by Laura Drake
But there’s a greasy feel of guilt slicking my guts. Guilt for being alive, when Carson isn’t. Guilt for not staying in touch much the past couple of years.
Guilt for lost chances.
I’ve been spending every minute working, for what? Carson and I were the end of the line. Since my first and only bull ride ended my chances of having children, when I die, the ranch will probably go to the state. My whole life, and what have I done that will last? What will I leave? Nothing that matters to anyone. Least of all me.
“God, Carson, I’m so sorry.” I raise the sheet over his face, turn on my heel, and walk out.
I drive out to the rodeo grounds. This is Carson’s world. They’ll know him here. Maybe I can get more information than the scanty cold facts the police dispensed. The packed-dirt parking lot is deserted, but the floodlights form a halo around the empty stands.
Crap. It’s Monday. The cowboys that were here last weekend are scattered to the winds of rodeo. But I notice a trailer under the stands with lights on, so I head that way.
I open the door and step inside.
It’s a small room, filled with two paper-buried desks. An older man and woman sit behind them, shuffling through the mess. They look up. The man’s jaw drops, and the woman lets out a little “eek.”
When I haven’t been around my brother in a while, it’s easy to forget that we have the same face. I take off my hat. “I’m Reese St. James, Carson’s brother.”
The woman crosses herself.
The man stands and sticks out a hand. “I’m Ben Davis. I put on the rodeo here. I didn’t know your brother well, only saw him a couple of days every year, but he was a good kid—he’ll be missed.”
The woman’s eyes are shiny. “Oh, I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it.”
“They left your brother’s things with us, figuring someone would come looking for them. They’re in the back of my truck. I’ll just—”
“No need. I’ll get them on the way out. What I’m really looking for is information.”
“Don’t know much, only what I heard from the cowboys.” Ben leans his thin butt on the edge of the desk. “They were heading out to the bar, and a deer ran out and—”
“The police told me. Do you know the woman who was with him?” Carson had as many commitment issues as me, so I’m pretty sure this’ll be a buckle-chaser dead end, but still…
The woman squints. “I heard her name. Let me think. Pam? No. Peggy?” She shakes her head. “That’s not right. It’s some singer’s name, from way back, remember, Ben?”
He crosses his arms and stares at the notice-covered wall. “I don’t—”
“Patsy!” Her face lights up. “Like Patsy Cline. I knew I was gonna remember.”
“Do you know her last name? I feel like I should get in touch with the family.” And finding out more about her will tell me more about my brother.
“Oh, that’s sweet. No, I’m sorry. I never heard her last name.”
“Do you happen to know where she was from?”
They both shake their heads.
I should just let it go. Sentimentality was drummed out of me at an early age. But I can’t. I’d like to know more about my brother in his last months. Surely her family would know more about that than me.
Chapter 3
Lorelei
One week later
I’m sitting on a folding chair at the graveside, listening to our minister recite the well-worn platitudes meant to ease grief. Since I’m immune to them, I’ll pray that they’ll help Momma. She looks older since Patsy’s accident—folded in on herself physically, mentally, emotionally. She shifts between grieving for her youngest daughter and not remembering her at all, which I think is more a coping mechanism than the effects of the stroke. I get it; you’re wired to protect yourself from things you can’t face. I wish I could seek refuge there myself, but someone has to handle things.
The only pinpoint of light at the end of the dark tunnel of the past week lies sleeping in my arms. Sawyer is a delightful baby, easygoing and content, unless there’s reason not to be. She seems happiest in my arms, and I’m glad of it; I need the comfort as much as she. She shifts and whimpers in her sleep, and I bounce my knee to calm her. She won’t remember her mother, but I’ll be sure she knows her, through my memories. What kind of a mother was Patsy? Leaving a six-month-old to go drinking isn’t a great indicator, but I know my sister. She may not have been perfect, but she loved this baby with everything she was capable of.
And I’ll do the same.
