by Laura Drake
I slide off the chair to the floor, hold out my hands, and wiggle my fingers. “Come here, pretty girl. Come to me.”
Sawyer bounces, lifting onto her knees, then sitting back again.
“You can do it. I know you can. You’re a West, and we are the smartest, prettiest girls in the county.”
“You know that’s right,” Momma says.
Well, Sawyer is, anyway. “Come on, Sawyer. You can do it!” I lean forward a bit to try to entice her closer.
She pulls herself up, drools, and sits back down.
Momma looks away from the TV and has to speak up to be heard over the rain pounding the porch roof. “What happened to that Meals on Wheels boy? We haven’t seen him in a while.”
It is odd. I haven’t had a text from Reese since he flew out the morning after our dance. I don’t think about him except for the rare slow times: when I wake in the morning, when I’m in the bath, when I’m carving, late at night. “Ah, we don’t need him, Momma.”
“He was nice. I miss his steaks.”
I turn to her. “Well, I don’t have steak, but I got a really nice chuck roast at O’Grady’s for dinner tonight. What do you think about that?”
“I think you’d better watch that baby.” She points.
Sawyer is crawling across the carpet to me.
“Oh my gosh. Come on, sweetie, you’re doing it!”
She takes three more wobbly crawls and collapses facefirst into my lap. I lift her over my head. “It’s superbaby!” I twist her right and left, and she giggles down at me. I lower her to my chest, wrap her in my arms, trying not to squeeze her too hard. “Aren’t you a big girl?”
Patsy’s eyes stare up at me. My chest clamps tight on a lump of emotion, and tears prick my eyes. I didn’t know you could feel grief and giddiness at the same time. Oh, Patsy.
“Momma, did you see that? She’s crawling!”
“Shhh.” She frowns at the screen. “That man’s fixin’ to save that little girl.”
I put Sawyer down, and she crawls unsteadily to the wall, where the TV is plugged in. “Oh, no you don’t.” I steer her back toward the blanket. I’d better stop at the hardware store tomorrow to get baby-proof plugs for the outlets and hooks for the drawers. I sit watching her, grinning. This is big—a milestone. I want to share it with someone, and Reese deserves to know. He’ll be tickled. I pull out my phone.
L: Guess what?
R: What?
L: Sawyer is CRAWLING!!!!
R: Seriously? Dang, wish I were there to see it. Hey, FaceTime me!
L: Um. Okay, but it’ll be a minute.
R: Standing by. In the meantime, I’ll tell my horse about my amazing niece.
L: You’re out riding?
R: Told you I was a cowboy. Sometimes.
I walk backward to the bathroom so I can keep an eye on Sawyer and run a brush through my hair at the same time. I check the mirror. Maybe just a little mascara, so my blond lashes don’t make me look like I don’t have any. I’d like some blush, but it’s upstairs, and…Oh, forget it.
Back in the living room, I hit the icon on my phone, and Reese’s face appears. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and his stark white shirt is against a blue-sky backdrop. “I don’t believe you’re on your horse. Show me.”
He reaches the phone out, giving me a panoramic view of land that looks a lot like New Mexico. “Your horse is beautiful. Sorrel, isn’t it?”
“Yep. This is Brandy. Now, show me the peanut.” His goofy anticipatory grin makes me glad I called him.
I turn the camera on Sawyer. “Come on, baby girl. Show your uncle what you got.” I pat the floor.
She scoots over to me, this time a bit steadier. She crawls into my lap, and I turn her to sit in my lap, back to me, so both of us can see the screen.
“Wow, Sawyer, you’re the champ!” He pumps a fist in the air. “Way to go!”
Sawyer tips her head and reaches for the phone. “Baba.”
“See? She knows who I am—that’s right, baby; it’s Baba.”
My grin amps to goofy level.
She reaches for the phone again, and I hold it over my head so she can’t get it but we can still see him.
“Hey, Sawyer. You wanna go with me to the fireworks next weekend?” He hesitates a few seconds. “You do? That’s great. I’ll—what’s that? I’ve gotta ask her if it’s okay?”
