“I’m heading to Stephenville to pick up one of my bulls. Want to come?”
“Can we stop for coffee and pancakes somewhere?”
He smiles, eyes creasing. “You’re in luck. Eggs’n Things is on the way.”
It is nearly noon by the time we reach Stephenville, where Dane picks up one of his bulls that’s been on the circuit but has just been retired. I stay in the truck while Dane and the cowboy load the bull and then stand around and talk. The cowboy’s familiar, but I can’t place him and wonder if perhaps he went to school with one of my brothers.
As Dane and the cowboy talk, I stretch out my legs and close my eyes, but my mind keeps returning to the break-in and how grateful I am that the boys weren’t home. They would have tried to play hero, make a bold move, and God knows what would have happened then. I shiver just thinking about it.
A few minutes later, Dane climbs back in the truck, waves farewell to the cowboy, and we set off.
“You okay?” Dane asks as we drive away.
“Yeah. Just thinking about the guy who broke in. It’s scary.”
“It is. But Brick will be back soon and the security will be in place and you’ll be okay, I promise.”
“No, I know. And I’m not scared for me as much as I’m worried about the boys. I keep picturing Cooper confronting the guy—”
“Stop torturing yourself. It didn’t happen. It’s not going to happen. And the guy’s going to get caught.”
I nod and force myself to think about other things now. After a moment, I mention to Dane that the cowboy looked familiar. “I know I know him,” I tell Dane. “Did he go to school with you? Was he friends with Brick?”
“He’s five years younger than me, closer to your age than mine.” Dane leans forward to get a better look into his rearview mirror before merging from Morgan Mill Road onto 281. Pulling a trailer, particularly a trailer with a thousand-pound animal, takes patience and skill. “But he should be familiar. That was Ty Murray.”
“Oh, my God.” I smile at my mistake. Ty Murray has to be the greatest all-around cowboy of all time. He won the national title seven times and in 1993 helped found the PBR, Professional Bull Riders tour, with Dane and a handful of other bull-riding champs. “How is he? Was Jewel around?”
“Apparently Jewel’s somewhere recording.” Dane turns off Murray’s property onto the county road. “And now that you know it was Ty, do you wish you’d gotten out of the truck?”
“No. I’m a fan, of course, but what am I going to say? I watched you on Dancing with the Stars a couple years ago and thought the judges were a little harsh?”
Dane grins. “He did all right.”
“Looked like you two were having quite the heart-to-heart talk.”
“He’s been trying to get me into the PBR broadcast booth for years. Thinks I’d make a good announcer.”
“That’s flattering.”
“It is, but it’s also a big commitment. It would involve a lot of time and travel. It would be hard to run my business here and be on the road for weeks at a time.”
“But you’re tempted.”
Dane shrugs. “I love the rodeo, and the PBR has really taken off. It’s exciting to watch, and I’d definitely enjoy being part of it again.”
“You miss competing?”
“Yeah. But there are no more comebacks for me. Nobody’s Knight made sure of that.”
I turn on my seat to face him. “That’s the bull you were riding when you were hurt?”
He nods. “Rankest bull on the circuit that year. Not enough to buck and kick. He went for the rider every time. Nothing made that son of a bitch happier than stomping a cowboy’s guts out.”
“And he stomped yours.”
“After rolling on me a couple times. Shattered my pelvis, hip, and thigh. Broke a bunch of other things, but it’s the hip that’s been tricky.”
“Is that why you’re having all the surgeries?”
“We’ve got fifty-two miles to go. Are you going to ask questions the whole way?”
He sounds so pained that I giggle. “We’re just making conversation, Kelly.”
“Maybe we should turn on the stereo. I’ve got some CDs in there. Tim McGraw. Rascal Flats. Brad Paisley.”
I cross one leg over the other, swing my foot, totally amused. “You’re trying to shut me up.”
“You like country music.”
“You know I do. But it’s nice just hanging out and talking to you.”
