“For what!” she snapped. This was rapidly becoming the most nerve-racking day of her life. She looked at Mac, and she promptly forgot Ernie and the rodeo and all of it. “For what?” she said again.
“Aw, Ernie’s being a real bastard, but you’re not hysterical and everything.”
“I’m hysterical, Mac,” she assured him, and he grinned.
“No, you’re not. If this was a plane, you might be, but not now. You’re putting up with a lot of crap. Ernie’s my friend. He’s too drunk to put in the back of the truck, and I can’t go off and leave him here. You’re making it a lot easier, honey. I appreciate it.”
“What’s a compañera for?” she said, easing the truck forward, her attention thankfully taken up by the logistics of driving an ancient vehicle dragging two horses in a trailer. Willie Nelson was singing on the radio, and Ernie’s hand found Mac’s thigh, squeezing it urgently and recognizing immediately that something was wrong here. He lifted his head off Mac’s shoulder and tried to focus his eyes.
“You try to kiss me, Ernie,” Mac growled at him, “and you are in deep you-know-what.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
AMELIA COULDN’T STOP worrying about Bobby in spite of Mac’s all-out campaign to keep her from it. Bobby was making no progress suddenly. She sat on the back steps listening through the screen door to yet another of Mac’s telephone conversations with her brother. The morning was fresh and cool, and the air lightly tinged with the aroma of the breakfast bacon and coffee. Amelia sat in a patch of sunlight, savoring the warmth on her face and not knowing what to do. She had more or less given in to the idea that she was in love with Houston McDade. She needed to go home, and but for these two men in her life, she would have. It was so hard to stay, feeling the way she did about Mac, and harder still to go.
“I told you, Bobby,” Mac said, “I know because I’ve been there. No! Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about—listen, you blockhead!”
As anxious as she was, Amelia smiled. As a counselor Mac was nothing if not straightforward. She heard him hang up the phone and cross the kitchen.
“Move your can,” he said without ceremony, pressing the screen door against her rump until he could get outside. He was frowning. “Move your can,” he said again, this time because he wanted to sit on the steps beside her. “I’m going to talk to Beth,” he said, absently scratching an eyelid with his middle finger.
“Who is Beth?”
“Beth—Beth!” he said impatiently. “The girl in the red and black shirt at the barbecue.”
“You never told me her name! And Bobby won’t talk about her.”
“I didn’t? Well, anyway, she’s pressing Bobby too hard, and I’m going to tell her to stop it.”
“You can’t do that!” Amelia said incredulously.
“Amelia, Bobby’s scared to death of letting anybody get close to him. Beth thinks she’s in love with him, and it scares the hell out of him. She’s got to forget about being his lover for a while and be his—”
“Compañera,” Amelia finished for him. Mac stared at her for a moment, but she wouldn’t hold his gaze. She looked out across the yard to the cottonwoods and beyond to the low adobe wall.
“Yeah, right. He can’t stand any emotional demands. She’s just going to have to hold off for a while. I don’t suppose you’d do it? Tell her to go easy on Bobby?” He smiled. “No, I guess not,” he concluded from the look on her face.
“Can I go see Bobby?” Amelia asked.
“Not now. I told you. He’s finally letting go, finally letting himself grieve. It’s better not to pressure him unless he asks for you. Don’t make him feel responsible for making you sad too. Okay? Okay?” he repeated, punching her in the side with his elbow. She was wearing shorts, and she stretched her legs out in the sunshine. She was getting a deep tan—something she hadn’t had the time nor the inclination for in years. Tanned legs—just like Kerry Dawn’s.
“You aren’t going to belly up on me now, are you?” Mac asked.
Amelia gave a small smile. “You know, I wander around here day after day. I talk to people. I listen to people. And half the time I don’t have the slightest idea what anyone is talking about. What the devil does ‘belly up’ mean?”
Mac grinned. “Well, it doesn’t have anything to do with drawing warts on a washtub.”
Amelia laughed out loud. It felt so good to laugh.