This man is relentless. But cute. To make him stay away, I’d have to be mean, and I’m too happy to be mean right now. “Oh, all right. But Mrs. Wheelwright and Momma are coming, too.”
“Sounds great. We can all fit in the Murphinator.”
“You really named it that?” I’m too pleased with myself. God, what am I, a high schooler?
“Yep. It is a good name.”
“Well, you may not want to park it under the oak out back next time. It’s so covered in bird poop it looks like an Appaloosa. Although this rain may be helping a bit.”
He makes a face. “If I can borrow your hose, your chariot will be so shiny you’ll need sunglasses to ride in it.”
“You wash your own car?” I snort.
“Well, not when I can get to a car wash, but I haven’t seen one around Unforgiven.”
“That’s because there isn’t one, and yes, you can use the hose.” Sawyer squirms out of my lap and heads for the outlet again. “Look, I’ve gotta go. When are you flying in?”
“I’ll be there Saturday. My bull manager is on the road with the first load of cows, and I want to be there when he shows up.”
“Sawyer, no.” I pull her fingers from the TV cord. “I’ve got to go. It’s pouring outside and the pots upstairs are going to overflow. We’ll see you Saturday, then.”
It’s good to have something to look forward to. But he’s going to get the wrong idea if I don’t set him straight.
Saturday. I’ll make it clear when I see him on Saturday.
* * *
Reese
I’m lining up on my little runway in Unforgiven when it hits me. I’m going to need to fence it off, or I’ll be cow-dodging on landing. Better include fencing around the house, too, or I’ll have uninvited guests for drinks on the patio, along with the flies and patties that come with them.
I circle once, to get a bird’s-eye view of the construction. I’m glad I talked the builder into using local labor for the grunt work. Maybe it’ll help this town in some small way. The foundation is in, and huge logs are lying about like a giant’s pick-up sticks. The experts start the timber frame on Monday. Once the walls are up and the plumbing in, I can stay here when I come to town. A plywood floor beats that nasty hotel bed any day. And I’ll be close to Sawyer. The porch and front door face away from the road, and the soaring windows and huge patio will face Lorelei’s house. That’s the better view.
My stomach lifts with my drop in altitude—and at the thought of Lorelei. I see her eyes in my dreams. They hold the promise of…something I can’t name.
You can’t afford to figure that out, stupid. Relationships end, but Sawyer, she’s family, and I can’t lose her. I remind myself once more why I’m here. Picnicking with the Wests on the Fourth just makes sense. If I’m going to be in Sawyer’s life, it’ll be easier if the family is comfortable with me—like a relative or close friend of the family. Besides, I hope to eventually get Lorelei’s permission to take Sawyer to Texas for a visit.
I tamp down the buzz in my chest that has nothing to do with the engines.
The wheels bark on the packed dirt, and I taxi back to the big oak at the fence between my land and the Wests’. I shut it down, get out, and walk to the truck. Lorelei was right. The gold paint is liberally splashed with white. A better name would be “the Poopinator.” It looks like all the rain did the other night was smear it.
I glance to the construction site. I should go check on it. But the pull of that old farmhouse and the people it holds wins out. I head for the gate I had put in to give me closer access. Besides, I want to see if I can get up in
the attic and determine if the roof can be patched.
A semi’s airhorn sounds from the road. Our cattle hauler is at the back gate, and Juan’s waving from the open window. I glance to the house. Dammit, visiting is going to have to wait. Sorry, Peanut. I jog down the fence line to open the gate at the other end.
We make short work of the job, and soon the cattle are munching grass in their new home and Juan is back on the road.
I check my phone. Eleven. I’d love to stop in and visit the ladies, but I’ve got another errand to take care of first. I hop in the filthy truck and punch in the address that Moss Jones gave me. This negotiation is going to be dicey, so it’s better done in person.
I follow the GPS’s directions, and fifteen minutes later I bump off the pavement onto a rutted dirt track. There are rows of crops growing on both sides, green and waving in the breeze. After a mile, I pull into the dooryard of an odd, five-sided log building. A hogan, I think it’s called.
