Rugged Cowboy

by Elana Johnson

  The woman at the front of the line looked beyond hopeful, and she held up a picture of the four-poster bed in the master bedroom. “I want this, and I’m willing to pay two thousand dollars for it.”

  “Sold,” Dallas said, and he realized he might need a way to itemize what he’d sold already so he could avoid hurt feelings and possible fights if two people wanted the same thing. He decided to stay by the door and greet each person, then ask what they were looking for.

  The second person in line had also printed a picture, and it was of the dining room table and chairs. “Is this solid wood?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dallas said. “It was custom-made at the Boulevard.” Martha had paid five figures for the dining set, and they’d entertained surgeons, hospital administrators, and other VIPs at the table.

  “It’s a Doug Rutheford piece, isn’t it?”

  “I believe it is,” Dallas said, something jogging in his memory.

  “I’ll take it for eight thousand,” the man said, his eyebrows up.

  “Sold,” Dallas said again, marveling at how well his idea had worked. One by one, more people stepped up to the front door. Some said they were just browsing. Some had specific items and prices in mind. Those items he sold immediately if the price was even close to fair. Those who wanted to wander and browse had to check with him, Ted, or Nate first, as Dallas had started a sheet with the things he’d sold as people walked through the door.

  Mid-morning, his phone rang, and Jess’s name sat on the screen. He didn’t answer, because a group of three women had just arrived, and they wanted to see the wardrobe in the master closet. Dallas gave them to Ted, who started to lead them through the house.

  His phone rang again, and again, he saw Jess’s name. “Nate,” he said, and his friend came over to man the front table they’d set up after realizing how this sale should be handled.

  Dallas swiped on the call and said, “Hey, Jess, I’m in the middle of something really big.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll talk fast.” She started a story about a dark-haired man named Josh, and that was when Dallas started blinking to keep his vision working properly. Martha had mentioned Josh a couple of times.

  “He didn’t say what he wanted?” Dallas asked when he sensed the story was almost over.

  “He said you two needed to settle a debt.”

  Fear ran through Dallas in cold waves, and he was glad he’d wandered away from Nate and any shoppers. “I don’t owe anyone any money,” he said.

  “He said he’d get in touch with you,” Jess said. “He was kind of creepy, Dallas. That’s why I called. I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks, Jess,” he said at the same time he heard someone shout. “I have to go. I’ll call you tonight.” He hung up and turned toward the commotion. A woman faced a man, and they both had one hand on a piece of art Dallas had bought during a hospital auction, years ago.

  “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes with this painting,” the woman said. “You can’t just waltz up and claim it.”

  “Yes, I can,” the man said. “I checked with Nate at the front door, and he said it hadn’t been claimed.”

  “I claimed it,” the woman said. “I just haven’t seen one of them to make it official.”

  “Can I help you?” Dallas asked. They both looked at him with relief in their eyes. They both started talking over one another, and Dallas found he had very little patience for either of them.

  “You checked with Nate?” he asked the man. “You got the tag?”

  “That’s right.” He held up the pink post-it note that had Nate’s handwriting on it. It said, Painting in hall beside kitchen.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry, but talking to the front table and getting a tag is the procedure we’ve been using.”

  “I was waiting here to talk to one of you,” she protested.

  “Have you seen the library?” Dallas asked. “There are at least half a dozen paintings in there, most better than this one.”

  “The library?” she asked, and Dallas led her to the sprawling room filled with books no one had ever opened. Several items had tags on them, claiming them for people. But none of the paintings had been taken.

  “Oh, my,” the woman said, and she started examining the pieces. “This is an Andy Warhol.” She turned to Dallas with wide eyes.

  “Yes, my ex-wife loved his work,” Dallas said. In the time it took to blink, he could see the anniversary where he’d presented that painting to Martha. She’d been over the moon, and Dallas had too—because he’d loved her so much and all he’d ever wanted was for her to be happy.

  “I want this,” she said, already moving to the next painting.

  “Ma’am,” he said as kindly as he could. “You have to get the tag from the front table. Someone could be getting it now.”

  “Not again,” she said, and she practically sprinted from the library. Dallas just watched her go, trying to remember if he’d ever been that excited about the art hanging in the library. No, he had not.

  He returned to the front table to help Nate, and the woman after the paintings had five tags with her as she hurried away from him once more.

  “This is incredible,” Nate said. “What a great idea. We don’t have to move the stuff, and you’re making a lot of money.”

  “I need it,” Dallas said, looking down at the sheet. His mind seized onto numbers, and they just made so much sense to him. In only a few seconds, he calculated that he’d made over seventy-five thousand dollars in just over two hours.

  And he had many more ahead of him before he could truly relax, especially if the mysterious Josh knew where he worked.

  Josh didn’t call Dallas, nor did he show up at the ranch again. He wasn’t loitering outside Dallas’s house on the outskirts of town, and as one week became two became three, Dallas started to put the man out of his mind.

  He hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife since the closing on the house either, and he wondered if she’d found someone else to fund her habits. Dallas wasn’t going to do it, he knew that. If Martha wanted to be on the fast-track to self-destruction, there was little he could do about it except withhold the cash she needed for the pills and alcohol she favored.

