Cowboy Come Home

by Carly Bloom

  “Thank you, Anna,” Claire said. “And don’t you look…”

  She tried to come up with something. Anything. Something with a double edge. Did your grandmother die and leave you that pantsuit?

  “You look lovely. Is that silk?”

  Damn it. She was just too polite.

  “Of course,” Anna said, taking the bottle of wine and salad bowl. “Come on inside.”

  They followed Anna into the kitchen, where she removed the lid from Claire’s quinoa salad and wrinkled her nose. “I’ll put a spoon in this,” she said. “In case anyone wants to eat it.”

  The doorbell rang, and Anna scurried off.

  Laughter and chatter echoed from the foyer. Claire recognized the voices of Alice, Trista Larson, and Miss Mills.

  Miss Mills came into the kitchen and set a homemade buttermilk pie on the counter. Claire had tried going full-blown vegan once, but it had been short-lived. There were two reasons for this: (1) cheese was the stuff of dreams, and (2) Miss Mills’s buttermilk pies.

  “That looks delicious,” Claire said. “I might just skip straight to dessert.”

  Miss Mills looked at Claire’s salad. “I wouldn’t blame you,” she said. “Although you might want to hold off on the pie. Those jeans are tight enough as it is. You young ladies don’t leave anything to the imagination.”

  Miss Mills, bless her heart, wore a dress that could double as a housecoat, orthopedic shoes with compression hose, and a small ceramic pin that said SMILE! JESUS LOVES YOU! Claire didn’t think she was leaving much to the imagination, either.

  Miss Mills’s primary occupation was organist for the First Baptist Church, and she’d never been married nor nothin’, as Trista liked to say with a wink. And even though Miss Mills no doubt believed Jesus was the final judge of folks’ morals and behavior, she didn’t seem to mind doing a bit of prescreening for the Lord.

  Claire’s off-the-shoulder blouse had slipped down a little, and she yanked it up to cover at least some of her cleavage.

  “Don’t do that,” Alice said, placing a tray of fruit and veggies next to Miss Mills’s buttermilk pie. “You look lovely, and besides, it’s not your responsibility to cover up your body in order to make others comfortable.”

  Miss Mills raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “You’d think a librarian would understand the notion of modesty.”

  Alice, who was dressed very modestly indeed—gray blouse and black slacks—smiled sweetly at Miss Mills. Alice was one hundred percent sugar, but she had her opinions and she voiced them. “You might not know this, Miss Mills, but librarians, quiet as we may sometimes be, are often fierce feminists devoted to freedom of speech and expression.”

  Miss Mills reached in her purse and pulled out her daily devotional. “Some things ought not be expressed. Like feminism, for example.”

  She fluttered her daily devotional in front of her face like a fan.

  Trista placed her dependable slow cooker of tiny sausages swimming in barbecue sauce on the counter and plugged it in. “Bubba would probably agree with you, Miss Mills. But that’s just because he thinks feminism is something you treat with an ointment that comes with an applicator.” She winked at Claire. “Aisle four, right next to the condoms.”

  Maggie laughed until her ears turned red, and then she lifted the cooker’s lid and picked up a tiny wiener with a toothpick. “Ah, feminism,” she said. “The other F-word.”

  “You will never catch me calling myself a feminist,” Anna said.

  “Why on earth not?” Maggie asked. “Don’t you want to be treated the same as men?”

  “Absolutely not,” Anna said. “And besides, feminists don’t wear bras.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to object, but then she seemed to notice that she was not, in fact, wearing a bra. Maggie had a small, athletic frame without an ounce of fat on her—even while pregnant—and it meant she could enjoy the convenience of often going without.

  Alice furrowed her brow. She was probably trying to balance the lava of rage wanting to spew forth from her mouth like a thousand bees, with her extreme desire to be polite at all costs. It must be hard.

  For the first time, Claire wondered about Alice’s perpetually single status. Was it by choice? Did she get a little bit of somethin’ now and again? Or was she like Miss Mills and not married nor nothin’?

