if you want to have hay this winter and grass next spring, then we’ve got stuff to do.”

  No doubt all this amounted to only a bunch of blah, blah, blah in the ears of a horse, but Buck could feel the energy in the words. At least, that’s what Tony hoped.

  He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and they started.

  There were two switchbacks leading down the scarp. One of them was pretty close to the house. The horse trail to his left would take him across the creek and then to the switchback, but first it made a big loop to the south and back again. What if he headed more or less straight west? There had to be cattle trails that way. Maybe not broad and clear like the horse trail, but if a cow could manage it, a horse could, too.

  Buck was clearly not thrilled about leaving his nice familiar trail to plunge into a lot of scrub, but he went, and before long they met up with a decent cattle trail. It didn’t used to be so brushy out here—Mr. Ramirez wouldn’t like it. The mesquites were just tall enough that he couldn’t see over them, even on horseback, and too densely spaced to pass between with any comfort or ease. The thin, thorny branches sprouted straight from the ground and scratched at his legs and Buck’s sides.

  They ought to get a dozer back here and clear all this. Free up space for more hay or better grazing.

  He couldn’t be sure he was heading the right way, but his gut told him he was. He hoped they didn’t come across any rattlesnakes or feral hogs.

  He kept going.

  Then the way started opening up a little. The mesquites got bigger and farther apart, with limbs crossing overhead instead of three feet from the ground. Ahead, the horse trail Tony hadn’t taken curved in from the left, joined another horse trail from the right, and disappeared into a thick tree line of oaks and elms maybe a quarter mile away. It meant Tony was right, and the crossing of the Serenidad Creek was straight ahead.

  Maybe now they could make up some time. He urged Buck into a canter, and Buck obliged. No doubt he could see the horse trail, too, and was more than willing to leave the scrub behind.

  Now that the way was clear and he knew he was going the right way, Tony started to enjoy the ride. It was a whole different sensation, riding bareback. A less secure seat, but also a better connection to the horse. Loose legs, open chest. He could feel the three smooth beats of the canter, over and over. Buck had a nice easy stride.

  Tony’s heart was light, weirdly enough. Once he crossed the creek and came out the tree line on the other side, he’d be able to see the fence. Maybe the cattle would be there already, away from the smoke and spreading flames. Then he could cut fence and they’d take it from there. He was no expert on wildland work, but he’d done enough to know that animals were pretty good at self-preservation if you helped them out a little.

  He’d forgotten how much fun riding was. Why did he ever give it up?

  An explosion of pain went off in his head. For a second it was like a fireworks show, and then everything turned black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DALIA SHUT OFF the propane at the tank behind the garage. She’d already put out all the pilot lights in the house.

  From the other side of the fence, in the orchard, a voice called, “Here, chick chick chick! Come on, girls! Hurry up, now!”

  “Mom! What are you doing out there?”

  “I’m getting the chickens back in the coop!” her mom said, a bit tartly, as if this should be obvious.

  “I could’ve done that.”

  “No, you couldn’t. They’re not used to you yet.”

  “Well, don’t climb up the steps of the coop, anyway. The last thing we need is for you to fall and break your other foot. Let me shut them in.”

  “Okay, but hurry. And don’t spook them.”

  Dalia went through the gate and shut the door behind the last chicken while her mom turned on the hydrant that watered the fruit trees with an underground irrigation system. That would wet the ground, though not the trees’ foliage.

  “Do we have sprinklers out here?” Dalia asked.

  “No, but we should.”

  The machine shed stood on the other side of the orchard, just outside the back fence. That could be nasty in a fire, all those tanks and cans and bottles of gas and oil and chemical solvents, but it wasn’t like there was anything that could be done about it now.

  Next to the machine shed lay the former pumpkin patch, now shriveled into a mass of dried leaves and vines. Beyond that, the Sudan grass they’d used for the corn maze had been cut for hay but not baled, with the stalks and coarse leaves lying in raked golden-brown rows.

  “Nice little fields of tinder we’ve got there,” Dalia said, pointing. “At least the Bermuda grass is all put up in the feed barn.”

  “Which is worse, though, fire-wise?” her mom asked. “Rows of dried leaves and stalks lying on the ground, or combustible bales packed into a building?”

  “Huh. Yeah, I don’t know.”

  If the fire even reached the feed barn, it’d have to engulf the house first—assuming it moved steadily from south to north, which it seemed like it would, but who knew? It might circle around through the horse paddock and—

  The horse paddock.

  At present, there was no horse in the horse paddock. After the FFF, Dalia had noticed the grass in there was looking a little tired, so once the hay was in the barn, she’d turned Buck out into the hundred-acre hay parcel to feed on the tall stuff around the fence edges. The hay field made up the southernmost portion of the property, bordered by river and creek just outside its south and west fences, and by a road on the east. Which was all well enough, but she’d left the gate in the north fence open so Buck would have access to the creek for drinking. And that meant he could be just about anywhere in the hay field or the low pasture, in a total area of five hundred or so acres.

  Where was he now? And where was the fire? Would he make it to the creek? Would it protect him?

  “I should go open the gate for the firefighters,” she said.

  “Do you think you should take the time?” her mom asked. “They do know the code.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, but will the opener box even be working when they get there, or will the electronics be fried?”

  “Oh, surely the fire’s not that close yet.”

  Dalia didn’t know. She couldn’t see past the bend in the driveway, and she had no way of knowing how fast the fire was spreading or how far away it had been when she first saw the smoke.

  Then her heart gave a sick lurch.

  “The penned cattle,” she said.

  Before turning out Buck into the low acreage, she’d separated some steers from the rest of the herd and put them in the pen that ran alongside the scarp fence, between it and the driveway, in a short strip. From there they would be loaded up to go to market.

  At least, that had been the plan. But if the fire reached them and they couldn’t get away...