  He couldn’t believe she’d abandoned their children, their marriage, and their house for her vices. She’d made such great progress over the years, and they never kept wine in the house. If she drank, it was only socially, and only at restaurants.

  He kept in touch with her sister, but Amy hadn’t heard from Martha in longer than Dallas had. As October became November, he started to put her out of his mind completely, which was a good thing as he prepared to go visit his parents and siblings in Temple.

  The day finally arrived, and Dallas loaded up the pies he’d bought from Emma and told the kids to put their suitcases in the back of the SUV. He put his in too, glad he’d bought a new car that could hold luggage without making it a workout to get it in and out.

  “Seat belts,” he said as he got behind the wheel. It was almost four hours to Temple, and his mother was serving Thanksgiving dinner promptly at one o’clock. If she hadn’t changed while Dallas had been in prison—and he didn’t think she had—they’d probably start eating at twelve-thirty.

  He and the kids were on the road by eight, and he didn’t let his lead foot take over. He was in no hurry to get to his parents’ house and then wait around. That was the worst part about Thanksgiving meals—the visiting before and after. He just wanted to eat and run.

  He wouldn’t be doing that this year, though. He and the kids were staying for the whole weekend, and Dallas had been hoping and praying to rebuild bridges and make amends while he was in Temple.

  His skin itched with every mile that took him closer to seeing his father for the first time in years. He still hadn’t spoken to him, and Dallas suddenly wanted to protect himself and his children from a potentially volatile situation.

  “Guys,” he said. “I haven’t seen Grandpa in
a long time.” He looked in the rear-view mirror to see if Remmy had heard him. She’d looked up from her coloring book, so Dallas assumed she had. “Did Mom take you to see my parents ever?”

  “No,” Thomas said. “Just Gramma Fran in Florida.”

  “Mm,” Dallas said, his mind spinning. Martha hadn’t gotten along particularly well with Dallas’s father, so it wasn’t terribly unsurprising that she’d chosen to take the kids to see her mother. At the same time, Thomas and Remmy were his parents’ grandchildren too, and he thought Martha would at least make an effort. Everything about Martha required effort, but only to make it look like everything was so effortless.

  “Does he still have Scottie?” Thomas asked, his face brightening.

  “I haven’t heard that he died,” Dallas said, though that didn’t mean much. He’d been talking to his siblings via text since his release, and they seemed interested in having him in their lives again. He called his mother, and she’d been the most forgiving and the most accepting. “So I’m sure he still does.”

  His mother would’ve told him if Dad’s dog had died. The canine went everywhere with Dallas’s father, even down to the barbershop to get a haircut.

  Because he didn’t want to get there too terribly badly, the miles and hours passed quickly. Before he knew it, he was pulling into the long driveway and parking his new SUV beside a couple of others.

  He hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet when he heard someone call his name. He looked up to find Olive running down the steps to greet him. His whole heart beat like a drum, the skin around it oh-so-tight and someone banging on it with a lot of force.

  He got out, and Olive was upon him in the next moment. “Dallas,” she said. “You’re here.” She hugged him tight, and then tighter. “You look so good.” She stepped back and looked him up and down, tears in her eyes. “I thought you might be permanently injured or something.”

  Dallas smiled at her and kept his chronic back pain to himself. “Come on, guys,” he said to the kids. “You know Aunt Olive.”

  Remmy, always the more adventurous child, got out of the SUV first. She hugged her aunt, and by then Greg, Dallas’s brother, and Judy, his other sister, had come outside too. Dallas knew he was the last to arrive, and while that had used to bother him, now it didn’t. He’d made excellent time on the drive, and it was before noon.

  He looked up to the porch while his siblings’ kids started talking to Remmy and Thomas, and he found his mother standing there. She held one had pressed over her heart as she cried.

  “Momma,” Dallas said, suddenly needing nothing more nor less than a good, long hug from his mother. He took the steps two at a time, noticing how white her hair had become before he swept her into his arms.

  He buried his face in her neck and breathed, getting the floral scent of her favorite perfume, a hint of something green as she tended to an herb garden the size of a small farm, and the soft, powdery scent that belonged to all women over the age of seventy. “Momma,” he said again, pulling back to look at her.

  She placed one hand on the side of his face and gazed at him, tears still running down her face. “Dallas Alexander,” she said, her Texas drawl really lengthening the syllables in his name. “It’s so good to have you home again.”

  “It’s so good to be home,” Dallas said. The scent of butter and roasted turkey wafted out onto the porch through the open front door, and Dallas’s mouth watered. He’d skipped breakfast in his haste to get on the road and because of his nerves. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “He’s tinkering this morning,” Momma said. “You know where to find him.”

  Yes, Dallas did know. He turned back to his children, who wore smiles and spoke with the cousins they hadn’t seen in so long. “Do I have time?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Momma said. “Go now, Dallas, and get it done.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his cowboy hat, noticing how his mother’s gaze lingered there for an extra moment. No, he’d never worn a cowboy hat for longer than it took to go trick-or-treating, but they were dead useful around the ranch, and he found he really liked wearing the hat.