  “Pardon me,” Alice said softly, “but modesty is a social construct whose sole purpose is the oppression of—”

  “Goodness!” Miss Mills said, fluttering her devotional faster than the wings of a hummingbird. “The next thing you know you’ll be burning your bra.”

  “I would definitely come to that party,” Maggie said.

  Miss Mills fanned herself more forcefully, no doubt thinking that a pregnant lady should behave more maturely and while wearing adequate undergarments.

  Maggie rubbed her pregnant belly. “Y’all are lucky I wore any clothes at all. I’m hot. I’m cranky. And the waistband of my underwear has been trying to kill me for the past two months. I’m mostly going commando these days.”

  “I bet Travis doesn’t complain,” Trista said with a wink, setting a bag of chips and a container of dip on the counter.

  “What on earth is commando?” Miss Mills asked.

  “Sans panties,” Trista said.

  Miss Mills gasped.

  “Just like our dreamy Scottish Highlander in his kilt,” Maggie said, holding up her book.

  “That was the custom of the times in Scotland,” Miss Mills said, as if Kilted into It were a nonfiction historical document.

  Anna poured wine into glasses. “I think it’s still the custom in regard to kilts.”

  “It sure made it easier for that under-the-table hand job in front of the chieftain,” Trista added.

  “That scene was unsanitary,” Miss Mills said. “Not that I remember it in detail. I skip the racy parts.”

  “I bet you got through the book super quick then,” Claire said. “There were lots of racy scenes. Like the one at the inn where he tied her to the bed—”

  “That was at the castle,” Miss Mills corrected. “The inn is where they had that sinful food orgy. That is not what the good Lord intended butter for.”

  Miss Mills, as usual, had read every word of every scene, probably more than once.

  “It gives a whole new meaning to buttered buns, doesn’t it?” Alice said, cheeks turning a bit pink, before everyone started laughing.

  “Listen,” Claire said, yanking her book out and sitting on a barstool. “I have ten pages to go. I’ll just get after it while y’all sip your wine. Give me five—”

  “I can’t believe he dies at the end,” Anna said.

  Claire’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”

  “Oh dear,” Alice mumbled.

  “I said I can’t believe he dies at the end,” Anna repeated while plopping an olive in her mouth.

  “Spoiler alert,” Maggie said. “Only really super too late.”

  “Don’t worry,” Alice said. “There’s a twist—”

  “Ha! Time travel!” Anna said. “Not dead because he hasn’t been born yet. Plot hole you could drive a truck through. He’s dead, he’s not dead…Which is it?”

  Claire snapped the book shut. Instead of reading the rest of it, maybe she’d read Anna the riot act. She was getting to the end of her nice-Southern-girl-manners rope.

  Maggie walked over and whispered, “Fund-raiser. Don’t piss her off.”

  Alice cleared her throat. “Well, hopefully, we’ll be able to reopen the library soon. I know everyone will be anxious to request our next book club read.”

  “When do you think that will be?” Claire asked.

  “It will depend on how soon we can raise enough money,” Alice said.

  “I can’t remember the last time I was in the library,” Anna said. “I just buy my books.”

  Way to be tone-deaf, Anna.

  “There’s more to the library than just checking out books you could b
uy at the store,” Alice said. “For instance, we have children’s programs—”

  “I don’t have kids,” Anna said.

  “And of course, we have reference books, historical documents, county registries…”

  Anna wrinkled her nose.

  “Computers, internet access, ESL classes…”

  Anna crossed her legs and bounced her foot, clearly bored out of her mind by All Things Library.

  “We need a fancy fund-raiser,” Claire said. “Maybe a gala.”

  Anna’s foot quit bouncing. Nothing turned her on more than the words fancy and gala. She loved to host parties, and she was good at it. Claire had to give her that.

  Claire winked at Alice, and Alice grinned and took a sip of wine. They’d dangled the bait. Now they needed to set the hook.

  “If not a gala of some sort, maybe we could do a raffle,” Alice said.

