She’s Gone Country

by Jane Porter; Jane Porter

  “Then how about yourself? Because honey, I know you’re struggling. You’re not yourself. Not happy—”

  “How do you know? You’re not even here.”

  “I have ears and eyes.”

  And spies. Charlotte, I think. Probably Brick and Blue, too. Oh, why? Why do they all talk to Mama about us? I can’t ever please her, have never made her happy. “I don’t know who’s telling you what, but I’m doing all right, Mama. I wouldn’t call this my favorite year, but we’re getting through it.”

  She doesn’t answer, which makes me uneasy. If Mama’s not talking, she’s thinking something that’s bound to make me miserable. “How’s your day, Mama? What are your plans?”

  “I’m going to come stay with the boys when you’re on your modeling trip,” Mama announces. “Don’t worry about changing the sheets. I can do that myself. Just leave me the boys’ schedule and I’ll make sure they’ll get to where they need to be—”

  “That’s sweet of you,” I interrupt with a gulp, “but I don’t want to put you out, and Brick and Charlotte are already planning on being here with the kids.”

  “Put me out? You’re not putting me out. I’m your mother!”

  “Yes, but Brick and Charlotte—”

  “Both have jobs. They’ve got plenty of work to do without taking on more responsibility. And this is why you moved back home, to have family around to help you. So let me help, Shey Lynne, and stop treating me like a stranger.”

  I know when the battle’s lost. With a silent apology to the boys, I raise the white flag of surrender. “Yes, Mama.”

  “So when do you fly out?”

  “I don’t have the final dates yet, but they were saying sometime around the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth.”

  “Which would be three weeks from today.”

  My heart sinks. “That sounds about right.”

  “I’ll arrive on Saturday the twenty-third, then. That’ll give us time to get everything in order.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  I hang up the phone and rub my face. I’m not happy. But the boys… they’re really not going to be happy.

  I’ve no sooner hung up from talking to Mama than the phone rings again. It’s Charlotte. “Shey, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Mama found out about your trip to Puerto Rico and she’s planning on coming to stay while you’re gone. She wants to help with the boys.”

  “She’s already called with the good news.”

  I can feel Charlotte wince. “Sorry, Shey. Mama was trying to get us to come visit her in Jefferson for Halloween, and I told her we couldn’t because we were helping you out. I should have known she’d see it as an opportunity to move in for a week.”

  I hear the distress in her voice. “Not your fault. Mama’s strong-willed. If she wants to do something, she does it.” And that’s an understatement.

  I hesitate. “Char, something happened last Wednesday that’s been eating at me. I wanted to get your feedback, see if I was out of line.”

  “What happened?”

  “I kind of had a run-in with Dane Friday night.” I take a deep breath and quickly add, “I got so mad at him. Told him to screw himself.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s so different, Charlotte. He’s not the Dane I knew. The Dane Kelly I knew would never have dated someone like Lulu Davies or forgotten a promise he made to a kid. What’s happened to him?”

  “He hasn’t had an easy life, Shey. Things were never good with Shellie Ann, but losing Matthew pretty much did him in.”

  “But why did he lose custody of Matthew in the first place? I don’t understand why a judge would award custody to Shellie Ann—”

  “Matthew’s dead,” Charlotte interrupts.

  “Dead?” I gasp, feeling as if she’s just thrown ice water in my face.

  “He died twelve years ago.”

  “No one told me.”

  “But I did. I told you he was gone. I said Dane had lost Matthew—”

  “I thought you meant in the divorce! I thought he was living with Shellie Ann in Austin.” I feel sick now, sick and ashamed. I had no idea, and it changes everything. “How did he die? Was there an accident?”

  “Matthew was born with special needs.” Charlotte sighs, remembering. “He always needed a lot of care. His outlook was never good, but he lived a couple years longer than anybody thought. He died just before his fifth birthday.”

  Oh God. “I didn’t know.”

