Austin
Saturday morning, I’m pouring coffee when Troy bounces down the stairs, fresh-shaven, in a suit and tie. “Where are you going?”
“Albuquerque. Business.” He walks into the kitchen, grabs a mug from the cabinet, and holds it out. “Hit me, will you?”
A fog of cologne envelops me. I wave a hand in front of my face. “Bullshit. Not with all that skunk juice.” I pour. “You’re going home.”
“I have a business meeting. And no, I’m not going home.” He takes a sip. “We’re meeting at Natalia’s ballet recital, then we’re all going out to dinner.”
“Good on you, Troy.” I am happy for him. It’s my problem that the excitement sparking off him illuminates the hole in me.
I only allow myself breakfast at the diner a couple times a week. Seeing Carly is torture. Blessed, exquisite torture. I walk in and it feels so much like before, it’s everything I can do not to reach out, to touch.
But then she sees me, she freezes a beat, before her face rearranges into an “I don’t care” mask. That look is like the thud of a bullet to the gut. It’s her remembering I’m not the man she thought I was. She couldn’t have been clearer the other day. She’s got concrete barriers up, and dogs patrolling the perimeter. I’m not getting in.
But I decided last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’m done beating myself up about it. That gets me nowhere but miserable. I’m going to focus on becoming that man she loved. Because, even if we never get back together, I’ve discovered that he is the better man—the man I want to be.
Troy tips back his mug. “Today is the beginning. I’ve laid out a five-point plan to get Darcy back.”
That pulls a chuckle from me. “You’re trying to fix your marriage with a PowerPoint presentation? Bro, you don’t get it.”
“Oh, but I do.” He flashes a confident smile, and tweaks his tie. “I’m not working any more than ten hours a day, and no weekends, unless I have an unavoidable meeting.”
He reels off the rest of his talking points, but I stop listening. I never have been able to watch a train wreck in progress. Besides, who am I to say? Maybe it’ll work.
But I doubt it.
“What’re you doing today?”
“I got roped into helping a bud wrangle a bunch of kids who want to learn rodeo.”
He raises one brow. “You were always good with kids. You may like it.” He sets his empty cup in the sink. “I’ll be back when you see me coming.” He pats me on the back, and strides for the door. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
The door clicks closed.
“You’re gonna need it.” I rinse out the cups, turn off the coffeemaker, grab my keys, and head out.
Jimbo’s ranch is down a dusty dirt road, five miles outside of town. I pull up to his outdoor roping arena. Kids are swarming. They look to be from five on up to high school age, girls and boys, black, white, red, and brown. The only thing they have in common is their dress: Wranglers, cowboy hats, and boots.
Makes me tired just thinking about trying to herd kids all day, but the adults are severely outnumbered. I open the door of my truck and step out. A promise is a promise.
A piercing whistle blasts my eardrums and freezes the kids. Jimbo’s bulk towers over the height-challenged crowd by the chutes. “Hit the benches!”
The pack heads for the three-step bleachers at the side of the arena.
He waves me over. “Austin. About time you showed up.”
“I’m here. Where do you want me?”
“Mutton-busting is first, because the little ones don’t have much patience or stamina. You stay in the arena and pick up the kids who fall off, okay?”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Kids!” He claps his hands. “We’ve got a long day, so let’s get started. Wool Warriors, front and center.” He waves to the cowboy standing at the other end of the arena. “You ready to haze sheep, Joe?”
The man waves.
Two cowboys bring in a plunging, nervous ram lamb.
“Oh, that’s a biggun’.” Jimbo looks around at the ten waiting riders. “Denny, you’re up. Come on over here, and I’ll help you with your helmet.”
The biggest of the bunch saunters over, buckling on a helmet that looks way too big for his little head. “I can do it myself.”
“I know you can. Next year, it’ll be calves for you.” Jimbo slaps the kid on the shoulder, hoists him by the belt, and lowers him onto the struggling sheep. “Ready?”
The kid wraps his legs around the animal, digs his fingers into the wool, and the helmet nods.
“Let ’er rip!” Jimbo and the cowboys all let go at the same time, and the sheep bolts for the other end of the arena.
I take off after them. The kid hangs tough at first, but with every jump, slides down the left side. Just as I come even, he hits the point of no return. I reach for his collar but the sheep veers away and I miss. The kid lands with a thump in the dirt and lays like a turtle on his back, gasping for air.
I drop to my knees beside him, and he looks up at me, panic in his eyes. “You’re okay. You just got the breath knocked outta you. Give it a minute; it’ll come back.”
I yell to Jimbo. “He’s okay.”
“I’m not a baby. Had that happen a’fore.” Still wheezing, the kid crawls to his feet, then walks away, smacking dust off. That one’s sure enough gonna be a bull rider. He’s already got the swagger down.
