The Troubled Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

  Rainey wiped away a thin film of dust from the glass with the hem of her sweater and studied the picture. “Uh, honor cords.” She returned the frame to its resting place. “Funny, I never noticed how easy on the eyes you were in those days. But then you ain’t all that bad today. Dern, if I’m not babbling to a picture,” she mumbled. “I’ve got to get out of this house.”

  She didn’t know why the thought suddenly struck her after all of these years, but she couldn’t help but wonder why Deuce changed his mind about asking her to the senior homecoming dance so many years ago. But it didn’t matter now. Between her father and Deuce she had learned to trust only herself . . . never a man.

  The smell of java guided her down the stairs. Except for a steady hum of the refrigerator, the spic-and-span kitchen was quiet.

  Mugs, but no sugar bowl or creamer, sat next to the Mr. Coffee. She poured herself a cup and read the note propped up against the canister. “R, Be back later, D.”

  After checking the cabinets for sugar and finding none, she blew on her coffee before taking a tentative sip. She shuddered at the bitterness. What kind of a man doesn’t keep sugar around? A healthy one, probably.

  After taking a second sip, she poured the remainder in the kitchen sink and meandered to the back door, then stepped out onto the redwood sundeck. A rowdy blue jay squawked his warning before bombarding a fat, muddily-dun tabby scrunched down on his haunches.

  Spiky clumps of bluish-green yucca and spiraea veiled in tiny white blossoms edged the fence line. Outdoor furniture encircled a mammoth hot tub. Rainey ran her hand through the water. Still warm.

  Breaking daylight blazed orange beyond a good-sized tack room adjacent to a corral and some stalls.

  Crossing the manicured scrunch-grass walkway leading to the barn, she halted at the open door.

  Her eyes froze on Deuce’s long, lean, perfectly proportioned body, as he lay on his sweat-glistened back with arms stretched high, bench-pressing weights.

  Holy cripes, was he ever healthy and in all the right places.

  Rainey whirled and blindly rushed back to the cabin.

  Had she forgotten that she didn’t even like the man, much less his body? Oh, yeah, but she had to admit that, although she didn’t necessarily like the package, she certainly enjoyed how it was wrapped. After all, she was a living, breathing woman who could look but not touch.

  Just as she hit the safety of the kitchen, Deuce called from behind, “What’s the hurry?”

  Startled that he had caught up with her so quickly, she halted in mid-stride. Methodically, she turned toward the voice. “I’m on my way to town to buy the things I need to set up housekeeping at the depot.”

  Deuce tugged a tattered Gold’s Gym muscle shirt over his head. “Not this early in the morning, you aren’t. There’s no Green-Mart in this town, but heard they’re planning to put one in, so you might as well stay here for a while—”

  “I’d be in your way. Besides, I’ve imposed on your hospitality enough.”

  “You haven’t. I have plans and won’t be home tonight anyway.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and loosened the cap. “So, you might as well stay another day or so.”

  “I’m living down at the depot beginning today.” Rainey turned briskly, fleeing toward the staircase.

  Strong, calloused hands grabbed her by the arm and she found herself spun around facing him.

  “What’s the matter?” He loosened his grip.

  “Nothing. I’m just going to get my purse and get to town to check on a couple of things before I have the water turned on. And don’t forget, I need to obtain a new insurance card.”

  What was wrong with her? She didn’t have to give him an excuse to leave. Besides, she had seen men exercising before. Back in LA, a town filled with leading men and men to lead, she’d seen plenty of them. However, she must admit, none quite as exquisite as the one she’d just witnessed.

  “Hey, if I could cancel my plans, I’d help you out, but I can’t—”

  “Deuce, I need to do the work myself. To stay busy. I’ll call you if I get into trouble.”

  “A promise is a promise. I said I’d help, and come hell or high water, I’m going to keep my commitment.” His dark eyes never left hers for even an instant.

  “Like I said, I don’t need any help. I’ve already taken advantage of your good nature too much.”

  His gaze caught and held hers.

