A Cowboy for Keeps

by Laura Drake

  Love you to pieces,

  Patsy

  * * *

  That afternoon, a battered flatbed truck with wood piled in the back pulls up the drive. A dark-skinned man parks and steps out. Two younger men pile out next.

  I let the screen door slap behind me.

  “Are you Lorelei?”

  I smile and nod. “Did Fish send you?”

  “Yep. I’m Hok’ee. This is your new roof. Where do you want us to stack it?”

  “Um.” I turn to the barn. I’d love to keep it out of the weather until Fish can get here, but I don’t trust the barn to last that long. “How about the backyard?”

  “You got it. Come on, guys.” He walks to the back of the truck.

  “This is going to be hot work. I’ll get you some iced tea.” I step into the kitchen, get down plastic tumblers, the tea pitcher, and sugar to put on a tray. Something at the back of my mind is nibbling at my consciousness like a hungry field mouse. What is it?

  “Who’s there?” Momma walks in the kitchen.

  “The cavalry.”

  She steps to the sink and twitches the curtains. “I don’t see any horses, and those aren’t soldiers.”

  I put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. “They’re bringing the materials for our new roof, Momma.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “You go back to your show. I’ll take this out to them and be right with you.” Luckily, Sawyer is down for a nap. I don’t feel comfortable leaving Momma alone with Sawyer, since their attention span is about the same.

  I lift the tray, carry it to the backyard, and set it on the picnic table. “Guys, come get something to drink.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be there in a few.” One of the men grunts, hefting two bound stacks of shingles and carrying them to the shade of the tree. Hok’ee and the other man are sliding materials off the truck.

  The sun bounces off the boards, and a heavy weight drops onto my shoulders. Used boards shouldn’t be bright blond or blemish-free. Used shingles shouldn’t be bound in neat bundles. I stalk to the truck. No way these came from a building so run-down they had to demolish it. There aren’t even nail holes in the wood!

  Fish is that giving, but not that rich. But I know who is.

  A cold ball of ice builds under my breastbone. Last time I saw Reese, I was a business deal. Does he think this is part of his payment for Sawyer? I can imagine what he wants in return. Spoken or unspoken, I’d owe him. I pull my phone and walk around the house to the front porch.

  Reese picks up on the first ring. “Lorelei. I was just going to text—”

  “I only want to know one thing.” Though my words are calm, my hand is shaking, and I press the phone to my ear to make it stop. “What have I ever done to make you not respect me?”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “I allow you free access to Sawyer. I helped you with your truck. I invited you to join my family, for cripes’ sake.” I take a breath. It’s hard to breathe around the ball of ice that’s moved into my throat. “And since the first time I met you, all you’ve done is run over me. My rules, my objections, my feelings.”

  “Look, I know I was an idiot last weekend, okay? I’ve only just today learned how—”

  “You haven’t learned a thing. Last weekend you only said the truth. News flash—I’m old. No one wants me. I can live with that. But dammit, I get to say what I owe and whose debt I’m in.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “The freaking roof. Sawyer is older than the supplies that showed up today.”

  “Lorelei, I’m—”

  “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, Reese St. James, because you’re not, or you wouldn’t have gone behind my back like this.”

  “I wasn’t going to say I’m sorry.” His words are cold, but they are snowflakes compared to my arctic heart. “I swear, you are the most prideful, stubborn, infuriating woman I have ever met. Sawyer deserves better.”

  That one is a direct hit, so it takes me a moment to return fire. “I’m stubborn and prideful? Doubtless. But money isn’t a necessity in raising a happy, well-adjusted child. And I will be the one to raise her.” I click End, shove my phone and my fists into my pockets, and stalk to the backyard to tell the workers that there’s been an error. They need to put everything back on the truck and take it back to wherever they got it. And if they have questions, they should call Reese St. James.

  Hok’ee opens his mouth to say something, but after a close look at my face, nods. “You heard the lady. Let’s get it loaded.”

  “Thank you.” I walk out front to pace the porch. If I go in the house like this, I’m going to scare Momma and Sawyer.