I shut down the truck and step out into the blistering heat.
The barrel of a shotgun pokes out the door, followed by a tall, rangy man with long black hair and the bronzed coloring of a Native American.
“Whoa, friend.” I put up my hands.
“You’re not my friend.” The gun’s barrel doesn’t waver. “What do you want?”
“Are you Joseph ‘Fishing Eagle’ King?” I knew this would be dicey, but I didn’t plan on getting shot.
His eyes narrow. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Reese St. James. I bought land on the other side of town. Lorelei West is a friend of mine.”
He lowers the gun. “Nevada told me about you.”
“I want to help the Wests. But I need your assistance.” I wipe a rivulet of sweat from the side of my face. “Do you have a minute?”
He looks me over, then turns and opens the door. “Cooler in here. Come on in.”
I step into one room that appears to take up the entire bottom floor. It’s beautiful, with Navajo rugs, leather furniture, and woven baskets on almost every surface. “Nice place.”
“Thank you.” He leads the way to a counter and pulls out a bar stool. “Sit. Do you want coffee?”
“No, thanks.” I sit.
He steps around the island to pour himself a cup from the coffee maker on the counter. “Tell me.”
“Lorelei mentioned that you said you would replace her roof if she came up with the money for materials.”
“I did. I’m waiting for her to buy them.”
“I’ll pay for the materials.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Does Lorelei know about this?”
“If you’re a friend of hers, you know she’d never take a handout. Or even a loan if she couldn’t pay it back right away. I swear, that woman weighs one twenty, and one hundred of it is pride.”
He nods. “Strong women have reason to be proud.”
A silence expands while I try to take his measure. If this gets back to Lorelei, I’m toast. “They need that new roof. I’ll give you the money to buy materials, but we have to come up with a story of how you came by them that doesn’t involve me.”
He crosses his arms. “You want me to help you lie to Lorelei.”
“Well, I wouldn’t really call it a lie exactly—”
“I know what to call it. What I want to know is why?”
“Because I care about the comfort and safety of my niece, Sawyer.”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “So now you’re lying to me. This does not inspire trust, dude.”
I heave a sigh. “And yes, I care about Lorelei…as a friend.”
“And you think lying to her is the best way to show that you’re ‘friends’?”
I’m letting the air quotes pass. “I know it’s a huge risk. But…she works so hard and gives so much and that house means a lot to her. To all of them. And from what I’ve seen, that roof is to the point of falling on their heads.”
He carries his mug around and sits next to me. “You have big stones for a cowboy.”
I hear Carson in my head, laughing himself silly.
He takes a sip of coffee while he decides. Then he sets the mug down with a thump. “I’ll help. But it’s got to be a good story, because if she finds out, she’ll be almost as pissed at me as she will be at you.”
* * *
Lorelei
The morning of July Fourth dawns clear and cloudless with the promise of the day’s heat in the air. It's my day off, but I’m up at my usual time, cooking fried chicken and making a peach cobbler. I smile, remembering all the Fourths of July over the years: me and Patsy dancing in front of the band when we were little, holding hands with my date in high school, leaning back against his solid chest to watch the fireworks. Nowadays it’s just Momma and me, and last year Mrs. Wheelwright joined us.
Butterflies brush the walls of my chest. This year will be another memory to add to my collection—I can’t wait to see Sawyer’s face when the first ball of sparkling color lights up the sky. I don’t think the fireworks will scare her; she’s a pretty intrepid kid.
Reese will be a part of this year’s memory, too.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. He’s trying hard to be sweet, but I don’t trust his agenda. He acts interested. But why? I’m not saying I don’t have good qualities; I do. But I’m no Patsy in the looks or the sparkle department, and men always go for those girls. Especially rich men who have their pick.
Oh, that reminds me. I’ve got to get some sparklers. Sawyer will get a kick out of them.
I check the rooster clock over the kitchen table. Time to get everyone up. It’s going to be a big day.
