A Cowboy for Keeps

by Laura Drake

  “Our Lorelei’s about the nicest woman we got in Unforgiven. What’d you do to piss her off?” Moss looks me up and down, reassessing.

  “Breathed, I think.” The fry bread is crispy and delicious, and the burrito is huge. I decide it’s safest if I eat. Can’t stick my foot in my mouth if there’s food in it.

  When I’m done, I say goodbye to my new buds and walk to the car. On the way, I pass an old-fashioned five-and-dime, just opening. I decide to stop in to get a present for the baby.

  As I pull open the door, I happen to look down to the corner of the window display. I stop, then squat to look closer.

  A carved wooden black-and-white Pinto with a painted rope bridle, standing proud. It’s not a match for mine, but it’s damned close. One of my most prized possessions is a small hand-carved wooden horse my mother brought back for me from a trip. Its war paint is pastels with geometric lines and symbols. I inherited the one she brought back for Carson as well. I’ve searched hours online over the years and have never been able to find ones to match them. I straighten and pull open the door.

  “Well, good morning.” A little lady with big brown hair at odds with her lined grandma face greets me. “What can I help you find?”

  “Could I see that horse in the window?”

  “Certainly.” She bends over the display and hands me the horse.

  It’s smooth and warm from the sun. Remembering my mother’s elegant, long-fingered hands holding my horse, moisture pricks at the back of my eyes. “Do you know who made this?”

  “It’s hand carved by a local artist.”

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”

  She gives me a side-eye that reminds me I’m a stranger in a small town, then takes a half step back and pats her hair. “I’m afraid I can’t. But if you care to leave me your number, I’ll let you know when we get another in.”

  I pull a business card from my back pocket and hand it over. “I’d appreciate that, very much. I’ll take this one.” I tuck the horse under my arm. “I’m also looking for a present for a baby.”

  “Ah, Carly’s newest. You’ll for sure find something in the baby corner.” She points to the back of the store.

  That must be the baby the guys in the diner were talking about. I follow her back, the old wood floors creaking. We pass tables of overalls, underwear, kitchen goods, and hardware. I haven’t been in a catch-all store like this in ages. I pull in the smell of the old building and realize I’m smiling. I know I’m in the right section when I reach an explosion of pink and blue. I look around, realizing I don’t know what half this stuff is used for. What size would Sawyer be? What do I know from babies?

  My eyes are drawn to a rack of stuffed animals. Hard to go wrong there. Bears and monkeys, lambs and…Oh, now, that’s cute. I pick up a lavender stuffed goat with rainbow horns and a little bell around its neck that tinkles a happy sound. I take it with me and keep walking.

  On the floor against the back wall is a tiny wooden rocking horse that looks to be handmade. Chocolate brown with a rope mane and tail, a red heart brand on its hip, and a big smile. Oh yeah, what little girl wouldn’t want that? Besides, best get her started early; Sawyer comes from ranching stock.

  “My husband makes those.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I tuck it under my arm. “I want to buy some clothes, but I don’t know the size.”

  “You’ll want the newborn.”

  “I’m actually shopping for my niece. Sawyer West?”

  “Such a sad story. I’m sorry for you and your family.” She sighs and shakes her head. “She’s six months, but I’d get nine months. She’ll stay in them longer. Follow me.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I pay for my purchases, and it takes me two trips to get them all in the car. Baby stuff is so darned cute, it’s impossible to resist buying a bunch. Besides, I’m buying for me and Carson both.

  I drive three miles out of town to the address Lorelei gave me. A broken and dragging barbed-wire fence runs alongside the road near the house. It looks like nothing’s been done with the land for years. I pass a Realtor’s sign: THREE HUNDRED ACRES OF PRIME RANCHLAND. So much for truth in advertising. A cow per ten acres is my guess.

  The house stands all alone, a half mile from any neighbor. The gold morning light highlights the battered exterior. It reminds me of a grand but shabby Southern lady after the war, trying to keep up appearances in spite of the wolves at the door. A shame, really.

  I pull in the rutted dirt drive, and Mrs. Wheelwright pushes open the screen door to wave me in. “Lorelei called. Do you want some breakfast?”