  Deuce seemed to study her face unhurriedly before saying, “Like I said, I’m going to help you, but not tonight.”

  Without warning, he leaned into her and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “End of discussion, okay?”

  After touching the tip of her nose with his index finger, he bounded up the stairs three at a time, leaving Rainey breathless.

  Jiminy Christmas! Had he gone bonkers? Tee-totally off his rocker? Maybe he exerted too much pumping iron and had a blood shortage to his think tank? Or, possibly his shoulder injury story was a cover-up. That was it! Had the quarterback gotten sacked too many times and had a bruised brain?

  Gently, she ran her fingertips over her forehead. She should go straight to the bathroom and wash away the kiss. No. Brain injury or not, she enjoyed the attention way too much to let the show of affection go so easily.

  Grabbing up her purse, Rainey headed out the door intent on taking care of the business necessary to get the depot at least inhabitable.

  Once hitting the city limits, her first stop ended up being the tiny town hall where the utility department was housed She came away frustrated when a wiry clerk, sporting a double whammy of dumbass, informed her they couldn’t turn on the water for seventy-two hours per their city code.

  Grumbling under her breath, Rainey left city hall. Oh, yeah, in a town so small that everyone knew everyone else’s business, yet big enough that they had to read the newspaper to see who got caught, it took three days for water service.

  After calling the insurance company and ordering a new proof of insurance document, her next visit was to Gideon’s Hardware and Surplus where she bought a hot plate and a dorm-sized refrigerator. She chose a cheap set of dishes. Ones guaranteed to have wobbly bottoms and sport irregular patterns or drips of paint trailing from the design. A set of nondescript white sheets and towels completed her household purchases.

  After ordering a futon, she learned it wouldn’t come in until the store’s next shipment arrived from their supplier. If she wanted it sooner, there’d be an express shipping charge, but even at that, the bed would take about a week to get to her.

  She couldn’t afford the time it’d take to drive the sixty miles over to Amarillo and back, so she’d have to settle for what she could find in the hardware store. Since she couldn’t get the futon any time soon, the fluorescent orange sleeping bag on the shelf seemed her only option. She hated the color orange because it reminded her of a jail jumpsuit. Oh, well, what was another forty dollars this late in the game?

  After stuffing a wad of her money into the cash register, the middle-aged, balding store owner quickly requested to be called by his first name. Gideon loaded the merchandise into the Malibu for her short trip to the depot, spouting his pleasure at having a new customer. No doubt the price gouging increased her value to the economy of Kasota Springs.

  All of this came with a running dissertation about his first-day issue stamp collection. At least, the shop owner did something useful while he rattled on, by throwing away the moisture-stained newspaper that the bonsai had rested on ever since leaving Los Angeles. Not satisfied, he grabbed an empty Diet Dr Pepper can, a cracker wrapper, and what was left of an old page torn from a legal pad, and crammed them in a sack. What did he think? She’d toss the trash out in his parking lot the moment he turned his back?

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Duncan—”

  “Call me Gideon,” he insisted.

  “This is the water department,” she said. Thinking her business with Gideon was concluded, s
he quickly said, “Thank you for your help.”

  He never made a move to return to his store, seemingly more intent on listening to her conversation.

  Once finished receiving bad news, Rainey disconnected from the call and put the phone in her purse.

  “At least I know why they can’t turn the water on immediately.” She had no idea why she was discussing her business with a total stranger, but felt the need to have someone to commiserate with. “The depot has outmoded clay pipes and by the building code, they can’t turn on my water until they’re replaced.” She hoped her frustration didn’t show in her words.

  She wanted so badly to add, “Inspected by probably a Turn-On Tech Level One.” No wonder they needed lead time. It must have taken them that long to dust the cobwebs from the codebook. She nearly had to bite her tongue to keep from spitting out the words.

  “I’ve got a temporary solution for you, Miss, uh—”

  “Michaels, Mrs. Michaels.”

  “I own the building next to the depot and have running water, although it’s vacant. Wanna keep the grass watered, you know.”