  “Dane’s never been the same since. He became reckless on the circuit, took stupid risks in the ring, or maybe he just lost focus. Either way he got trampled. It was pretty bad. Dane was out the rest of that season—must have been in 1998—had surgery, battled through rehab, returned the following year just to get hurt all over again. Yes, the man’s wounded, but his hip isn’t the problem.”

  As Charlotte talks, I feel worse and worse. I shouldn’t have jumped all over Dane that way. Shouldn’t have been so angry or aggressive. I was just feeling protective of Cooper. I hadn’t realized that Dane’s boy died.

  No wonder Dane wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to work with mine.

  My chest feels tight. My heart actually hurts. I don’t want to feel sorry for Dane. Don’t want to forgive him for being a jerk. But to lose a child…

  I think of my boys, and I couldn’t lose them. Not one. As it is, I don’t know what I’ll do when they move out.

  But for one to die?

  Unthinkable.

  “I think I owe Dane an apology,” I say in a small voice.

  “He’ll forgive you, Shey. Dane couldn’t stay mad at you even if he tried.”

  The next morning, I’m still feeling bad for losing my temper with Dane. After dropping the boys off at school, I make an impulsive turn off 180, taking one of the back roads that cuts to Dane’s property. I didn’t plan on seeing him when I left home this morning, but guilt eats at me. I feel like a jerk for what I said to him.

  It takes me fifteen minutes on the back roads to reach Dane’s ranch. He has a decent spread of several thousand acres. It was once three times its size, but Dane’s father sold off a couple of big parcels in the early eighties when beef prices tumbled and the cost of raising calves rose 15 percent. The early eighties were tough on Texas cattle ranchers, and many farmers and ranchers went bankrupt. Those who didn’t struggled mightily owing to the shortage of winter pastures, high grain prices, and drought. Things turned around in 1988, and the cattle market became bullish for seven years, then struggled again in 1995. But that’s the nature of cattle ranching. Up and down, down and up. It’s all cyclical.

  I haven’t been to Dane’s ranch in years and am shocked to see that the Kellys’ simple ranch house is gone, replaced with a rugged two-story limestone mansion topped by a steep metal roof that glints in the sun. For a moment, I think I have the wrong place—maybe Dane sold these front acres—and then I see his big truck off to the side of the circular driveway.

  The black truck’s silver bed brightly reflects the morning light just like the roof, and I pull up next to his truck only to find a little red sports car already parked there.

  The red sports car throws me. It’s the same car Dane was leaning against the night of Blue’s party, and I’m suddenly not so sure that appearing on his doorstep is a good idea. Maybe the apology would have been better made over the phone.

  I let Pop’s truck idle as I reconsider dropping in. It’s not too late to go. I think I should go. But before I can reverse, the front door opens and Dane and Lulu step out.

  She’s talking to him and he’s got his head turned, listening and smiling at her in a way he doesn’t smile at me. She says something that makes him laugh, and my heart stutters to a stop.

  He likes her. Maybe even loves her. The pain is shocking. The pain reminds me of the moment when John told me he was in love with someone else.

  I’d vanish if I could. I’d snap my fingers and make Pop’s dilapidated truck disappear with me inside. But there’s no disa
ppearing, not when the red rusting truck is right in the middle of the driveway, blocking access to their cars.

  And now Dane looks up, sees me, and I give him a big hard smile so he won’t know I’m feeling like the biggest fool there is.

  Dane says something to Lulu, and she stops walking and he moves on alone toward me.

  I fix my gaze on his cane as I fight to regain my composure.

  “Hey,” I say, cursing myself as I roll my window down. “How are you doing?”

  He’s definitely guarded. “Fine. You okay?”

  “Yeah, oh, yeah, great.” God, I’m stupid. I take a deep breath, inject a breezy note into my voice. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

  He leans on my sill. “You were in the neighborhood.”

  Looking at him, I can see why I once loved him. He’s big and tough and oh, so handsome with those eyes, lips, and jaw. “Yeah.”

  “Kind of a big neighborhood.”