  “Very kind of you, ma’am”—I wipe my feet on the mat before stepping in—“but I ate in town.”

  “I’m not ‘ma’am.’ I’m Sarah.”

  “Who’s there?” Mary’s thready voice comes from the parlor.

  I walk through the arched doorway. “It’s me, Mary. Reese. Remember?”

  “Of course I do.” She looks like her daughter when she frowns. “It was only yesterday. I’m old, not addled, young man.”

  I can see it’s not easy to win with either of the Wests. “I’ve come to visit with you and Sawyer today.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. But the baby is napping, so you just come sit by me.” She pats the couch cushion next to her.

  “I think I heard her fussing.” Sarah takes a step to the nursery.

  “Would you mind if I check on her?” I have only a vague idea of what to do, but the cooing coming from that room tugs me that way.

  “Not at all. You go on.”

  “Mary, do you mind?”

  She shoos me with her hands. “Babies trump old ladies any day.”

  I step into the room where Lorelei took the baby last night. On one wall is an inexpert but endearing mural of an undersea world complete with mermaids, starfish, and…is that a shark or a whale? I dictate a note in my phone to order a mermaid twirly thingy for over the crib.

  Irritated sounds pull my head around. In a battered crib against the wall, Sawyer is squirming. I step to it and reach a hand in. “What’s the matter, little one?”

  Her face scrunches, and she lets out another blat.

  I put my hands under her armpits, lift her, and lay her against my chest. “I’ve got you. It’s oka—” But it’s not. She’s soaked, and she smells like…“Mrs. Wheelwright, could you come in here, please?”

  I hear tittering from the living room, but her face is carefully blank when she comes around the corner. “Yes? And it’s Sarah, remember.”

  “Sawyer’s a bit…” I hold her away from me. “Indisposed.” I look down. My dress shirt has a dark spot, and my eyes are watering from ripeness so strong I can almost taste it. I swallow, queasy.

  Sarah can’t hold a straight face any longer. She chuckles. “Babies do that, you know.”

  “Will you show me what to do?”

  She tips her head and studies me from the corner of her eye. “You want to change her diaper?”

  “Of course I do. She’s my niece.”

  “I was right about you.” She winks. “Follow me.” She walks out.

  I don’t know what that’s about, and it doesn’t matter, because I’m starting to gag. I follow, holding a wriggling Sawyer out in front of me.

  She takes me to a small bathroom in the hall. “She needs a bath, too. Might as well do both at the same time.”

  A pedestal sink stands across from a doily-draped, whitewashed cabinet, and an old toilet, and a clawfoot tub with a shower curtain tucked into it. There’s hardly room for me and the baby, much less two adults.

  Sarah lays a towel over the doilies. “Put her here.”

  “Now, pull the tapes.”

  “Huh?”

  “On the diaper.” She points.

  “Oh, okay.” I pull, one on each side. The diaper flops open, fanning a miasma of stench into my face. “Huah.” I gag, then swallow the fry bread that surges into my throat on a wave of grease. “Sweet mother of…huah.”
<
br />   Sarah snorts a shot of laughter.

  “How can something this small—huah—smell this…? Huah. Is she sick?” At least I have only to turn to the toilet if I lose the fight and hurl.

  “No. Pretty much every morning she serves up a present like this.”

  She takes out a flat box of wet disposable cloths. “Here, I’ll do it.” She tries to elbow me out of the way.

  “No. I can…do this.”

  She looks skeptical but backs up a half step, grabs a small plastic bag, and holds it out.

  I’m surprised it doesn’t have a nuclear-waste warning label. I start mopping and scraping and—Oh. My. God.

  Sawyer, now happy (and who could blame her), kicks her feet and chortles at me. I try to focus on that.

  Sarah pulls aside the shower curtain, and I glimpse a pink plastic tub—either a baby tub or a footbath…or maybe both. She runs the water, testing with her fingers until she’s happy with it.

  I put the last wipe in the bag and tie a knot in the top, hoping to contain the funk.

  “Hey, stinky, you ready for a bath?” She smiles and waves her limbs at me. Her body is long, but she has cute little chubbers around her thighs and arms. Her skin is so soft and delicate, I’m afraid my rough hands will hurt her.

