Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (33)

 

It had been an unusually hot summer, and dry. Everyone was being careful about the water supply and by mid-August the predominant color scheme of the terrain was brown and beige. A few summer classes were in session, but mostly things were quiet on campus and there wasn’t much going on in the library. Annie had been moping all summer, and her friends and family assumed that the excitement of the contest, her New York adventure, and the tumultuous festivities that had greeted her return had left her wrung out. There’d been the high school band waiting at the regional airport, with streams of cars and pickups strung out along Brees Road, and horns honking, and invitations to make speeches, and the exhaustion and the culture shock. After the dizzy verticalness of New York, she felt as though she’d landed on a different planet when they descended the steps from the plane onto the unremittingly flat horizon of Laramie’s high plain, thousands of feet above sea level with only an enormous sky above that was empty of everything but clouds and wind.

Only Liz knew the truth, and that meant Craig knew, too, so at home they tiptoed around her misery and offered her only as much comfort as she was willing to accept. In time, they knew, she’d recover and life would go on—not quite as before, but it would go on.

At work, because of the light summer load, she was able to keep up appearances, and now that she was a celebrity, she was kept busy learning how to be gracious even though she wanted to be left alone. With the contest behind her, the gifts handed round, the clothes from Galliard hung in the closet, all the lotions and potions stashed away in various drawers and cabinets or presented to pleased colleagues, friends, and relatives, and the obligations of work at the college and on the ranch enough to fill her days and leave her tired in the evening, she had every reason to put New York and all it meant well behind her.

Which made it hard, perhaps, to understand why she often, quietly, when no one was around, got out the maps of the city and retraced the places she’d been, reviewed the memories that went with each, relived the details of those extraordinary few days. There were people whose names she knew now, people she’d never heard of that spring morning she and Liz had stepped on the plane to Denver. Mitzi, and Marge Webster, Damien and Louis and all the editors around the conference table at Lady Fair, the perfume saleslady at Galliard’s, the mayor at the ribbon-cutting, and even the concierge at the hotel. Though she would never see any of them again, they would remain part of her big adventure.

But there were those other memories, the ones that came with a pang of remorse and loss. There was the jolly guard out in front of Troop B headquarters, and the taxi driver who first drove her there. And Captain Simon and Max and the other officers. And the silly Buljornia plotters. The Irish restaurant and its shepherd’s pie and Katie, the waitress. Even Charlie Wu and Sergei and his hot dog cart in front of the Boathouse. And of course, there was Mrs. Hardin and the clapboard house on Windsor Terrace. Each of these memories, like the thread of a spider’s web, circled around the one person at their center, the one person associated with each, and it was still so painful to think about him. And sometimes, though she’d fight off the urge, though she tried hard to resist, she’d get out her cell phone to look at the pictures they’d taken on their motorcycle tour around the city and her heart would break again.

It was on one of those occasions, an evening when Liz and Craig had gone to a movie with the Zimmers and she had stayed home on the ranch to babysit the boys, after she had Buck and Bran down for the night and she had curled up on the sofa in the front room, alone with a book—and her memories—she gave in once again. She slipped her phone out of her pocket and scrolled to the “New York” album. There they were again, the photos of Bart and her. Pictures at the marina, at Gracie Mansion, at the Dyckman House, photos from Harlem and the Brooklyn Bridge.

But her favorite was the one in Central Park, that Tuesday when she’d gone to meet him at Tavern on the Green. The kids in the playground had been all around him, and he had just slipped off his helmet for a moment and brushed his hand through his hair. The sun highlighted its reddish sandy color that she’d found so appealing and she’d snapped the photo just as he’d started to walk toward her, with the beginning of a welcoming smile. She could stare at that photo for long minutes, for it caught all his easy, virile grace as he came to meet her, and as deeply as it hurt, she was never able to scroll quickly past it. She would have long make-believe conversations with his silent photo and make them come out in various ways—self-serving, self-punishing, even sometimes self-aware. Sometimes his part was angry. Sometimes he was sorry. Sometimes he was silent.

Tonight, alone in the house, with the boys asleep and nothing to distract her attention, she allowed herself a long, long time with that photo. And she was silent, too.

She wondered if she’d ever get over him. Liz assured her she would. She didn’t think so.

She put the phone back in her pocket.