  “Yeah.”

  His gaze travels slowly over my face, and I see something in his eyes, but I don’t understand it. Don’t understand him anymore. “Shey, what are you doing here?”

  This is so awkward. I hate myself around him. Hate that he makes me feel so much, hate that I’m always so emotional. “I wanted to apologize for snapping at you Friday night. I was wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t handle the situation better.”

  “You were pretty hot under the collar.”

  “Cooper was hurt and I, well… I went into my crazy mama bear mode. Protecting the young and all.” I swallow hard, struggle to smile. “Kind of lost it, though. Sorry.”

  “Your boy was pretty hurt?”

  My chest aches. I nod. “He’s such a good kid. He never asks for anything.”

  “And I let him down.”

  “It’s okay. I should have known… should have…” I look away, bite my lip, worried that the tears aren’t far off. “I didn’t realize—” I break off, unable to finish the thought.

  “You didn’t realize what?”

  I shake my head. “I just wouldn’t have let him impose. I wouldn’t have let him ask you…”

  “If what?”

  “If I’d known about Matthew—” My voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, and his eyes are green, a beautiful bottle green. “You love your boys,” he says after the longest moment.

  “With all my heart.”

  “You’re a good mom.”

  “I try,” I answer, my voice husky. I glance to Lulu, who is waiting surprisingly patiently. “I don’t want to keep you. I know you’re on your way out.”

  “You take care, Shey.”

  My lower lip threatens to tremble, and I bite it hard. “You too.” And then, because I’m terrified I’m about to fall apart in his driveway, I quickly roll up the window, back the truck up, and pull away from the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m on my way home from Dane’s when Pop’s old truck dies, leaving me stranded on the side of the 180.

  I call Brick, who comes to get me. After looking under the rusting hood, he calls Bern’s Towing to have the truck taken to Manny’s Auto Shop in Mineral Wells.

  “We need to get you your own car,” he says as we wait for the tow truck. “Something new and reliable—”

  “I don’t need a new car.”

  “Then a decent used car. But Pop’s truck is as old as Moses and it’s not going to get any younger.”

  I just shake my head. The last thing I want to do is buy a car, any car, especially if we end up returning to New York.

  “Let’s just see what Manny says,” I answer. Having gone to school with Manny Ramirez, I know him and trust him implicitly. Manny was a running back on the high school football team when I attended Mineral Wells, back when Mineral Wells had a good team. And he’s worked on our family cars ever since he took over his uncle’s auto business fifteen years ago.

  Since Brick needs his truck today, he drops me at the house and heads to Fort Worth, where he has meetings at the stockyard. But he has assured me he’ll get the boys from school on his way home.

  I’m frustrated being back at the house, though, especially without wheels. We’re definitely isolated on the ranch, and I don’t like being trapped in the country without wheels. It reminds me of being grounded as a teenager.

  I zip through the house, gathering dirty clothes and dirty dishes, and start a load of laundry before I tackle unloading the dishwasher. The dishwasher’s heat cycle died years ago, so I dry every dish by hand.

  I’m stacking plates when the kitchen phone rings. I move to answer, only to trip over the open dishwasher door and slam my shin against the side. I yelp in pain as I pick up. “Hello?”

  “Shey?”

  I’ll always know his voice. It’s the pitch and the diction, a little slow and very rich, like warm molasses. “Dane.”

  “You okay?”

  “Noooo. Yes.”

  “So which is it?”

  “Both,” I say, laughing to keep from crying as I hop around.

  “Need first aid?”

  “Can you come administer some?”

  His chuckle is soft and sexy and makes me shiver with delight. “How serious is the injury?”

  “I might need a Band-Aid.”

  He laughs his sexy laugh again. “That is a call to action.”

  I stop hopping to rub my shin where it’s tender. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Kelly?”

  “I wanted to apologize to Cooper personally.”

  “He’s at school.”

  “I know, and I’ll call him this afternoon. But I wanted to talk to you first, let you know I’m sorry and you had every right to be upset. If someone slighted my boy, I’d feel the same way.”