He grimaces. “Why do women like to talk so much?”
“Because we’re women, and language is linked to estrogen.” I lean my head back against the seat and smile at him. “Apparently you’re lacking estrogen.”
“Is that so?”
I laugh and, to keep him happy, turn on the stereo.
Brick swings by Dane’s ranch to pick me up on his way home from San Antonio. I hadn’t expected him for another hour and am not prepared, which forces Brick and Dane to make small talk while I run upstairs to gather my things.
As I toss my clothes and face stuff into my overnight bag, their voices drift up and I overhear bits and pieces of their conversation. Their conversation is so painfully strained, it’s almost funny.
But after a few awkward comments about the cold front and crops, Dane mentions his trip earlier in the day to Ty Murray’s ranch, which then leads into a discussion of the current PBR standings as the season draws to a close.
When Brick and Dane graduated from high school, they chose to join the Professional Rodeo Cowboy’s Association rather than go to college. They paid their two hundred dollars and got their PRCA permit, which allowed them to enter rodeos where space was available. They wouldn’t become full-fledged members of the PRCA until they earned enough money competing to buy their card. Back then it was around twenty-five hundred dollars, and Dane earned it his first year. It took Brick an extra year to earn his. But even then they stuck together, traveling from Pecos, Texas, to Eugene, Oregon, to Calgary, Alberta, and back to Prescott, Arizona. For four years they traveled together, roomed together, and competed against each other. And during those years, the injuries started to pile up.
In the end, the injuries were too much for Brick. He realized he’d be happier ranching than competing and retired from the PRCA. But Dane’s career just kept getting bigger, and since Brick knew the business, he became Dane’s manager, entering Dane in events, paying fees, signing sponsors, even as Brick began a family with Charlotte and took over the ranch from Pop.
Dane was doing well and making good money on the PRCA circuit, but it was the Professional Bull Riders that really cemented Dane’s status as a star. And Brick was there the whole way.
This is the kind of relationship Brick and Dane have, and as they discuss the rankest bull on this year’s circuit and the new young Brazilian riders, I feel a glimmer of hope that maybe Brick and Dane will eventually patch things up. Blood may be thicker than water, but you can’t survive without water.
Once Brick and I are in his truck and he’s heading to our ranch, he asks me about everything I’m missing. “Keys, phone, wallet, checkbook, you name it,” I answer.
“Over Thanksgiving weekend, too.” He shakes his head. “Terrible timing. Nothing’s open. What can you do?”
“I haven’t gotten anything done this weekend, other than try to clean up the house and help Dane get the new door and locks in.”
“I’m pretty sure I have a spare key to Pop’s truck at my house.”
“That’d be wonderful. Otherwise I have to call Manny or a locksmith.”
We lapse into silence, and Brick turns on the radio to a news talk station. Brick loves talk radio. He gets all his news and weather reports from the radio.
But a few minutes later, he turns down the volume. “I’m glad you called Dane. He and I might have our differences, but you’ll always be safe with him.” And then he turns the volume back up.
I look at him, eyebrows lifting. That’s it? That’s all he’s going to sa
y?
After a minute goes by, I turn down the volume. “You two were talking for almost twenty minutes,” I say. “That’s the first time you guys have really talked in years.”
Brick’s jaw hardens. “Don’t go there.”
“Don’t go where?”
“You know. Just mind your own business and everything will be fine.”
It’s not the answer I want, but it’s what I get. And at least they’re talking. That’s a start.
Back at our ranch, Brick and I go through the new security system together. The old house now has the security of Fort Knox, and I’m not sure if I should be worried or relieved by the hundred different ways we can trip the alarm.
With the security codes in place and all the doors and windows properly armed, Brick sees to his horses and I phone the boys to go over the arrangements for their arrival tomorrow. Bo and Cooper sound good on the phone—cheerful and happy—but Hank sounds depressed.
“Has it been a good visit?” I ask him, trying to understand why he’s so down.