There was a pile of magazines on the coffee table, copies of FeedLot and PRCA’s Pro Rodeo, a People magazine and Good Housekeeping and Lady Fair (of course), a Globex printout of yesterday’s futures quotes on cattle, a couple of promos from Nutrena and Purina Mills, a newsletter from the Drovers’ Association, and a copy of Beef Magazine. She picked the People magazine out of the pile and leafed through it absentmindedly. She paused at a story about Britain’s royal family. There was a feature on Prince Harry, William’s younger brother, playing polo. A close-up of his face. She decided he looked like Bart—the same crinkly, reddish-sandy-colored hair, the same tall athletic build. The same sweet boyish face—with a little mischief in his smile.

“Oh, damn!”

She was seeing Bart everywhere.

“I’m obsessed with that man. And you know, Annie,” she said aloud to herself and to the empty room, “you know he’s long since forgotten you. How can you be so stupid?”

She tossed the magazine back onto the coffee table.

She silenced her phone.

She went to bed and cried herself to sleep.

 

But of course Bart hadn’t forgotten her. How could he? He was a man in love—and he was a man with a plan. For a couple of months, ever since that visit to his mom, he’d been busy making arrangements. And tomorrow morning he’d be ready to take the last step.

He was smiling when he turned out the light and went to sleep.

 

With summer’s end, classes would be starting soon and Annie took advantage of a quiet Saturday to be alone in the library to get things ready for the onslaught. A certain amount of lifting and hauling would be needed, so she’d dressed grungy and had snagged her hair up into a pile on top of her head with a pencil twisted through it to hold it in place. She’d had nothing but a Pop-Tart for breakfast; the library cafe would be closed until classes started and she was thinking of having a pizza brought in. Or maybe a sandwich. When the phone rang, she was in the middle of deciding. Sandwich? Or pizza?

“Hey, Annie.” It was Liz. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Just working. Thinking of getting something to eat.”

“Oh.” Liz said nothing for a moment.

“Liz. Why are you calling?”

“Nothing special. Just felt like saying hello. Can’t a sister call and just say hello?”

“You’re up to something. You never call just to chat. What’s up?”

“Nothing at all. Just wondered if you’d be there at the library all afternoon. It’s such a gorgeous day, I thought maybe you’d have gone out, gone for a ride or something.”

“Well, I’m not coming home for lunch, if that’s what you mean. I’ll be here at least till about four.”

“Oh, good.” She seemed to catch herself. “I mean, good that I’ll know not to fix lunch for you.”

“Liz, you’re being weird.”

“No. Just a little bit overworked. You know how it can be. But that’s fine. I’ll see you tonight. When you get home. Bye.”

And Annie was left standing there, looking at the silent phone in her hand and shaking her head.

“Well, whatever.”

And she forgot all about Liz’s call.

She ordered a pizza and went back to work.

A half hour passed. The pizza was half eaten. She gave no more thought to the gorgeous day. A box full of Horse Sense binders had been donated to the library, and she was concentrating on cataloguing them. She took a minute to leaf through some of the pages. It was a nice little local newspaper out of Salt Lake. Too bad it folded. But someone had liked it enough to collect a full set. And thank goodness for libraries, where such treasures could be preserved.

Another half hour passed. The sun had moved on and the room was in half shadow. She was finishing up the donated papers, and considering packing up for the day. She could go back to the ranch for dinner, but there were days when it was hard to be with the family when she was feeling—well, almost like an outsider, when she felt so unnecessary to their busy activities that she’d actually prefer to be by herself. Being alone too much wasn’t good for her, either. She knew that. But maybe she could think up some other project to keep her there for just another hour or two

So, what to do?

And the silent library gave her no answer.

She could almost listen to her own breathing.

Go home? Or more work?

And then a voice behind her said, “Do you have room for a new student here?”

Not the voice of a student. This was a man’s voice.

She sat up straighter. She tried to breathe. She knew that voice. But it couldn’t be.

“Annie?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt herself beginning to cry.

She turned and yes, it was Bart, and she was out of her chair and into his arms, all in one motion and yes, she was crying and he was saying, “Don’t cry, honey. Don’t cry. Everything’s going to be okay. Really. I’ve fixed everything and it’s all going to be okay. And I’m not going to be a horse’s ass any more. Really!” And that made her laugh and cry at the same time, so when he kissed her, her tears were all salty in his mouth, and he was laughing, too, and he felt so good in her arms, she knew that yes, everything was going to be okay after all.