  He retraced his steps down to the sidewalk and went around the side of the house opposite the driveway. In the back corner of the back yard sat a shed, and his father went there when he wanted some peace and quiet, or when his brain had started to work on a new idea for a new fishing fly, and when he wanted to make those flies.

  His father loved to tinker with things too, and he’d once taken the toaster apart to see if he could put it back together. His workshop smelled like feathers and fishing line, and Dallas had always loved going out there with his dad.

  Now, he stopped outside the closed door and raised his fist to knock. His father didn’t answer, and Dallas figured he knew who stood out here while he waited in there. The stubbornness of people sometimes fascinated Dallas, and his heartbeat stormed in his chest. His father clearly didn’t want to see him. Why should Dallas force a reconciliation upon him?

  “It’s not about him,” Dallas muttered to himself. He had to feel like he’d done everything he could to make things right between him and his dad. And that required going into the shop without being invited.

  He pushed open the door, surprised at the blast of heat that came out. It was almost December, but certainly not cold enough to pump the heater the way his dad was. “Daddy?” he asked, and his father turned from the tall workbench where he attached feathers, threads, chenille, hooks, and other items to make the flies he used to fish with.

  Their eyes met, and so many things were said. Dallas could hear the last thing his father had said to him, and it crushed his chest as strongly now as it had then.

  You’ve ruined my name.

  His father had taught all of his children growing up that they might not have much money, but they had something far greater. They carried the blood of great men and women in their veins, and it meant something to be a Dreyer.

  Remember whose name you carry, his father had said so many times. It’s my name. It’s Grandpa’s name. Your great-grandmother’s. We’re all counting on you to be a good citizen. Honest. Upstanding. Helpful. That’s what Dreyers do. It’s who we are.

  No one in the Dreyer family had ever gone to prison before, and his father could convey how disgusted, disappointed, and downright angry he was by simply saying Dallas had ruined his name.

  Dallas had tried to apologize then, but his father hadn’t wanted to hear it.

  “Hey, Daddy,” he said, taking a step and letting the door close behind him. “What are you working on?”

  His dad looked back at his workbench as if he’d forgotten where he was. Perhaps he had; his father seemed to have aged a decade in the thirty months Dallas had been in prison. He’s always been mostly bald, but now his hair existed in a dull shade of gray. His skin, which had seen too much sun in its life, seemed to sag everywhere. He wore a blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and Dallas wondered how he could survive with the heat as high as it was in the shed.

  “Wooly buggers,” he said. “And some mayflies.”

  “You like the mayflies.”

  “The fish like the mayflies,” Daddy said.

  Dallas dared to go over to the workbench, and he stood beside where his father sat on a high stool. He had little bits of everything on the bench, and how he knew where to put what, Dallas didn’t comprehend. He supposed making flies for fishing for his father was a lot like being a mechanic for Dallas.

  The knowledge of it just existed inside his head.

  “I’m really sorry, Daddy,” he said. “I know you might not be able to forgive me for a while, but I really hope you’ll try. I’ve been doing good things in Sweet Water Falls. The kids and I have our own place. They’re never late for school. I run the entire mechanical repair shop at a decent-sized ranch.”

  His father said nothing as he reached for a pair of pinchers and picked up a tiny piece of feather for the mayfly he was working on.

 
“I’m trying to restore the family name,” Dallas said. “Honestly, Daddy, I am.”

  His dad looped a wire around the feather and the hook, the fly already starting to come together. “I know you are, son,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

  Son.

  Dallas’s whole world shifted with that one, three-letter-word.

  “I love you, Daddy,” he said, his voice a whisper.

  “I love you too, Dallas.” He stood, and their eyes met again. So many things paraded across his father’s face. Dallas felt the stomping boots in his own soul, taking out the parts that were dark or rotten.

  They embraced, and his dad clapped him loudly on the back. “It’s taken me a long time to realize that you’re a good man,” he said. “Who just got caught up in some bad things.”

  Dallas thought that summed up what had happened fairly well, and he just held tightly to his father, this hug almost better than the one he’d gotten from his mother.

  Almost.

  “I heard you have a girlfriend,” Daddy said as he stepped back. He cleared his throat and made a big show of rubbing his eyes, as if that would somehow convince Dallas that he hadn’t wept a little bit.

  Dallas simply wiped his eyes, because his tears of gratitude had managed to leak out too. “Yeah,” he said. “Her name’s Jess.”

  “Why didn’t you bring her?”

  “Uh…I don’t know.” The truth was, Dallas wasn’t even sure his father would talk to him. He wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d get at all, and he wanted Jess to meet his family when things were as good as they could be.

  “We’re going really slow,” he added, because that was true too. He and Jess had agreed that they didn’t need to rush into anything. They could enjoy getting to know one another, and she could take her time getting to know the kids. They’d gone to dinner, to movies, even to a theme park together, and the four of them got along great.

  Remmy liked Jess the most, but even Thomas would answer her questions, especially if they were about science. Jess was no idiot, and she’d realized quickly how to get the boy to open up.