My mind drifts to the father, and I push the thought away, worried that even thinking about him will conjure his family. Social Services has been out to the house and okayed Sawyer’s living environment. It helped that Mrs. Wheelwright is a retired nurse and loves babies. I now have legal custody, which should ease my unease. But there’s still a cactus prick of conscience. Sawyer is their blood, too. They have a right to know she exists.
But how do I know they don’t know? Just because Patsy didn’t tell us doesn’t mean the father didn’t tell his family. And even if they didn’t know, it wouldn’t take much digging to find us, right?
Either way, Sawyer is mine now. It’s like God heard what I hadn’t thought to ask for and gave it to me. The past few years, I’ve been restless, and I finally figured out why. It was my eggs, lying around like lazy kids, living in the basement, going nowhere. And with no likely prospects for a father, I thought they’d just die off, unrequited. Having this baby makes me sated in ways I couldn’t have imagined a week ago.
When the reverend begins with the “ashes to ashes” part, I know we’re almost done here.
The white casket with gold trim shines so pretty in the sun, just like Patsy did. It was worth every bit of the money I couldn’t afford. We’ll pay it off over time, because it’s all I could do for my sister, and I have so much to be grateful to her for. The lightness she brought to my childhood. All the memories she left behind. Last and especially, Sawyer.
Thank you, dear sister. I know you didn’t mean to give me this gift. But you can rest easy—you know I’ll love and protect her with my life.
Goodbye, sweet Patsy. We so loved you.
The sermon over, people shuffle toward Momma and me. I wipe tears and brace myself, dreading their questions. Was Patsy married? Why had she never brought the father home to meet us? How could she have not told us she’d had a baby? All I have is facts, but they don’t give me answers.
* * *
It turns out, I didn’t give the townspeople enough credit. In the church basement, the reception has turned into an impromptu baby shower. Momma pulls an adorable stuffed cow from a gift bag. “Oh, how sweet! Thank you…”
“It’s Nevada, Mary. It’s okay, you don’t have to remember. The gift is from me and Joseph.” She leans over and pulls up the orange-and-brown granny-square throw that’s falling off Momma’s lap.
Who’d have thought that tough Nevada would be sweet with my mother? But Fish has brought out a softer side in her that we never guessed was there. Skirt and all, she drops to the floor beside Momma and helps her open the presents that are more than welcome. I had to buy a car seat before we left Las Cruces, and I found a used crib on the local garage sale Internet site, but between that and formula and diapers, my bank balance is nearing the red. Pray God that Einstein’s tires hold out and the rain holds off so the roof of the house doesn’t leak for a few months.
“She’s so precious.” Carly reaches over my shoulder to stroke Sawyer’s cheek and is rewarded with a smile. “Are you holding up okay, sweetie? If you need more time off, I can—”
“Don’t you dare say it.” I turn to her massive bulk of belly. “You are on maternity leave. I’ll be back in the morning. I can’t believe you closed the diner today.”
She shrugs. “Don’t be silly. There wouldn’t have been any customers, since just about the whole town is here.”
She’s right. I look aro
und the room, grateful for our tight-knit community. Kids in their Sunday-best clothes chase one another, mothers snatching at them on the way by. Austin, Carly’s husband, is talking to a group of old farmers in the corner. He’d fit right in, if he weren’t holding Faith, their child. The garden and historical society ladies sip tea in another corner. The townsfolk may squabble among themselves, but let something bad happen and they’re there, offering everything they have. “I’m so thankful. For everything.” I blink back tears I thought I was done with.
“Aw, com’ere.” Carly gives me a hug, made awkward since both our babies are between us.
My baby. How can I be elated and grieving all at the same time?
Fish steps out of the kitchen to give me a hug.
I sniff. “Nevada stole your cooking job, yet still you’re in the kitchen.”
He offers his finger to Sawyer, who tries to put it in her mouth. “Everyone brought the food. I’m just serving it.”
“Still. Thank you.”