  Reese tried his best negotiation to get his way, and now he’s flat-out trying to buy me. Us. If he wanted me, really wanted me, turning this away would be harder. I mean, that kiss on the porch had me hoping that maybe he really did care. Now here I stand, once more the fool.

  I know what Momma and Mrs. Wheelwright would say. That I’m letting my pride get in the way of practicality. Hey, I’m nothing if not practical. But living under his roof knowing that it was just another concession in his negotiation…I wouldn’t sleep a wink under it.

  And I am prideful, but if he’d spend some time in my shoes and with my checkbook, he’d see that pride is about all I have. Well, that and more self-worth than to allow myself to be bought.

  * * *

  Reese

  Fish called to apologize, saying he’d planned the delivery during the week, when Lorelei would be at work. By the time she got home, it’d be dark and everything would be draped in tarps. But his friends work full time, and the only day they had available was Sunday.

  I’m just glad Lorelei wasn’t mad at him. This is all on me.

  Lorelei thinks I’m pushing, but dammit, whether she admits it or not, she needs help. She deserves help.

  I haven’t heard from her in two days. No answers to my texts, my voice mails go unreturned—probably unheard. It seems all I’ve done in this relationship is apologize; I am not going there groveling again. This is at least as much her fault as mine.

  But I miss her washed-blue eyes. How she’s constantly tucking her hair behind her ear. I miss holding her close when we dance. I want to be on her porch, playing with Sawyer. I want to talk to her in the dark.

  I want…it all.

  And I have no idea how to unravel the knots I’ve tied myself into. I’ve screwed up so bad, I don’t even know where to start to make it right.

  But I’m going to have to try, because I want Lorelei. She’s already constant in my thoughts, but I want her in my life, my day, my bed.

  My phone buzzes. An Unforgiven number I’m not familiar with. My heart speeds up, and I fumble the phone. Is Lorelei okay? Sawyer? “H-hello?”

  “Mr. St. James, this is Ann Miner. With the Unforgiven Patriot.”

  It takes me seconds to calm enough to remember. “Oh, the interview.”

  I hear pages turning. “I’m looking at my calendar. How does next week look for you?”

  Hope rises. A perfect excuse to go to Unforgiven—no. Not until I have a workable plan, or I’ll just mess up things again. “I’m…busy for the coming weeks. Can we do this over the phone?”

  She’s silent for a span of seconds. “Oh, I suppose. Although you’ll have to send me a photo of yourself for the column.”

  “I can do that.”

  She asks me questions, and I answer, downplaying the oil and the money. “Is that about it? I have a telecon in—”

  “Just a few more questions.” Papers rustle. “I have it from a good source that you’re responsible for a considerable donation to the school district building fund, with enough left over to begin an after-school program at the elementary school.”

  “What? Where did you hear that?” Shit. So much for anonymous.

  “I’m certainly not divulging my sources. Is it true?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t print that.”r />
  “Are you saying it’s untrue?”

  “I’m saying I don’t wish to discuss it.” My words are steel tipped, but she’s apparently wearing Kevlar.

  “I see, although I don’t understand why not. This is a huge boon to our community. You should be proud.”

  “My reasons are my own. I’m asking you not to print it.”

  “I’ll take your wishes under advisement. Thank you for the interview, Mr. St. James. Good day.”

  I see why this Miner woman is not well liked. And if she prints that, Lorelei is going to think I’m pushing again.

  Lorelei

  I step in the back door of the café, sweat taking a roller-coaster ride down the knobs of my spine. The weather is blistering—shriveling the grass, softening the asphalt, and shortening tempers. I had to step between Moss Jones and Manny Stipple when they got into it last week and they’ve been friends for fifty years. Heat’ll do that.

  I set down the plastic sacks. “O’Grady’s was out of avocados, Nevada. We’ll have to make do.”

  “No worries. I’ll just use cukes for garnish.” She’s wearing a bandanna to keep sweat out of her eyes. The poor AC units are maxed out.

  “Don’t forget to drink lots of water.”

  She gives me a thumbs-up.