Next up is a little girl in pink boots and a tiny pink vest, blond hair spilling out the bottom of her helmet. God, she’s adorable. Jimbo picks a small lamb for her, and to the cheers of the crowd, she hangs on like a burr, to the end of the arena.
By the time the last kid goes, I’m sweaty, breathing like a buffalo, covered in red dirt and sheep shit.
And I’m having a blast.
Next is Pee-Wee pole-bending, followed by several age heats of barrels, goat tying, breakaway roping, and calf riding. I’m done in.
“Okay, last event.” Jimbo yells from the calf chutes. “Ribbon ropers, grab your muggers and come on down!”
“What the heck is that?” I raise an eyebrow to the dad who’s the other arena helper.
“You’ll see.” He takes off his hat and wipes sweat. “It’s a hoot.”
“Austin,” Jimbo yells, “need you down here to run the chutes.”
Before I know it, I’m tying a pink ribbon on the tail of a bawling little calf. The kid on the palomino in the next chute looks to be around thirteen. When the gate opens, he takes off, ropes the calf fast, dismounts, and holds it, while the little pink mutton buster I saw earlier snatches the ribbon and hauls boots for the finish line.
“Thirty-two and a half seconds!” The announcer blares. “I do believe that’s an arena record, folks. Joanie and Brian, you just made your daddy Jimbo proud!”
The record stands through the remaining contestants, and the kids come into the arena to accept their blue ribbons.
Jimbo hugs the boy, and kneels in the dirt to hug the girl. Then he takes the mic and announces that the barbecue is fired up at the house, and there’ll be hot dogs and hamburgers for everyone.
He sure has changed. Besides being a passable steer wrestler, Jimbo was easygoing and jovial. The peacemaker, when drink and disagreements mixed. But he was also a confirmed bachelor, with no interest in marriage, or kids. We never discussed why, but something told me there was crap in his childhood that influenced his opinion. I head for the truck. Halfway there someone grabs my elbow. I look up to Jimbo’s sweaty face.
“No way you’re getting out of here without me feeding you.”
I want to stop in at the diner. Carly may not want to see me, but I need to check on her; last time I stopped in, she didn’t look so good. “It’s okay. I’ll just—”
“Nope.” He pulls, and I have no choice but to follow. “Least I can do. What do you think about our little goat rodeo?”
“Gotta admit, I had fun. These kids crack me up.”
“Yeah, it’s a lot of work, but when you see the look on their faces, when they come to get their ribbons, it makes it all worth it.”
We join the crowd in the backyard of the ranch house. The barbecue is smoking, and one of the dads is laying a dozen hot dogs on the grill. A mom is passing out juice boxes and sodas.
The screen door opens, and a slim blonde in a gingham shirt tucked into Wranglers steps out, a bowl of pasta salad in one hand, coleslaw in the other.
We walk over, and Jimbo takes the bowls in his big hands. “Annalise.” He bends down to plant a kiss on her cheek. “I want you to meet a bud of mine from my rodeo days, Austin Davis. He’s not bad, for a rough-stock rider.”
She smiles and offers me her hand. “Welcome, Austin. Did this guy conscript you to help?”
“More like, bulldogged me.”
Someone calls Annalise’s name, and she excuses herself.
The older kids are bunched in groups. The little kids chase each other around the yard.
“I’m exhausted. Where do they get the energy?”
He slaps me on the back, almost driving me to my knees. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer. No one lets me help with the cooking anyway.”
The cooler closest to the back steps is full of ice-cold longnecks. We each grab one, find lawn chairs, and sit.
I put the beer in the cup holder on the chair arm. “Annalise’s boy is a heck of a roper already, and her daughter is a heartbreaker.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty special.” He smiles.
I wonder if he knows he looks smitten.
“But they’re mine, too.”
“Yeah, I just meant—”
“No, literally. The adoption went through the Monday after our wedding.”
“Wow. What man gives up two great kids like that?”
“One who’s in prison for spousal abuse.” He screws the top off a beer and practically drains it in one swallow.
“Jesus. Special place in hell for men who hit women.” I tip back my beer.
“Tell me about it. I’m hoping when he gets out, he’ll stop by. I have a few things I’d like to ‘say’ to him. But he probably won’t. Assholes like that are cowards at heart.”
I tip my hat back and squint at him. “Could I ask you a question, without you getting pissed?”
He squints back. “Depends. You gonna insult me?”
“Hell no. I just got healed up from my last rodeo.” I take a fortifying slug of Lone Star. “Don’t you worry about how the kids will turn out? Especially the boy…I mean, what if he turns out like his father?”
Jimbo starts up out of his chair, and I raise my hands. “I got reason to ask, okay?”