“And this ain’t chousing them cows,” Mac said to tease her further, getting up slowly, his legs hurting him today.
“Chousing?”
“Hurrying,” he said, staring into her eyes.
“And belly up?” she asked, trying not to let him.
“Throwing in the towel. Giving up. Don’t give up on Bobby, okay?”
“All right,” she said gravely.
“So,” he said, hesitating on the walk. “I’m going to see Beth. If I make her cry, I’m going to send her to you.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said dryly.
“You’d know what to say. Bawling women scare the hell out of me. And then I’m going to talk to Marlene about getting Scooter up here for longer than a weekend. And—” He stared into her eyes again. She looked away. “I’m going to see Bobby too. Then I’m going to hit a couple rodeos with Ernie.” He kept looking at her. She could feel it. And he seemed to be expecting her to make some comment. She didn’t, but she might as well have.
“You know, I don’t see why you’re so down on the only way I’ve got to make some quick money,” he said. “What is it with you and a rodeo? Just what is your problem?”
“My problem? I don’t have a problem. Have I said one word about your rodeos?”
“You don’t have to say it. All I have to do is look at your face.”
“Then don’t look,” she said, turning farther away from him into the warm sun, her eyes closed.
“Amelia…”
“What!”
“I don’t even know why I’m having this kind of conversation with you. It’s not as if we were—” He didn’t finish, and he was right. They shouldn’t be in this conversation.
“Amelia, I’m trying to understand you, and I want you to understand me. You could make a man crazy, you know that?”
Amelia gave a small shrug. “So Daniel has told me.”
“I need the money. I rodeo to get it.”
Amelia opened her eyes to look at him. “You don’t do it for the money. You do it because you love it. It’s stupid and dangerous, and you love it.”
Mac started to say something but didn’t, dismissing it all with a sharp wave of one hand and walking away. She waited until he reached the end of the walk.
“Mac?”
“What!” he said, hard-pressed to keep his temper.
“I’ve… seen you hurt before. I just don’t want to see you like that again, that’s all.”
He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head, going on toward the corral.
“You and my boy fighting again?” Pop said from the doorway behind her.
“Pop,” Amelia said sadly, “one of these days I’m going to punch your boy right in the nose.”
Pop chuckled. “Now, Amelia, a man that can’t make you mad ain’t going to make you glad neither. You should have seen some of the fights me and his mama had—over rodeoing and near about everything else.” He went back inside, leaving Amelia to her worry.
Oh, Lord, she thought. Pop knew exactly how she felt about Mac. She had no doubt of it. Mac. They were just too different, she thought for the thousandth time. How was she going to get through this? She needed her old panacea for her troubles—her work, her career. She needed a class of highly motivated adults who wanted to be able to read well enough to take a bus across town. Or she needed a harassed child whose scholastic life was in shambles because he couldn’t tell was from saw.
But most of all she needed that big, dumb cowpuncher. She needed Houston McDade, and that was that. Why couldn’t she just have kept it casual? Wh
y couldn’t she just have had a passionate summer fling and not worry about whether he was hungry or if his legs were killing him or if he was about to get hooked by some half-crazed bull. But no, she wanted him to be fed and comfortable and safe, and she wanted him to have his son with him. Why couldn’t she just let go and have a good time—go out dancing and drinking at Cowboy Heaven with the big, opinionated cow-person and then, when Bobby was better, just run along home to Tennessee with her fond memories? Marlene would know how to do that. And Kerry.
“Amelia?”
She looked up to find Mac standing on the walk again, his face as frowning as he always accused hers of being. He gave a small sigh.
“I need a hug,” he said, his voice implying that while that might be true, he certainly wasn’t happy about it. “A hug, a hug,” he said when she didn’t respond. “You know, arms and squeezing.”
“I don’t want to hug you,” she lied, because she didn’t trust herself to do it.
“Well, that’s tough,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her to her feet. “You have to.”
“Why?” she asked, still resisting.