  I’m touched and also flustered by the apology. “It’s okay. Coop pretty much ambushed you.”

  “He’s a boy. That’s how boys operate.”

  “He’ll appreciate the call,” I say. “It’ll restore you to hero status as well.”

  Dane is silent a long time, and then he clears his throat. “That’s just it, Shey. I’m not a hero, and I get real uncomfortable when folks try to make me one.”

  “But you are a hero to folks who love the rodeo.”

  “You’re not a hero because you last eight seconds on the back of a bull. Heroes are people who’ve done great things. I’ve never saved anyone.”

  He’s angry. Angry with himself. And I don’t understand it at first until it hits me—he’s talking about Matthew.

  He’s never saved anyone. Meaning he couldn’t save his own son.

  “It’s hard being a parent,” I say slowly, trying to think of the right words but not sure what those words would be. I don’t know this Dane. The Dane I knew was a gorgeous but rugged cowboy, an uncomplicated man who lived, breathed, and slept riding and competing. His focus was the chute and the eight seconds that followed, and I wanted him in the most simplistic, physical way. Now we’re twenty years older and tested by life. “You end up questioning everything you do, as well as everything you don’t do.”

  He exhales. “Isn’t that the truth.”

  His voice has always been deep, but right now it vibrates with emotion. I don’t answer immediately, struck by the changes in us, struck by the difficulty of life. We’re not the same, but I take no solace in that. The spiritualists might say suffering is good for the soul, but I find it overrated.

  “I am sorry, Dane,” I repeat because I don’t know what else to say.

  We say good-bye then, and I hang up the phone feeling a hundred times worse than before he called. Dane isn’t who I remembered. Twenty-three years ago he was young and physical and exuded sex. I loved his swagger and that delicious chemistry between us. All I wanted to do was look at him. Watch him. Listen to him. Be near him. It was a thrill. Heady, forbidden, exciting.

  It didn’t cross my mind that life would be any other way. That we could change. That love could disappo
int. There were no layers to us, nothing to challenge us other than ourselves.

  The phone rings again. “What are you doing right now?” Dane asks roughly.

  My heart squeezes so hard, my breath catches in my throat. If I’m not careful, he could break what’s left of my heart. “I’m standing in my kitchen.”

  I can practically feel his smile over the phone, and it gives me a jolt of pleasure. “How about lunch?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  God, I’d love, love, love to go—but I’m stranded. There’s not another working vehicle on the property. “Pop’s truck broke down this morning on the 180 on my way home from your place. Brick had it towed to Manny’s, so I’m without wheels.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll come get you.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah. See you in a half hour.”

  I’m so excited that it’s embarrassing, but since no one’s around to witness my silliness, I turn on the iPod stereo next to my bed, cranking up the volume on the Faith Hill CD while I change. I sing as I wriggle out of my ratty Levi’s and blue T-shirt and dance as I wriggle into a pair of less tattered Wranglers and a black peasant-style blouse with colorful embroidery at the collar and wrists.

  It’s absurd that I feel so happy just to be going to lunch with Dane, but it’s been a long time since I felt this way—light, young, good.

  Good.

  Humming along to the song, I pull my hair into a ponytail and then pull out bits to frame my face. With little diamond studs in my ears and mascara and lip gloss, I’m ready, which leaves me ten minutes to pace outside until Dane arrives in his hulking black truck.

  I take a quick, nervous breath as his truck appears in the drive, the big tires crunching gravel and kicking up clouds of reddish dust.

  Dane spots me in the shade by the house, and I jam my hands in my pockets, feigning nonchalance as he slows. Can’t believe we’re going to lunch. Can’t believe he’s driven a half hour just to pick me up.

  He leans over to open the passenger door from the inside, and a lock of thick honey hair falls forward on his brow. He’s not wearing his hat today, and his eyes are the deepest sea green. “Hope you’re hungry,” he says.