  I push through the swinging door to the dining area, stop to pick up the water and iced tea pitcher, then head out on refill patrol.

  The smell of Aqua Net hangs over booth five, which is filled with old ladies with coiffed white hair. I forgot, it’s Social Security Check Wednesday. They’re chirping like a flock of starlings, the latest issue of the Patriot open on the table. “Hello, ladies. Does anyone want…?” Reese stares out from the page, looking hot in a business suit and a Stetson. My heart stutters. I set down the pitchers. “Do you mind if I look at that?”

  Ms. Dubois has a merry twinkle in her eye. “You go right ahead, darlin’.”

  The starlings titter while I read.

  Wow. The donation amount is undisclosed, but given all they’re planning to do with the money, I’m guessing six figures. My heart softens to peanut butter. He’s doing this for Sawyer.

  “Seeing how he’s your boyfriend, you’ll have to thank him for us.” One of the women covers her smile with her hand.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” It came out louder than I meant.

  “Yeah,” Bonnie Carver says from booth four. “Lorelei wouldn’t get tangled up with a Texas hotshot like that.”

  I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or a “poor Lorelei.”

  “I mean,” Mr. Baldwin, an old farmer, says from the counter, “who does this guy think he is, lording his oil money over the hardworking folks in this town?”

  “Aw, come on, he’s not so bad,” Manny Stipple slurs from his spot at the counter.

  “What he said,” Moss Jones says.

  “Big Man St. James rides in like a guy in a white hat, to help out the poor bumpkins. I hear he’s not even a cowboy, like he claims,” Scooter Bowman tosses in from booth one by the front door.

  And suddenly they’re off—holding an impromptu town hall meeting. This isn’t the first one I’ve witnessed, but they usually revolve around politics or the Bureau of Land Management or County Services.

  “My momma always told me, never trust an oilman. They’re as slippery as their product.”

  “He’s too good-looking by half. Why, I told my granddaughter…”

  “I mean, what do we know about this dude, anyway?”

  “Stop!” When they ignore me, I put my fingers in my mouth and blast them with my signature eardrum-piercing whistle. People flinch, then fall silent. “Look, I have more reason to be angry with Reese St. James than any of you, but fair is fair.” I put my hands on my hips. “He’s here because he cares about his niece. He’s been nothing but nice and polite to everyone. Do you people even remember that he insisted his builder hire only local help? And now he’s funneling money into our failing school system and giving kids a safe place to go after school.” I lift the pitchers. “And instead of thanking him, you sit here and gossip about him behind his back. Y’all ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” I turn, walk through the silent room to the counter, set down the pitchers. My palms hit the swinging door with a hollow boom that would’ve done Carly proud.

  I head to my office, face flaming, realizing I just gave them reason to believe that Reese St. James is my boyfriend. But I couldn’t let them assassinate his character. He’s overbearing and pushy, but he means well.

  Like he did with your roof? It’s Mrs. Wheelwright’s voice in my head.

  * * *

  I wake the next morning to a sullen sky, the low clouds boiling in tones of slate and charcoal.

  I’m in the kitchen fixing breakfast when Mrs. Wheelwright steps in the door, her careful curls stirred by the wind. “The weatherman says we’re in for one heck of a storm.”

  “We sure can use the rain. And the break from the heat.”

  She walks to the window over the sink and peers out. “I know you’re right, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

  “You know summer storms always look scary. Our sky is so big, you can see a storm coming forever.”

  She sighs and drops her purse on the counter. “I’m probably just unsettled today. I’ll go get Mary up and dressed.”

  “I already changed Sawyer, and she’s playing in her crib. I’ll get her in a minute. Breakfast is in ten.” I crack eggs into the skillet. “Oh, and there are a bunch of buckets and pots up there, in case the roof starts leaking.”

  “More like when, from the looks of things out there.”