  “A raffle?” Anna grimaced, as if maybe the word raffle meant public execution.

  “Petal Pushers would be happy to donate something from our liquidation stock,” Maggie said. “I mean, just imagine how excited folks will be at a chance to win gardening tools!”

  Anna looked at Maggie as if she were crazy, and Maggie stared back with an innocent expression of earnestness.

  “Maybe a bake sale,” Trista said, joining in. “I don’t have time to make homemade cookies, but I can donate something store-bought.”

  Miss Mills raised her hand. “I can’t support a raffle—it’s gambling and Jesus wouldn’t approve—but I’ll bake a pie for a bake sale.”

  Anna sighed loudly. She’d clearly heard enough. “Just how many books do you need to replace? Ten? Because that’s all you’re going to be able to manage with those lame ideas.”

  Only Miss Mills showed any indication of being offended.

  “Maybe we should go back to the idea of a gala, then?” Alice said.

  “Who could organize such a grand affair?” Maggie asked. “God knows I’m horrible at such things.”

  “Oh my God,” Anna snapped. “You all must think I’m stupid.”

  “Not stupid,” Maggie said. “Just self-involved and unaware of other humans—”

  “We’ll call it Boots and Ball Gowns,” Anna said, as if Maggie hadn’t spoken. “And we’ll have it at the Village Chateau.”

  “Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Maggie said with a smirk.

  Alice smiled sweetly, her ears going a bit pink with satisfaction. “I think that sounds fabulous. Now, who’s ready to discuss our Scottish Highlander?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A few weeks later, Ford pulled up to Miss Daisy and rolled his eyes over how he’d actually thought the words Miss and Daisy when he saw it. But then he grinned. Because Claire had a way of making you see things through her eyes, whether you wanted to or not.

  It would never occur to him to name the foreman’s cabin. But if he did, it would probably be a Burt. He had an uncle named Burt, and his mama always said he was plain on the outside and empty on the inside. Of course, that would be most of the places Ford had lived.

  Claire’s new pickup was parked under the oak tree. She could drive herself to branding day at her folks’ place, but Ford liked having her in his truck. For one thing, she made it smell better.

  He tapped the horn just as the trailer’s little door opened. Claire stepped out wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that said DO NO HARM, BUT TAKE NO BULL in black letters. When she turned to shut the door, he saw the Rancho Cañada Verde brand on the back. Claire had been trying out various products—clothing, cookware, hand lotion—in an attempt to create what she called a “line” of branded retail items. She was working on a business plan to present to Gerome.

  She ran to the truck and opened the door. No thick black eyelashes or shiny lips today. Just blue eyes, freckles, and mussy hair.

  His heart damn near stopped at the sudden appearance of such beauty.

  “I’m a mess today,” she said, climbing in and shutting the door.

  “No. You’re—”

  “But why dress up to torture cows, right?”

  Claire was highly opposed to branding. She’d made a valiant plea to her father to switch to ear tags, but he’d rightfully stated that the heifers couldn’t keep them on in the brush country. Those girls can’t hold on to their earrings, he’d said with a grin. Claire had then brought up microchipping, which Ford thought was a good idea, but it was too big of an investment for the ranch right now.

  “The cows have already been branded,” Ford said. “We did it early this morning.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He backed the truck up, turned it around, and headed down Claire’s freshly graded lane. They’d be at her folks’ house in about ten minutes, and Ford was looking forward to the barbecue. Branding was hard work, and he was hungry.

  “I know it bothers you. I didn’t want you to have to participate in it. I’m just here to pick you up for the party.” He winked at her. “You’re welcome.”

  He thought maybe she’d lean over and kiss him on the cheek. They’d been doing plenty of kissing lately, and he was looking forward to more, especially since he was leaving tomorrow for West Texas. She’d want to give him a proper goodbye—

  “What the actual hell were you thinking, Ford?” she screeched.

  Ford stopped the truck and looked at her. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Why? Do you think this is a game?” she asked.

  “A game?”