“Because you’re all upset about Bobby,” he answered, pulling her closer.
“That doesn’t make any sense at all. You’re the one who needs the hug.”
“I don’t give a damn if it makes sense or not! You took the job as my compañera and you have to do it—it’s either you or Ernie, and he’s not here—so hug me.” He gave her no opportunity to back out, folding her into his strong arms and holding her tightly. A sudden gust of wind blew against her sun-warmed skin, ruffling her hair and making the wind chimes clatter. She pressed her face into his shoulder, returning the embrace because she was alone and she loved him and she shouldn’t.
Dear God, she thought in a panic. I’m going to bawl all over him.
“Feel better?” he asked in a few moments.
“You’re the one who needed the hug,” she said again, her voice muffled in his shirt.
“What has that got to do with anything? Do you feel better or don’t you!”
“Yes!” she said. She could be as cranky as he could. “I feel better!”
“All right then! I’ll see you later—oh, and I told Pop to teach you to ride.”
Amelia shoved herself out of his arms. He was doing it again!
“What’s the matter?” he wanted to know.
“Who do you think you are?” Amelia cried. “You hassle Beth. You hassle me. Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to learn to ride any more than she might not want to stay away from Bobby?”
“No,” he said, his voice maddeningly reasonable. “You don’t want to hang on to my shirttail all the time, do you? And I didn’t say Beth had to stay away—”
She gave a strangled cry, her fists clenched so she wouldn’t hit him.
“Well, what?” he asked. And he had the nerve to look confused.
“I—you—if you don’t stop—!” She threw up her hands and walked away from him, not caring where she went just as long as it was away.
He caught her arm to keep her from going. “Amelia, I don’t know what that means—what you just said—” He was trying not to grin now, and it made her furious.
“I can’t talk to you!” she yelled. “I cannot talk to you!”
“Now, wait—whoa—hold it!” he said. “I made you mad again, didn’t I?” he decided, and she looked at him as if she might let out another scream.
“Now, Amelia, I’ve got to tell you the truth here. I don’t know why you’re mad—”
“Stop telling me what to do!”
“Oh,” he said, turning down the corners of his mouth. He let go of her arm and rearranged his hat, giving a small sigh and staring off into the distance. “Do I do that? Now, take it easy, take it easy,” he said when she was about to explode again. “If you’ll just let me explain this thing, okay? You think I’m bossing you around—”
“I don’t think it!” Amelia interrupted. “You’ve been doing it since I got here! Maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to do what you tell me. Did you ever think of that?”
“Well, Amelia, see, now, this is how it is,” he said. “I know you’re worrying. Pop and Rita know you’re worrying. And you’d probably worry a lot less if you had something to do, somebody to teach. But we’re short of that around here—well, I know a college that serves the Indian community that would love to get hold of you, but that’s too … long term for you, and Pop would like for you to teach him to read better, but with me rodeoing now, he doesn’t have the time for it. So we thought—Pop and me—maybe the next best thing would be for you to learn something. Pop said you told him one time you had this list of things you wanted to learn—like playing the flute, I think he said. Anyway, I can’t play the flute, and Pop can’t either, but he is the best damn horseman in the Southwest. Hell, Amelia, you couldn’t have a better teacher than he is. The dude ranches are after him all the time. So we thought it might do you good to learn to ride, see, because that’s about all we know about here. Well, we could teach you to chew tobacco and spit, but that would probably stunt your growth, and you’re short enough already—look like a thumbtack and everything when you’ve got my hat on.” He gave a half-shrug and tried not to smile. And he waited. The ball was in her court.
Amelia looked at him. There it was: the reason that made everything all right. She cleared her throat. “I already know how to chew tobacco and spit,” she said quietly. She glanced into his eyes. “Bobby got sick, and I got the whipping—are you always going to do this? Give me the reason last? Do you really enjoy seeing me behave like an idiot?”
Mac smiled.
“I’m not going to apologize,” Amelia said.