  Pleasantries certainly were not on her agenda, but she said, “I noticed how nice the grass looked.”

  “You could get your husband to hook up to my water supply until ol’ man Wilson gets around to making your repairs.”

  “I’m a widow,” she said softly, then lowered her eyes.

  The storekeeper offered his condolences and she accepted, grateful he didn’t ask any more questions.

  Momentarily, Rainey wrangled with herself over the offer, but with no better solution in sight and a huge desire to get out on her own as quickly as possible, she agreed.

  By the time she left Gideon’s store, he’d loaded seven of his longest garden hoses in the Chevy and lightened her pocketbook even more. He’d probably bill her for the water by the ounce, but at the moment, she had more important things to worry about.

  Minutes later, frustrated beyond sensibility, Rainey pulled into the depot’s parking lot and sat staring at the monstrous building. In the daylight, it looked even worse than at night.

  From the appearance of the parking lot, someone had poured asphalt over a sheet of dynamite and detonated it. Potholes and trenches layered with gravel. But at least she had everything she needed to start a new life: running water siphoned from a neighbor, a place to keep her food cool, as long as she didn’t buy anything bigger than a four-pack of yogurt and a Happy Meal, and a sleeping bag on a concrete mattress.

  When she left Deuce’s house earlier in the day, she had planned to cut all ties with him, but now, dang if she could. With the prospect of sleeping on a cold floor and taking an even colder shower, maybe she shouldn’t have been so hasty in cutting the jockaramus loose.

  She sat in her car and made several calls to her property owner’s office. Of course, Mr. Wilson had chosen today to take a trip to Odessa. Three calls later, Rainey was reassured by his primordial secretary that the repair would be no problem and she’d have Mr. Wilson contact Rainey. But when? Tomorrow? Friday? Next week?

  Not bothering to even unload the merchandise she had purchased, Rainey headed toward a little café she had spotted earlier in the morning. Although she wasn’t all that hungry, a cup of coffee sounded good.

  Rainey entered Pumpkin’s Café and was greeted as though she were a hobo who just hopped off a slow-moving coal train.

  Six rough-as-whang-leather workmen sat at the counter, stares glued to a television wedged up high in the corner. Ignoring a vacant stool, she looked for another free seat. The first table near the entrance meant she would have to sit with her back to the door. She refused to willingly be caught off guard.

  She eyed a willowy waitress with a short, broomstick haircut clearing off a booth directly across from the lunch counter.

  When the woman gestured that she had the table ready, Rainey took a seat.

  Shaking off uneasiness, she glanced at the “specials” scrawled on a white board and then picked up a menu strategically placed between the wall and the napkin holder. She opened it and read nearly every item on the menu, but still nothing sounded good.

  After ordering coffee, Rainey sat there playing with her spoon and looking out the window, wondering about her decision to stay in Kasota Springs.

  Every time the door opened, she shrank down in the booth, afraid of who might enter. She had to stop being leery of everyone she came in contact with. She was a thousand miles away from Los Angeles, but regardless of how hard she tried, she hadn’t succeeded at leaving the past behind . . . to being scared of what the future held for her.

  The bell at the top of the café’s door rang, and the screen door slammed behind a flurry of crinoline petticoats and gingham that whirled in. American Bandstand, circa 1950, sidled between the rows of booths and headed her direction.

  “Mrs. Michaels!” the woman buried in the regalia squealed.

  Rainey stiffened, debating whether to respond or act like she hadn’t heard her, while fighting off the urge to look over her shoulder to make sure another Mrs. Michaels wasn’t hiding behind her sipping tea.

  The petite woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a thick crop of chemically induced blond hair teased into an outrageously big bouffant style swished her way, coming to a halt beside the table. “I finally found you,” she said, as though Rainey had been lost.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Rainey’s mind reeled with confusion.

  “Oh, golly. I guess you wouldn’t know me, but I feel like I know you, since I’ve heard so much about you.” Net and lace crackled as the woman flounced into the seat opposite Rainey. “I’m Sylvie. Sylvie Dewey.”