He settles back, but his frown doesn’t ease. “Cuz I’ll raise him better, that’s why. He’ll learn how to treat women by the way I treat his mother.”
“I know you’ll treat Annalise right. And he seems like a good kid. But there are genetics, right? What if—”
“Damn, Davis. That happens, you deal with it. Just like you do all the other shit that happens that you can’t control.” He shrugs. “I love their mother with everything I’ve got. They came as part of the package, so I fell in love with them, too.” His eyes roam the yard, and pause on each one of his small family. “If Annalise and I decide to have another kid, I couldn’t love him or her more than I love these two. And that child could be genetically messed up, too.” He looks over at me. “What, you looking for guarantees? Kids don’t come with them. You take a leap of faith, love them, and hang on tight. It’s as simple as that.”
Could it be that simple? I’ve got the courage to get on a pissed-off bull, but I’m not sure I have the guts for the leap he’s talking about. Eight seconds is easy compared to a rest-of-your-life commitment to trouble. Do I have that kind of stamina?
But Carly is the other half of that package, and Tig has always been the best part of my future. How can I not try? If I could find the asshole who hurt her and beat him into the ground, maybe I could let go of the anger I’m carrying on my back like a shrieking-pissed monkey. But Carly won’t even tell me what he looks like.
And even if I can do all that, she may not take me back.
It’s like I’m caught in quicksand, and flailing around is making things worse. But if I sit here and do nothing, I’ll be dragged under.
Either way, I’m screwed.
* * *
Carly
“Um, Carly, please don’t think I’m being critical.” Ann Miner talks over the morning babble. She’s sitting beside me at the counter, sipping tea, a plate of barely touched chicken salad in front of her.
She looks me up and down. Ann is the head of the Unforgiven Historical Society (such as it is), a reporter for our local paper, and is the self-proclaimed purveyor of critical. I tug at my oversized shirt, to be sure it’s not snagged on my bump.
She smiles and bats her eyelashes to show that she’s only trying to help. “You may want to take it easy on the carbs. An eligible bachelorette needs to watch her figure.”
I drop my eyes to my plate of fried chicken with all the fixin’s, and blink back the sting of tears. I’m so danged emotional lately, I’m crying at commercials. And I’m hungry all the time. Nosy old biddy. But if I gave her a piece of my mind, it’d end up in her “Buried Truth” column in the paper. It’s supposed to be about Unforgiven’s collective past, but she manages to sprinkle in current gossip, which is probably the reason it’s so popular.
And if I showed up in that column, Nana would snatch me bald.
“I’ll take it under advisement, Ann.” I haul myself to my aching feet, lift my plate, and head for my office to eat where I don’t have to worry if my belly is hanging out. My secret is growing every day, and not likely to keep much longer.
Would it be better to just blurt it out? Or wait for someone to ask, point blank? Danged if I know. I haven’t been able to come up with any scenario that seems at all possible. Which is probably why I haven’t done anything about it. Yet.
Two minutes later, Lorelei is at my door. “Honestly, Carly. We stay this busy, we’re going to have to hire more help—oh man, you don’t look good.” She steps in, lifts the catalogs from the spare chair, looks around, and drops them in the corner. Then she pulls the chair around and points. “You put your feet up.”
“Stop fussing.” But I toe out of my tennies and put my feet on the chair. “Ahhh. Thanks.”
“Seriously, Carly. I don’t know if it’s so hot that no one wants to cook, or if this is still the revolt against the Lunch Box Café, but we can’t keep up lately.”
“I know.” I shovel in the last forkful of mashed potatoes. “But the minute I hire someone it’s going to fall off again, and you know I can’t stand to lay anyone off.” Besides, we’re going to need the extra money. Babies are expensive.
“What about high school kids?”
“They only want to work from three to five. By the time we hit the dinner rush, they go home.”
“Maybe it’ll lighten up when this heat wave breaks.” She sweeps the wet stragglers from her neck and tucks them back into her bun.
“The end of August is always the worst. It should break soon.”
“I hope so, for your sake. Don’t get mad, but you look like a flogged cart horse.”
“With you and Ann Miner around, who needs critics?”
She crosses her arms and frowns down at me. “I’m serious, Carly. Why don’t you hire someone part time, and take every other day off? Or go to half days? You know I can handle the ordering and everything.”
I catch her hand and squeeze her fingers. “I know you can. And thanks for worrying. But Nana says we’re ‘breeders.’ Tells me stories of how her grandmother gave birth to her mother in a wagon and walked most of the next day.”
“I’m just saying, if you’re this tired this early, you’d better make some arrangements.” She squeezes my hand, then lets go. “Gotta get back and feed the teeming hordes.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
“You, sit.” She points a finger. “And stay, for at least fifteen. I can hold them off that long.” She blows her bangs off her forehead, turns, and leaves.