“You don’t have to. You don’t want to see me hurt, and I don’t want to see you with that sad face. We can live with that, can’t we?”
So she learned how to ride a horse. And if she considered herself a creative and unorthodox teacher, she had to admit that she hardly held a candle to Pop McDade. He had the peculiar notion that one ought not climb up on an animal one mortally feared, and he was determined to get her over it by making sure she mastered everything else first. She watered and fed, she washed and groomed, she saddled and unsaddled, bridled and unbridled, and she took her borrowed horse, Killer Fred, for long—walks.
“Don’t you have a horse with a different name?” Amelia asked Pop worriedly the first day.
“What’s wrong with his name, gal?” Pop wanted to know.
“I was kind of hoping for a Buttercup or a Petunia.”
“Nope. Killer Fred. Now, you remember to talk to him, Amelia—all the time, so he gets to know the sound of you along with everything else.”
“Talk to him,” Amelia repeated under her breath.
“And he ain’t no dog, even if you are leading him around,” Pop went on. “He’s a horse. So treat him like one. See?”
“Not exactly,” Amelia admitted, taking in Fred’s large, gray, spotty self.
“Well,” Pop said after he’d thought a minute. “What he’s like if he’s like anything is an eleven-year-old boy. Now, he wants to do for you, but if he gets a chance to get into something, he’s into it, understand?”
“Yes.” Amelia grinned. Eleven-year-old boys she knew about.
And she found her relationship with her horse comparable to her relationship with her cowboy. She had no idea where she stood with either of them. Killer Fred was not given to displays of affection—no purring, no wagging tail. The most she received was a rather doleful brown-eyed stare over his shoulder while she struggled with his leather paraphernalia, and a keen interest in whether or not she carried food in any of her pockets. By the time Pop decided she was suitably fearless, Amelia was more than tired of dragging Fred around with her. She started out riding bareback—another one of Pop’s unusual methods. Fred didn’t seem to mind having her sit on him. She didn’t mind too much herself, regardless of Pop’s warning that it wasn’t i
f she fell off but when.
And fall she did, again and again into the deep sand of the corral where Pop had Fred running circles on the end of a long rope.
“You going to cry?” Pop asked after a particularly hard fall.
“No,” she said, her voice quivering from trying to get her wind back. “Damn—” she added, spitting out sand and God only knew what else.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Pop,” Amelia told him, giving him what she hoped was an entirely charming grin.
“I ain’t having you swearing, Amelia. It ain’t becoming.”
“Right, Pop,” she said as she strained to get up. Everything hurt but her eyelashes. Fred was looking back at her over his shoulder again. “No swearing, Fred,” she told him.
“How’s she doing?” Mac said behind her. She hadn’t seen him for days, and her heart leaped with joy at the mere sound of him.
“She’s doing damned fine,” Pop said.
“Yeah? So how come I don’t see her on the horse?”
“Very funny,” Amelia said from her knees, dragging her eyes away from him. “How come you get to swear and I don’t?” she asked Pop.
“Because you ain’t sixty-nine years old, and you ain’t had the aggravation I have. Now, get back on that horse, and this time do what I told you.”
“Yes, sir.” Amelia grinned, mounting Fred semi-expertly without the use of a wall. She even tried to remember her riding instructions, but something was the matter with Mac. Every time she went around the circle, she tried to hear what he was saying to Pop, catching only “—to Gallup—” and “—be back—” and “—I don’t know—”
Mac went into the house, leaving her feeling incredibly anxious and lonely. She reined Fred in, bringing him around to where Pop stood.
“What’s the matter with Mac?” she said, not caring if it was any of her business or not.
“Marlene ain’t called about letting Adam come this weekend,” Pop said, staring in the direction Mac had gone.
“And?” Amelia prompted. “Marlene’s done that often enough.”
“Somebody down in Chimayo told Mac they seen Marlene and Adam at a rodeo in Mesquite, Texas. If she’s found herself another cowboy to run with, she’ll be gone, and she’ll take Adam with her.”
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