  “Uh, please join me, Miss Dewey.”

  “Sylvie.” She deposited her purse on the bench.

  The waitress reappeared and without looking at the menu, Sylvie ordered a vegetable plate and iced tea. “I didn’t know you were the person who rented a PO box until I put two and two together. Then Deuce fessed up that you were the friend. . . .” She punctuated the word “friend” with her fingers. “Who spent the night out at his place.” She batted her frosted sky-blue coated eyelids.

  Oh, Jiminy! Why didn’t Deuce hire a town crier to go up and down the street and announce her sleeping arrangements? Any minute she expected a full description of her underwear. Dang that Deuce Cowan’s hide. He’d ended up shipping her reputation down south in a rickety cotton wagon.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Rainey muttered.

  “That?” A dumb-as-a-stump expression curtained Miss Rock ‘n’ Roll’s face.

  Dah! Hello! Anybody home?

  “You know, uh, anything personal.” Feeling uncomfortable, Rainey raised a questioning eyebrow. “I only stayed at his place because I couldn’t find a motel room.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know. When I came in, Gideon was over in the post office space picking up one of our famous government publications off the rack. He told me that you rented the old depot. I’m the postmistress, you know.”

  Saved by the sound of the front screen opening, Rainey darted a wary eye in that direction. She could deal with Deuce knowing her true identity, but being absconded by the queen bee of the quilting guild shook her like the aftermath of a Texas twister.

  In clipped words, Sylvie continued her query. “And you’re a widow. I’m so sorry.”

  “Huh, yes.” Rainey twisted the coffee cup between her palms.

  Oh, God, her nose surely grew another inch. Things were getting out of hand. At first, a little white lie didn’t seem to hurt anything and served as protection. Besides, doesn’t the end justify the means? As though fed Miracle-Gro, in less than twenty-four hours, the whole featherbrained scenario had blossomed out of control.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to talk about something more pleasant.”

  Sylvie nodded. “Sure, but I’ll be here if you ever need someone to confide in. You know, girl talk. Things you might not be able to tell Deuce.”

/>   “Thanks, but Deuce and I aren’t all that close. We just know each other from school.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I heard. I thought you were best friends and all.”

  Being friendly was one thing, but this conversation had gone from a warm, fuzzy introduction into an interrogation.

  “Being the postmistress must be interesting.” Rainey took a drink of water, feeding her nausea. She glanced at the food sitting in front of her lunch companion, unaware that the waitress had even brought the vegetarian plate. “Are you married?”

  Sylvie poised her fork over parsley new potatoes. “No. Never been.” She laid down the utensil and leveled a stare at Rainey. “But I don’t plan to be an old maid forever.”

  “You’re much too young to be considered a spinster,” Rainey said. “So, you have someone special?”

  “Someone very special and he treats me really good, too.” She turned her attention to her plate. “I grew up here and have worked in the post office since high school. I know just about everything that goes on around here.” Sylvie speared green beans. “And I do mean everything—”

  Deuce’s rich-timbred voice interrupted her. “And you keep it all to yourself, huh, darlin’?”

  “Have a seat, sheriff.” The bundle of lace scooted across the bench to make room and patted the empty seat beside her.

  “If I’m not interrupting a chick moment.” He eased into the booth. “See you found her.” He cast Sylvie a sideways glance and flashed Rainey one heck of a devilish smile.

  “Well, you knew as soon as you told me that we have a new resident, I’d want to introduce myself.” Sylvie dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

  “I told you?” Deuce quirked a questioning eyebrow at her before turning his gaze back to Rainey. “As I recall the way it came about—”

  “Shush!” Sylvie interrupted him. “The most important thing is that we’re getting to know one another.” She locked a smile on her face. “Real well, like we’ve known each other forever.”

  Interrupting, the spindly waitress returned and set down an empty glass and a pitcher of iced tea in front of Deuce. “Well, whatcha gonna have today, sheriff?”