  “I needed to be there. I am trying to hold on to this ranch, Ford. I’m trying to show my dad that I’m worth leaving it to. That I’m enough…”

  Jesus. Her eyes were filled with tears. Her hands were shaking, and he grabbed them and held them tightly. He noticed the chipped nails. The calluses. The angry little scratches and punctures. He thought about how after giving her all to the ranch every day, she helped Maggie in the evenings, and worked on her business plan every spare minute in between.

  Well, not every spare minute. Because she’d made time for him, too.

  “Oh, my sweet angel,” he whispered, bringing her palm to his lips. “You are more than enough.”

  Claire started crying, and it felt like someone was ripping his heart out. He’d only seen her cry once before, and it had been in his rearview mirror as he’d driven away like a fucking coward. “I just wanted you to have a little break. You’ve been working so hard.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kept crying. He just held her, not knowing what to say.

  After about three minutes, she pulled away, wiped her eyes, and said, “Done.”

  Ford raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to talk? Chew me out some more maybe? Because I deserve it.”

  “No, you don’t. You were wrong, but your heart was in the right place. I’m exhausted, and I needed a good cry. I’ve had it. Now let’s get going.”

  She couldn’t keep this up. Doing all of it. Sure, she was capable of running the ranch. Damn capable. But if Rancho Cañada Verde was to keep going, what it needed was her ideas. Her branding and marketing. Because she was on to something, and the quarterly report had proven it. Rancho Cañada Verde needed something that only Claire, someone who loved her family and its legacy with all of her heart, could provide. And what she needed was time to prove it to Gerome.

  But time was the one thing she didn’t have much of.

  He took a deep breath. “Claire, do you want to be the foreman of Rancho Cañada Verde?”

  Claire sighed. “We’ve been through this. It doesn’t matter what I want. My family needs me.”

  “You’re right. They need you to work your marketing magic so this ranch can flourish long into the future, no matter what beef prices—”

  “But someone has to actually run the ranch, Ford. And until we find a permanent foreman, that someone is going to have to be me.”

  The words were right there. All he had to do was open his mouth and let them pour out. Why was it so ha
rd? He knew he could do it. He could run this ranch with his hands tied behind his back. He loved this ranch. And God help him, he still loved this woman. He’d never stopped.

  But the word permanent gave him pause.

  Jarvis men always kept moving. Stay one town ahead of your problems, son, or bad luck will catch up. That was something Johnny Appleseed Jarvis told all his boys.

  As long as he lived, Ford would never forget his father’s response to Abby’s drowning.

  I stayed too long in Abilene.

  Like he’d had anything to do with Abby.

  Worth was right. The curse was bullshit. It was just an excuse to be an asshole. And your problems always caught up with you. There was no such thing as staying one town ahead of them.

  He licked his lips, feeling like a kid about to jump off the diving board for the first time. And then he just jumped.

  “Claire, I’m coming back. To stay. I’ll be the permanent foreman.”

  He was a Jarvis. And he’d just agreed to accept a permanent position. And it had come out so simply! So easily. As if he’d been meaning to say it since the day he got here. “If that’s what you want, of course,” he added.

  Claire’s jaw dropped. Her eyes, still shiny from crying, were as round as silver dollars. “But is that what you want?”

  “I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life,” he whispered. Because he was afraid if he said it too loudly, Bad Luck would hear him.

  Worrying about bad luck and curses would be a hard habit to break. It had been the cornerstone of his existence for thirty-one years.

  “And maybe”—he was still whispering—“you could even buy Petal Pushers. Like you’d planned.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly buy Petal Pushers,” she said. “There’s still too much to do to make sure the ranch stays afloat.”

  That was disappointing. She loved it so much. She might be right, though.

  Claire snapped her fingers and her eyes lit up. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “What if I turned Petal Pushers into a ranch store where we’d sell all of the Rancho Cañada Verde products? I mean, we’d sell in other stores, too. Did I tell you I just got a department store to sign on to the cookware and bags?”