By nine we’re through our morning routine. I’ve coaxed Momma onto the front porch, and Sawyer is crawling in the grass at my feet.
“When’s that Meals on Wheels boy coming back?” Momma’s rocker squeaks on the warped boards.
“Today, actually.” Butterflies start up a cha-cha in my chest, and I smooth a crease in my shorts that I missed with the iron.
“He’s interested in you, you know.”
“Momma!”
“I may be old, but I’m not blind. The way he looks at you—and that baby.” She tsks. “He wouldn’t be much of a catch, though. I don’t imagine the county pays much.”
“Momma. Stop.” Heat spreads up my neck that has nothing to do with the temperature.
“Well, it’s past time you got married, Lorelei. There are things more important than what a man earns. You have to admit, he’s good-looking.”
A fact I wish I could forget. “What do you think, Momma? Should we put a bird feeder in the oak tree this year? Sawyer might like to watch the birds.”
“Oh yes, let’s. Maybe we should get some corn to bring the quail in. Your daddy loved those quail.”
“He did.” I smile. She remembers Daddy; it’s going to be a good day. “Come on, Sawyer, let’s try that standing-up thing again.” I hold out my fingers, and when she grasps them, I lift her onto her feet, where she sways like an heiress after a night on the town. “Good job, Peanut.”
The butterflies spin and twirl when the bird-spackled Murphinator pulls up the drive, stops opposite us, and the window rolls down. “Yay, Sawyer!” Reese turns it off, climbs out, slams the door, and comes running over, arms out. “That’s my girl!”
“Baba.”
She pulls my fingers and takes a wavering step toward him.
He reaches her, sweeps her up, and tosses her in the air, making her shriek with happiness.
If someone can resist a baby’s giggle, they don’t live in this house. Momma is chuckling and my face is split in a grin. For the first time, seeing Reese and Sawyer together, I don’t feel the pinch of jealousy. She likes him, and he’s mad for her. It will be good for her to have a man in her life, a surrogate dad.
He puts Sawyer down and walks up the steps of the porch to take Momma’s hand. “Hello, Mary. How are you doing today?”
“Fine as frog’s hair. Did you bring st
eaks, or did you come for Lorelei?”
“Momma!” God, let the ground swallow me right here.
He winks at her. “No steaks today, Mary.” He lets go of her hand and walks back down to us. “Good morning, Lorelei. You’re looking exceptionally pretty today.”
I look down at my cut-off blue jean shorts, off-the-shoulder white blouse, and my favorite Keds. “If this is great, I must look really bad most days.” I square my Fightin’ Billy Goats baseball cap to block the sun. “Sit down, will you? You’re making my neck ache.”
“As you wish,” he says with a smile as he sits.
“I thought you were going to wash your car yesterday?”
“I was, but I got tied up. The cattle showed up, and…”
“I saw them. They’re awful pretty.”
“I don’t raise them for looks, but I’m glad you think so. You still okay with me washing the Murph here?”
“Have at it.”
“It’s getting hot,” Momma calls from the porch. “I believe I’ll go in.”
I should get Sawyer inside, but she’s having fun playing with the toys on the blanket. Reese walks to his car, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling the tail out of his jeans.
Oh, wow. He might not be a full-time cowboy, but he’s got the muscles for it. Broad shoulders, swimmers’ lats, down to a tight waist…and I’ve always had a healthy appreciation for a butt-cupping pair of Wranglers.
“We’ll be in in a few, Momma.” Sawyer’s slathered in sunscreen and we’re under the oak. I’d hate to miss the show.
He tosses his shirt through the window of the truck, opens the door, pulls out a bucket, rolls up the window, and slams the door. Then he walks to the side of the house to get the hose.
Dang, it is hot out here.
“Hey, you need sunscreen?” I ask.
“Real men don’t use sunscreen.”
“The ones who don’t want skin cancer do.”
He smiles over at me. “I put some on before I left the hotel.”
When I realize I’m staring like a woman at a Chippendales club, I shake my head to clear it. “Come on, baby girl, time to get you inside.” I sling her legs to straddle my hip and shake out the blanket.