They were like that, like two idiots, for long, delicious minutes, and then they calmed down and he held her a little away from himself and looked at her with all the love he was feeling and he took the pencil out of her hair and let all that beautiful blond hair gather around her face and he buried his hands in her hair and was almost crying himself, he was so glad to have her back. And she thought, he really does look a little like Prince Harry, but she’d never tell him that and she loved his sweet smile and his crinkly hair and she loved that he was still bossy enough to have fixed everything—whatever that meant.

 

There were couches in the reading room, comfy enough for them to curl up close to each other. His arm held her close to his chest and he could brush the top of her hair with his cheek.

“You should have known I couldn’t stay away from you. I was no good to anyone after you left and the captain told me I’d better get my head straight or he was going to send me to psych services. He told me to take some time off and get some rest and figure out what was going on. So I did something even better. I went and talked to my mom. She made me realize I’d let a lot of dumb stuff get in the way of what you and I had going for us. Male ego, or something, I guess. You did a spectacular job, finding Lindy when the rest of us couldn’t, and I love you for it. I really do. And by the way, my mom thinks you’re not only a super person. She said she knew you were the right girl for me the minute she met you.”

“She did?”

“Her words were, ‘I thought now here’s a girl who’s good enough for my Bart.’ It was like she wished she could hand you to me like a present, all wrapped up in tissue paper and red ribbons. And here I’d gone and driven you away. So dumb.”

“I really like your mom, too. Where would we be without her?”

“We’d be two very sorry people. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So?”

“So here’s what I’ve done. Are you ready?”

She took a deep breath. A wary deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay. Here it is. I made some inquiries, I wrote some letters, I jumped through a few hoops. And I got myself a job as the newest member of the Laramie police force!”

“You what!”

“Yep. I filled out a bunch of forms. I flew out to Cheyenne when you weren’t looking and took some tests and got myself interviewed. And they thought I’d do just fine. I said I thought they might be able to use a big-city cop, a sergeant with five years’ experience, and they said, ‘Well, we’re just a bunch of small-town country boys out here, but we might still have a few things to teach you,’ and we all laughed. They had my number right away.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, don’t say anything yet. I’ll tell you the rest.”

He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. She closed her eyes.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“After I got myself certified in Cheyenne, I came out here to Laramie. I managed to stay out of sight—from you, that is—and I did some quick research and rented a little house up at the edge of town. Just temporary, of course, till we work things out. Then I went back to New York. I’d already resigned from the New York force and I convinced them it was time for Lindy to retire. He’s fifteen years old—and he’s earned a rest. They agreed and I was able to buy him back. He was always sort of the Hardins’ horse, anyway. I bought a horse trailer, and got a hitch for it, and I’ve brought him out here so he can smell the air of the place where he was born, and run free in the fields, and not have to be in danger any more. He won’t have to pose for tourists and do tricks for theater people. Of course, you can whistle that song for him any time you like.”

He kissed her hair again.

“God, I love the feel of your hair,” he said.

“I still don’t know what to say.”

“There’s more,” he said. “I got here—with Lindy—this morning. I went to the ranch, thinking I’d surprise you, but you’d already left. So I talked to Liz and Craig—super people they are—and I met the boys, too, and they were a hoot, seemed to think I’m a big deal because I’m a cop. And Liz and Craig offered me a deal—they offered to board Lindy on your property, as long as I promised to marry you and take good care of you, and if ever I don’t, they’re both going to come and kill me. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

She was staring at him wide-eyed. Stunned. With tears brimming up.

“Are you proposing to me?”

“I think I just did.”

She was trying to catch hold of this whole whirlwind that had just descended on her.

“But Bart, all this summer, while you were making all these arrangements, without telling me, how could you be sure I hadn’t already met someone else, gotten involved? Maybe even gotten married? I had no word from you at all. You had no way of knowing I hadn’t found someone else.”

He looked at her in amazement.

“How could you have found anyone else? You were already in love with me.”

And now the tears were falling, and she burrowed into his chest to hide them.

“Oh, Bart, you are such a sweet, sweet, fool.”

“But I’m not a horse’s ass, am I?”

Still burrowing into his chest, she shook her head. “No, not at all.”

“So is that a yes? You’ll marry me?”

“Oh, you knew it all along, didn’t you? You knew I would. Even when I didn’t know it.”

“So say yes.”

She looked up at him and smiled at him through her tears and said:

“Yes, Bart. Yes. Of course. Of course I’ll marry you.”