“Yeah. It was all right. Most of my friends were gone for the break, but I saw Cole and Paul and we tossed the ball around a bit.”
“You played lacrosse?”
“It wasn’t a game, but we ran around in Central Park.”
“That’s great. I bet it was good to see them.”
“It was.” Hank falls silent. “Mom… ,” he starts, then stops.
“What, hon?”
I can tell he’s struggling with words, and I hold my breath, wanting to help him but not knowing how. He’s fifteen. He’s been pulling away from me for a while now.
“I love you, Mom,” he says finally.
But he says it in a rough voice that just sounds sad, as though loving me were a bad thing. I swallow hard, and my eyes smart. “I love you, too. Can’t wait to see you, baby.”
“Me too, Mom.” And then he hangs up.
I turn out most of the lights but leave one on over the front door for Brick, who plans to sleep in Coop’s room. I’m heading down the hallway to my room when the photos on the wall catch my eye.
I pass down the narrow hall a hundred times a day and never pay the framed photos any notice, but tonight I stop. It’s a gallery dedicated to the four Callen kids, with photos dating back to the mid-1960s.
There’s Brick and Blue, towheaded toddlers in matching western shirts and cowboy hats, smiling for the Sears photographer.
Here’s one of Brick on a horse, and then another of Blue in football pads, plus cheap oak-framed class photos that have already faded and yellowed.
Farther down the wall is Cody’s eight-by-ten baby portrait, and he’s a grinning, gummy-faced baby, completely bald but so smiley that his eyes glint with good humor. This is the Cody I know, this is the Cody I love.
When I was growing up, Cody was my best friend. We were two years apart in age but just a year apart in school, and wherever Cody went I was sure to follow.
My gaze follows the cluster of framed photos—Cody as a Cub Scout, Cody as a football player, Cody holding a trophy after taking first at the state fair for his sheep. I remember how upset I was that Cody got to sleep at the fairground near his sheep and Mama and Pop wouldn’t let me. I was so mad at Cody. But then the next day he won first place, and no one was prouder.
I reach out and touch the photo of grinning Cody and his trophy. My favorite brother. Gone far too soon.
Cody shouldn’t have died. There’s no reason for him to have died. We should have stuck together. Worked together. Helped him sooner. Helped him better.
Why didn’t we? Why couldn’t we? What’s happened to all of us?
What’s happened to me?
It’s too late to bring him back, but it’s not too late to get me back. The confident me, the strong me. The Shey who believed she could do anything. Be anything. Handle anything.
With a last glance at the photograph of Cody I vow to one day be that Shey again because I really liked her.
She was tough. Smart. Sexy.
Brave.
And on a good day, Lord, was she fun.
Chapter Seventeen
The sky is a blustery gray as I drive to the airport, and for the first time this year I turn on the truck’s heater. The weather forecast predicts rain in the next few days, and if temperatures drop much lower, we might see some snow. It’s a very slight chance, but a possibility.
Although snow is beautiful, especially when it paints the fields white, I’m not ready for it. I have so much to do, and at the top of my list is getting a new driver’s license and then opening a new checking account and pulling some cash from the bank to tide me over until my new credit and debit cards arrive. I also have to buy a new cell phone, as well as a new wallet. Such a hassle replacing everything, and sad to lose the boys’ pictures.
I arrive at the airport with twenty minutes to kill. But then it’s three o’clock, and as I wait at the appropriate American Airlines baggage carousel, the sliding glass door opens and my boys emerge.
Bo. Cooper. No Hank.
Where’s Hank?
I count the heads again. Only two. There should be three. Where’s my oldest?
Bo reaches me, hugs me hard, and blurts out, “Hank stayed behind, Mom.”
He’s so tall that his chin hits my shoulders. Automatically I lift a hand, smooth the back of his hair. It’s getting long again. “What do you mean?”