This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. In my dream, by now I’d be comfortably ensconced in the homestead house, nesting. Bustling around, making it a home, cooking hearty meals for when Austin came in tired from working stock all day, to find the house smelling luscious, and me, pink-cheeked and waiting for him.
When I close my eyes, a tear rolls down my cheek. Damned hormones. I wipe it away.
Time to stop wallowing. I pick up the phone and hit speed dial.
“Carly.” Cora’s gruff voice resurrects my smile. “How are you? Nevada and I were just wondering about you.”
“Not me!” Nevada’s yell echoes in the truck. I can picture them, bustling around, getting set up for the day.
There’s a click, and I’m on speakerphone.
“Yeah, well, tell her the article about the rattlesnake butt-strike is coming out in our local paper this week.”
There’s a commotion, and Nevada’s voice booms. “Tell me you didn’t do that. Seriously, Beauchamp, tell me you didn’t.” She’s breathless and intense.
“I’m kidding, Sweet. Calm down.” She’s awful het-up for someone who doesn’t care about what people think of her.
“Thank God,” she mutters and walks away.
“Carly.” Cora clicks me off speakerphone. “How are you feeling? Tell me the latest.”
I cross my feet, skootch back in the chair, and fill her in.
* * *
Austin
Two weeks later, I’m watching the sun blazing overhead, kicked back in a lawn chair on the porch, sore from tearing out walls upstairs all morning. These old houses are great, but the rooms are tiny.
Troy’s fancy car pulls in the yard, raising a cloud of dust. He steps out, looking like a puppy who just got whacked with a rolled newspaper.
I pull a beer from the cooler. “Looks like you could use this. Date night didn’t go too well?”
He drops onto the top step, twists the top off, and drains the beer. The fact that he didn’t ask for a glass shows just how down he is. Not to mention, he’s sitting on the filthy porch in his best suit.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.” He holds his hand out for another.
I oblige.
“We’re having a romantic dinner at the club. I even snagged her favorite table, the one at the window overlooking the golf course. We’re talking, sipping forty-year-old cab, the candlelight is in her eyes, and she looks like the college coed she was when we first met. She’s smiling, and I lean in…” He twists off the top and polishes off half the bottle in one go.
“And?” But I already know.
“And then my phone rang.”
I roll my eyes to the porch ceiling.
“You don’t understand. It was the culmination of a deal I’ve been trying to put together for months. You just don’t keep Rory Bitterman waiting.”
You do if you want your wife back. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t very well take the call at the table. I stepped into the hallway. When I came back, she was gone.”
“No shit.”
He puts down his beer and drops his head in his hands. “I know, I know. But am I supposed to give up my living? How much better would she feel about an unemployed loser, living off her family’s money?”
“Maybe you should find out.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
I’m following the trail of my thoughts, nodding. “You should quit.”
He’s looking at me like a mouse eyes a snake. “That’s what I get for listening to a guy who gets stomped into the dirt for the hope of a cheap belt buckle.”
“They’re not cheap. And I’m serious. You want her back, right?”
He nods.
“Trust me; this mistake, I’m way too familiar with. You’ve ignored what she’s been trying to tell you for so long that when you tell her it’ll be different, she doesn’t believe you. And tonight, you reinforced why.”
“Maybe, but—”
“She needs to know that she means more to you than money. There’s only one way to do that. Stop earning money.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Hey, I clearly have no woman skills, but even I could’a told you your five-point plan was garbage.” I lean forward in the chair. “Talking isn’t going to cut it. You have to show her that she’s worth more to you than money, prestige, and your own ego.”
“I get that. I do. But that’s like asking me to quit being a man. You grew up in the same house I did. It’s the man’s job to bring home the money.”
There’s something for me in my words, but I’m on a roll. I’ll think about it later. “She doesn’t need money.” I hold up a hand. “Look, you did it once. You built a business from nothing. I’ve seen what you can do. You’re good. If this doesn’t work, and she divorces you, you can start up your business again.”
There’s sheer terror in his eyes. But under that, longing. And maybe a spark of hope.
I sit back and lift my beer. “Desperate measures, bro.”
“Frankly, the idea scares the hell out of me.” He swipes a hand across his forehead. “But so does losing Darcy. I’m going to put some serious brain cells to this.”
“It’s weird. You and I went totally different ways, only to end up at the edge of the same cliff. Our problem is, there’s been a whole lot of talking and not much walking. You know what I mean?” My chest pocket rings. I pull out my phone. A local number, but one I don’t recognize. “Hello?” I can hear excited babble in the background.
“It’s Fish.”
The diner. My heart triphammers against my ribs. “What is it?”
“Austin,” he whispers, but I hear his panic. “You’d better get down to the diner. Now.”
Click.