  “Okay, ready here.”

  I gather Sawyer and carry her to the tub. Sarah backs up, and when I kneel on the tile, she perches on the toilet lid to coach me. Compared to the diaper, this is easy. Sawyer seems to love the water, splashing and pursing her lips to make a hoo-hoo sound. By the time she’s clean, I’m soaked and laughing.

  Sarah lays a new towel on the cabinet, and I carry Sawyer over, dry her, and Sarah shows me how to wrap her up like a burrito.

  “I’ll go get her clothes.” She walks out, leaving Sawyer and me alone.

  Our features are similar enough to be remarkable, really: the straight hairline against her tall forehead, the so-shallow dimples when she smiles. I lift her and lay her on my chest and whisper, “You and me, kid, we’re going to have fun. I’ll get you the smallest, gentlest pony ever, and we’ll go riding together. We’re a long way from the school, but maybe I’ll bring in tutors. What do you think?” I run my lips over her wispy hair, inhaling the smell of baby and sweetness. “Then, when you’re older, we’ll—” I look up.

  Sarah is leaning against the doorframe, looking smug. “Oh, this is going to be fun to watch.”

  “What is?”

  “Never mind. I’ll get her dressed. You go visit with Mary.”

  “Thanks for letting me help.” I hand the baby over.

  She gives me a warm smile that makes me feel like I’ve passed some kind of test. I rub the towel over my wet shirt and pants and head to the parlor. I don’t kid myself that Lorelei will be anywhere near this easy.

  I lower myself to the butt-sprung green couch beside Mary, and the scent of old-fashioned dusting powder fills my nose.

  She looks up at me from a sea of wrinkles. “So. Tell me about your people.”

  If I bring up Carson or Patsy, will she get upset? Will she even remember her daughter? It seems I’ve been walking in a minefield since I hit this town, and if I make Lorelei’s mother cry, she will flat tear me up.

  I take a breath and try to tiptoe. “My parents were Bo and Katy St. James. Bo inherited a bit of land in West Texas from his dad, so he tried to raise cattle. But there was a drought, and he had to sell them off. Then he tried cotton, but he didn’t take to farming much and he didn’t have enough land to make a living at it anyway.”

  “I’ve known hard times myself. No shame in that.” She pats the back of my hand.

  “There were some lean years, for sure. But then his luck changed. Turns out the land was good for one thing. The oil beneath it.”

  “Oil money been the ruination of many families.” An impish smile makes her eyes sparkle. “But I wouldn’t squawk about a big old ugly oil well in my backyard.”

  I smile. I like this lady. “But he really hit the jackpot when he met my mom. She was working at a soda fountain at her dad’s drugstore in town. He did some research on her favorite things and wooed her with yellow roses and love notes until she agreed to marry him. He promised her a big house with rosebushes all around and room for lots of kids.”

  She clasps her hands to her chest. “Oh, I like this story.”

  “He saved all his money and bought a ranch, had that house built, and planted those rosebushes.”

  “And did they fill that house with children?”

  I look down at my hands. “Only two, ma’am. My mother passed away when I was eight.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad. I’m sorry.”

  “It was hard on my father. He changed. He was always driven, but after that he was obsessed with the ranch. He turned hard and remote.”

  Mary nods. “He was grieving. Men grieve different than women.”

  Maybe, but he gets no absolution from me. “Yes’m.”

  “Here’s the star of the show.” Sarah walks in, holding Sawyer, turning me from thoughts of the past to the hope of the future. She puts the baby in my lap, and my heart beats softer, my hands are gentler. Everything in me reaches for this sweet, tiny thread of family.

  * * *

  Lorelei

  I’m driving home, nodding to one of my ballroom-music mix tapes, imagining myself gliding across a floor. Turn, step, step, dip, and turn…Momma said I went from crawling to dancing. I’m sure she’s exaggerating, but I’ve loved dancing as far back as my memory goes. Momma squirreled away her change so I could take lessons from a lady in town who taught kids on Saturday afternoons. I sigh.

  I reach to massage my lower back. It has been a brutally busy day and I’m looking forward to a hot bath, snuggle time with Sawyer, and reading to Momma. When I pull into the drive, Einstein’s headlights spotlight that Texan’s massive showy pickup.