Coop shuffles up, his backpack hanging off his thin shoulder. He’s built just like Cody. “He’s not coming back, Mom—” Coop’s voice cracks, and he flushes. “He said he’d call you…”
All I hear is the echo of Cooper’s words—He’s not coming back—before my adrenaline kicks in. Not coming back? How can he not come back? I’m his mom. He lives with me.
“What?” I whisper, my chest growing tight.
“He was supposed to call,” Bo says flatly.
“He didn’t say anything about staying,” I answer.
Cooper looks nervous. “Sorry.”
“When did he decide not to come?” I ask, reaching for Cooper’s backpack so he can get a better handle on his rolling bag. But he brushes me off.
“I don’t know,” Bo answers evasively even as he and his brother exchange glances.
They know, I think, anxiety giving way to frustration. “Well?” I demand, seeing as I put three boys on a plane to see their dad for Thanksgiving a week ago and I expected three to get off.
“It got weird last night,” Bo confesses as we head out through the exit to the parking garage.
“Weird how?” I ask, looking from one to the other.
“Just weird all the way around. You’d have to be there.”
I see their faces as we step into the shadowy garage, and their expressions are grim. Reluctantly, I let the subject drop. It’s Hank I need to talk to. Hank I’ll call as soon as we’re home.
It’s a ninety-minute drive without traffic, but there’s traffic today because of a horrific-looking accident that’s turned the freeway into a parking lot. By the time we actually get home, we’ve been in the car close to three hours and my excitement over the boys’ return has morphed into anger.
Hank should have called me, warned me. And if he wasn’t going to tell me, John should have instead.
Inside the house, the boys head to their rooms and I use the kitchen phone to call Hank’s cell. Part of me is thinking he won’t answer, while another part of me is desperate for him to pick up. He picks up.
“Hey, Mom.”
My throat suddenly closes. This is my firstborn, my baby. “What’s going on?”
“I just… I mean, Texas, Mom, really?”
“So you’re staying in New York with Dad.”
“Yeah.”
“You couldn’t call me to warn me?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Check your damn voice mail. I left two messages on your phone, Mom, two.”
And then I remember I’m missing my
cell phone. It was in my purse, and since I always use my cell, Hank wouldn’t think to call me on the house phone. “You didn’t tell me when we last spoke.”
He doesn’t answer.
The hot band around my chest squeezes tighter. “I just wish you’d talked it through with me—”
“You wouldn’t have listened. You would have just gotten pissed.”
“No, I wouldn’t have.”
“Yes. And you’re pissed now. You’re always pissed—”
“Please. Don’t use that word.”
“See? That’s exactly what I mean. It’s like I can’t do anything right—”
“Not true!”
“Is true. Besides, you still have Bo and Cooper. Dad has no one. And he loves us, and misses us, as much as you do.”
And just like that, the anger goes, leaving a strange hollow place inside of me. “Dad does need you,” I say quietly. “It’ll be good for you to be there with him. He won’t be so lonely.”
“Yeah.”
He says it halfheartedly, and I realize he’s completely conflicted. As we all are.
I draw a breath to ease the hot, tight feeling in my chest. “Baby, I love you. I’m sorry you think I’m always upset with you because I’m not. I love you to pieces and I’d do anything for you. And if you’ll be happier in New York, then it’s good you stayed—”
“It’s okay, Mom. You’re doing your best.”
He’s right. I am. But my best in this case hasn’t been enough. “Will you come see me at Christmas?”
“Of course. You’re still my mom.”
He says good-bye. I say something, and when I hang up, I put my head down on my arm and feel something break open inside me.
I’ve never lived without my kids. I knew I’d lose Hank in three years when he goes away to college, but I thought I had three years. I need three years. I am not ready for it to happen yet.
I don’t have favorites, but Hank’s my first and so very dear to me.
Cooper appears at my side, wraps his arm around my neck, and whispers roughly, “Don’t cry. Please, Mom.”
She’s Gone Country Page 22