“I’ll be out to take a look at your roof this week. It wasn’t in great shape before, and you had to have lost shingles in that last storm.” He retrieves his finger and runs the back of it down Sawyer’s cheek. “I’m so sorry for your troubles, Lorelei.”
I shake my head. “A funeral is meant to put an end to the sadness and the ‘sorrys.’ Starting tomorrow, we’re looking ahead and thanking God for the amazing blessing we’ve been given.” I drop my head and look at him from under my brows. “And you are not messing with my roof. You have enough to do with your farm. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”
He can look fierce when he wants to. “That is my gift to Sawyer, so you have no say. It’s between her and me. Right, baby?”
Sawyer smiles at him and kicks her feet.
“I love you, Fish. Thank you.”
* * *
Reese
Bo somehow got around local laws to bury my mother on the ranch, on a pretty mesa overlooking the river about a quarter mile from the house. We buried Bo there a year ago, leaving me the only one left to bury Carson.
I invited the crowd back to the ranch house after. Friends, neighbors, and employees drink whiskey from cut-crystal glasses in the great room. Afternoon sun pours in the two-story window wall that juts like the prow of a ship. My father didn’t do anything by halves.
I’m weary of the pomp and politeness. I wish everyone would just leave, but Bo drilled into us from a young age never to judge a man’s pocketbook by his dress and always use your Sunday manners if you don’t know who you’re talking to. I know almost everyone here, but not well enough to feel comfortable with herding them to the door.
I look around. Friends of Bo, friends of Carson. I have acquaintances and business associates, but no one I’d expect to fly in for this.
“Mr. St. James?”
A kid in pressed Wranglers, dusty boots, and a starched white dress shirt walks up. He’s carrying a can of beer in one hand, his hat in the other. Not sure how he got the bartender to give him the can instead of a glass, but…“Yes.”
“I’m Shane Grayson. I rodeoed with Carson. He showed me the ropes and helped me out a bunch over the past year, so I wanted to be here. To tell you how sorry I am.”
“Thank you, Shane.” I hold my face in somber lines in spite of my heart banging my ribs. Finally, someone with information. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yessir.”
I lead him down the hall. Bo’s study is like the rest of the house—made to impress. Mounted trophy animals line the dark-paneled walls, and the fieldstone fireplace is big enough to roast a pig in. Teddy Roosevelt would have felt at home here. I lead Shane to one of the burgundy leather chairs and he perches on the edge.
I’d rather stand, but I don’t want to intimidate him any more than he is already. He looks like a fresh-faced kid, though I know he can’t be much younger than me. “I know the basic facts, but Carson wasn’t so great about staying in touch. Can you tell me a little about his life on the road?”
His face lights in a smile. “Carson, he was cowboy from the ground up. I saw him get stomped by a bull in the first round of the finals in Pecos. Broke two ribs, and he still rode his last bull. Made the whistle, too.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Carson.” I only rode that one bull, after Carson double-dog dared me. I ended up with a scar on the outside, a bigger one on the inside, and a lifelong lesson Carson never learned.
“But he was a nice guy, too. Him and Patsy, they kinda took me under their wing.”
I cough to cover my gasp. “Patsy. Tell me about Patsy.”
“Aw, she was the best. All the guys were half in love with her. She had that spark, you know, how some women have? Makes you want to be close to them. She liked to have a good time, but she didn’t have eyes for nobody but Carson. And he was the same, even if they weren’t married. I think they’d a probably gotten around to it eventually.” He sets the untouched beer on the antler table beside him. “And that baby…” He shakes his head. “They loved that baby like nobody’s business.”
“Wait. What?”
He cocks his head. “The baby. Sawyer. You didn’t know about her?”
There’s never been an earthquake near here, but I swear the ground just shifted. “A baby,” I breathe.
“Sure. Precious little thing she was, too.”
My gut drops. “Was? She wasn’t in the car—”
“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t mean to scare you. Sybil—she’s a can chaser and a looker her own self—she was babysitting that night.”