  My mood plummets like a dead cat down a well. Crap. I should have known. You give a Texan an inch and he’ll take a hundred-acre chunk, then start drilling for oil.

  I park and drag my aching feet to the door and into the house.

  “Oh my goodness, will you look at that?”

  I haven’t heard that much excitement in Momma’s voice since the last time Patsy came home.

  “Well, I’m not surprised. Sawyer’s smart. She can’t help it—she’s got good genes.” His deep voice holds a smile.

  I doubt he’s referring to our half of the gene pool. I walk around the corner. Mrs. Wheelwright is sitting on the couch. Momma is beside her, hands over her mouth, watching Sawyer and Reese lying on their stomachs on the floor.

  “Okay, you ready?” he whispers to Sawyer, and rolls onto his back.

  Sawyer does the same.

  “She’s rolling over!” They look up at my screech. I step over and lift Sawyer to put a loud smack on her cheek. “Oh, you are the most brilliant baby ever.” I slap on a smile. Of course I’m happy; she and I have been working on this for a week. But there’s a little bruise on my heart that she did it when I was gone. And for him.

  Reese pushes to his knees and stands. “I was just demonstrating, and she did it. I couldn’t believe it.”

  I hug Sawyer to me and sniff the sweet-smelling spot on the very top of her head. “I’m so proud of you,” I whisper. This is just one of the millions of firsts she’ll have. I won’t even remember this one in a year.

  But that’s a lie. I will. I hold my face in happy lines and try not to glare at the interloper. “Why are you still here?” The bitterness dripping from the words betrays me.

  A quick wince flashes across his face before a mask of indifference falls. Good.

  He brushes off nonexistent lint from his tailored dress pants (no homey Wranglers today; we’re seeing the true St. James). “You’re right. I didn’t mean to stay so late. I got caught up, and…I’m sorry.”

  Even before Momma’s death-ray stare, I know I should apologize. But that would be letting down my guard, and I can’t do that. W
hat if he wants to take Sawyer from me? We really don’t know this man. Who is he to walk in and make us share her? Indignation surges, and I open my mouth to spew it.

  What if she likes him better?

  I close my mouth and bury the nasty thought I didn’t want to know about myself deeper in my mind.

  “Don’t go. You must stay for dinner.” Momma smiles.

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Wheelwright croons, “say you’ll stay.”

  Momma’s voice holds a shake. So do her hands. Her face is relaxed, edging to slack. Today was too much for her.

  “Not tonight, Momma. You’re tired, and so am I. It’s been a long day for both of us.” I carry Sawyer to her room, to put her to bed.

  Reese’s steps shush over the carpet behind me. “Look, I’m sorry…”

  I step through the doorway. A little rocking horse is in one corner, a giant stuffed bear in the other. Unopened packages of clothes are stacked on the dresser. In the crib, a lavender stuffed goat. All the shiny new things make my secondhand furniture and the mural that I worked so hard on look shabby and…poor.

  Something tears inside me, and a putrid mixture of envy, shame, and bitterness oozes out. I lay Sawyer in the crib and turn on him. “Where do you get off? Do you think you can waltz in here and buy us? Buy Sawyer?”

  That hurt is back on his handsome face, but I whip up another spurt of anger. “I see that you’ve charmed Momma and Mrs. Wheelwright into your corner today. You won’t find me so easy.”

  “News flash,” he mumbles under his breath.

  “This is all just a game to you, isn’t it?” I hiss. “Why don’t you leave the unsophisticated yokels alone and go pick on someone your own size? Corporate bigwigs or something?”

  “Pick on? I’m not—”

  Sawyer takes a deep breath and lets out a wail of despair.

  “Now see what you did? I’ll never get her down.” I lift her out of the crib and put her on my shoulder, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

  “Hey, that’s not fair.”

  “You want to talk fair?” I hiss and bounce on the balls of my feet, not sure if I’m trying to soothe the baby or the monster loose inside me. “Look around this room. It’s a perfect example of the unfairness of life. So you know what? You can just deal.” I turn and stalk to the parlor and give Sawyer to a wide-eyed Mrs. Wheelwright.