  A half hour later, when I step out the door, the wind hits me like a slap. I squint to keep churned-up dust out of my eyes. My blouse flutters and slaps against my skin on my walk to the car, and I smell the ozone in the air. I glance to the foreboding horizon, feeling what Mrs. Wheelwright did—“unsettled” is a good word. It’s like the wind has gotten inside me and stirred up things there, too. Prickles of worry trickle into my stomach. “You’re being a ninny. We just haven’t had a big storm in so long, you forgot what it’s like.”

  Still, I wish I could stay home today. Mrs. Wheelwright sure could use the help, because Momma will be a handful with the storm. But I have hungry Unforgivens to feed, besides needing my paycheck to add to my roof fund. I open the car door and glance back—that house has seen more than a century of storms—it’ll handle many more.

  The wind tries to blow Einstein off the road, and I have to pay close attention. By the time I park behind the café, big drops are splattering the dust on the windshield. I make a run for the back door.

  Nevada is wheeling condiments out of the walk-in fridge. “Carly would say it’s going to come a gully washer today.”

  “Nevada Sweet. I do believe you’re becoming a country girl.” I snatch a half apron from the hooks by the back door and tie it on.

  “I didn’t say I’d say it. I said Carly would.” She flips on the old transistor radio on the shelf above the grill, and the clash of heavy metal music fills the room.

  All it takes is a raised eyebrow and she turns it down. It’s an old tug-of-war between us.

  I walk into the dining area, start coffee, and raise the blinds. Normally it’s bright enough that we don’t need the lights, but today I flip them on. No one is waiting at the front door when I unlock it. Smart people, staying dry. The trees of the square thrash in the wind, and it’s raining so hard, the drops bounce off the pavement and I can hear it drumming on the roof. Lightning cracks the sky, and the boom of thunder rattles the windows.

  Unease skates across my skin. This is going to be a bad one. My phone buzzes, and I lift it out of the back pocket of my jeans.

  Reese: I heard you stood up for me. Thank you.

  I shouldn’t be surprised he heard; this is Unforgiven. Most likely, Manny or Moss called him. My hand is returning my phone to my pocket when I realize that this time I want to answer—I
don’t want him to misunderstand.

  L: You shouldn’t listen to Manny Stipple. You know he drinks, right?

  R: Right. But I also know I’m not your favorite person. I thought you’d be on the other side, since I did basically the same thing to you—helping without being asked. Why did you do it?

  L: Because it wasn’t right. You gave a very generous gift, one that Sawyer and all the kids here will benefit from. It was a good thing to do. And yes, you’re still an idiot.

  R: Can I call you? Please? I’d like to hear your voice.

  L: I’m at work. Gotta go.

  I do miss him, and the jolt of anticipation I get when I know he’s flying in. I step behind the counter to make coffee in case someone does brave the storm. But I’ve got to guard my heart. If I can’t have a man who loves me for myself, I’d rather be alone.

  “Lorelei, you’d better come in here.”

  The alarm in Nevada’s tone gets me moving—that girl took out the leader of a drug cartel—if she’s worried, I’m scared spitless. I push into the kitchen. “What—”

  “Shhhh. Listen.”

  “This is the National Weather Service. We have issued a tornado watch for all of Cibola County for the next four hours. We will bring you updates as we have them.”

  Thunder crashes so close, we both duck.

  Nevada’s got the look of a spooked horse. “Shit. This is not good.”

  “Oh, come on, city girl. We have bad storms here. We get warnings like that every once in a while.” I’m saying it to calm myself as much as her. “It’s been years since we had a tornado.” Momma. Sawyer. Mrs. Wheelwright. Their faces race around the inside of my skull. “But you know what? We’ve got no diners anyway, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ll call Carly and let her know we’re closing. You go—get home to Fish.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go. And be safe.”

  “You too.” She rips off her apron, grabs her backpack from the hook by the door, and scoots out.

  I pull my phone and dial Carly, who tells me to lock up and go home. It takes about twenty minutes to close up and put the cash drawer in the safe. I open the back door to needles of rain blowing sideways, blinding me. I step out, pull hard on the door to close and lock it, then turn and lean into the wind to get to the car. I’m soaked through. A river of water flows down the center of the alley, almost touching Einstein’s back tires.