“Where is the baby now?”
His face scrunches. “I don’t know. Never thought about it until just now.”
Possibilities I thought long dead bloom like squid’s ink in my brain.
A baby.
A piece of Carson still exists. I’ll see that his baby is safe and cared for with the best money can buy. It’s the least I can do for my brother.
But I’ve got to find her first.
* * *
Lorelei
“Nevada.” My cook stands at the grill, flipping burgers and twisting her hips. Her earbud headbanger music stutters and stumbles across the floor to me. I shoulder my heavy purse and walk over to tap her on the shoulder.
“Holy crap!” She whirls, crouching, holding the spatula like a weapon. “Oh.” She straightens and pulls out one bud. The volume surges.
“Turn that danged thing down already. The place could be on fire and you wouldn’t know it.”
“If it were on fire, it’d most likely start right here.” She waves the spatula at the grill.
“We didn’t buy you those danged things to blow out your eardrums.” The patrons chipped in to buy them two months ago, so they wouldn’t have to listen to that god-awful stuff. Except for Manny Stipple; he likes it. But I think Carly’s grandpa’s moonshine has destroyed his taste in music, right along with his liver.
The irritation fades from Nevada’s face. She reaches for her phone at the back of her waistband and the sound fades. “You’re right. Sorry.”
In the old days (pre-Fish) she’d have gone to the mat with me on this. I heartily approve of Nevada 2.0. “Thank you. I’m making a run to O’Grady’s. I forgot to order artificial sweetener, and we’re almost out. Need anything?”
“Can you get me six tomatoes? The delivery will be here in the morning, but that should hold me for tonight.”
“Sure. That it?”
The swinging door to the diner opens, and Sassy Medina, our waitress, steps through. “Lorelei, there’s a guy here to see you.”
“Who is it?”
“I never saw him before. But if you don’t want him, I’m giving him my number.”
I shake my head. Probably a new produce vendor, trying to poach customers. I push through the door.
The guy standing next to the front door is no vendor. He’s not tall: about my height, with broad shoulders and a small waist, in Wranglers, tooled boots, a plaid work shirt, and a c
ream straw cowboy hat that he sweeps off as I walk up. Short brown hair. He looks like a young James Garner, except for the scar that bisects his left eyebrow and disappears into his hairline. It saves him from looking like a pretty boy.
“I’m Lorelei West. What can I do for you?”
He looks around, steps to an open booth, and slides in, assuming I’ll follow. This one is used to getting his way.
He waves across the booth. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
His gaze is warm and appreciative. This guy is selling something, but I’m not buying. I sit and cross my arms on the table. “This is my restaurant. If I want coffee, I know where it is.”
“Oh, you own this place?”
My cheeks flush. “I’m the manager. And I have a job to do, so…”
He puts out a hand. “I’d like to talk to you for just a minute, if I could. I’m Reese St. James.”
His hand is strong and smooth. That name sends tingles down the synapses in my brain.
Who does he think he—the name drops into a slot in my memory, and all the other slots drop cargo. Patsy. Her boyfriend was a St. James.
Oh no. Sawyer.
My stomach clenches as if anticipating a blow. I eye him like the sidewinder that got into the house once. “What can I do for you?”
He laces his fingers on the table, leans in, and what’s in his dark eyes makes my nerves jangle. It’s longing. No, yearning. “The baby. My brother was the father of the baby.”
My brain is whirling, but nothing helpful is coming out. All my worry is sitting right in front of me, and my flight reflex is just as strong as my fight. But I’m going to have to use words, because my legs wouldn’t hold me anyway. “How do I know you’re who you say you are? You could be a…child-napper.”
That pulls his lips to a half grin. He reaches for his wallet, flips it open. Texas driver’s license, and the name matches the photo. I pull it across the table to read better. “Where is Carrizo Springs?”
“South Texas. Between Laredo and Eagle Pass, on the Rio Grande.”