by Kym Roberts
“You drove?” I looked around and saw her little white BMW Isetta parked next to her trailer. It appeared to be intact.
“No! I got a cab. I’m not stupid!”
I was beginning to wonder about that.
“Listen to this new song I downloaded.”
“I won’t be able to hear it. Why don’t you come down and we’ll listen to it together,” I told her, wishing Mateo would get his butt up there and bring her down.
“Sure you will. I brought my speaker.” Scarlet fumbled with a bag at her feet and pulled out a small square block. Then she began messing with her phone, concentrating on the screen so hard she didn’t see Mateo approaching from her right. A moment later Charles Kelley’s voice began serenading the town with “Lonely Girl (On Top of the Tower)”. It was more than a little bit ironic and got pretty cheesy when she held the speaker above her head like a bad rendition of an 80s teenage love flick—minus the boom box and the cute guy. A sexy man, however, did approach her and wrap his strong arms around her middle before she even knew he was there.
She jumped—up, not down, thankfully. Mateo held firm, talking in her ear the whole time. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but Scarlet nodded and they walked sideways with Mateo’s back to the tower and Scarlet in front of him. I tracked them from down below, feeling helpless and more than a bit sad for Scarlet. They made it to the ladder about the time I heard sirens in the distance.
“Did you call the fire department?” I yelled up at Mateo, praying that he hadn’t.
He ignored me and kept talking to Scarlet, his voice low and steady, but Scarlet saw the ladder and a little panic flashed across her face as she shook her head back and forth. She said something to Mateo and he released her for a moment with one hand as he reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He handed it to Scarlet and they did a one-eighty turn so that Scarlet was facing the tower. I heard the rip of material and instantly knew Scarlet was cutting her skirt.
The sirens continued to blare and a few people were making their way through the alley from Main Street—two of which I really didn’t want to see.
“What’s going on?” asked Peter Kroft, the reporter who’d been front and center to see Scarlet’s humiliation the night before.
I tried to remain cordial but failed, big time. His report on the incident at the bar had not been kind. “Nothing worth reporting.”
“Really? Cause it looks to me like a woman was going to commit suicide over how badly Dalton Hibbs treated her. What happened to your hair?”
Peter’s cameraman, Aiden, was gearing up to get the shot of a lifetime, or at least Scarlet’s lifetime, when I turned on him, completely ignoring Peter’s question about my curls.
“Don’t you even think about turning that camera on,” I growled; it actually sounded pretty feral as I turned back to Peter. “If she was suicidal, Mateo wouldn’t have given her his pocket knife.” I knew Peter could see the knife as Scarlet handed it back to Mateo, who took the time to close it against his thigh and slip it back into his pocket.
But Peter’s cameraman wasn’t giving up. “We’re here to cover the news.”
“This isn’t news,” I insisted.
“Looks that way to me,” Aiden replied and lifted the camera to his shoulder.
Surprisingly it was Peter who put his hand on the front of the camera lens and pointed it toward the ground as Mateo and Scarlet made their way down the ladder. Mateo had the strap he’d grabbed from his patrol car wrapped around his back. Scarlet had abandoned her speaker at the top of the ladder and had unfortunately left it on repeat as they made their descent. The process was extremely slow, each step requiring Mateo to release and then reattach the strap to the next rung.
As their feet touched the ground the crowd cheered and the fire department arrived. Peter stepped forward. The reporter slipped out of his suit jacket and held it in front of Mateo and Scarlet so she could cover the new slit in the front of her designer skirt.
The act of chivalry was not lost on the bystanders or me, and a little bit of my faith in the media was restored.
Chapter Seven
I listened to Scarlet babble on and on about Dalton for about thirty minutes and how, “He would never leave it behind.” She continued saying, “Dalton loved his brother. He just wouldn’t leave it.” I had no idea what she was talking about and I wasn’t sure she did either, considering she’d start to fall asleep and then repeat it for the tenth time before her head plopped back on her pillow. About the time I thought she was out for the night, her little sister, Joellen, arrived. Apparently, someone called somebody, who called someone else, who called Joellen. Joellen was ready and desperately wanting to step up to the plate and take care of Scarlet. I couldn’t blame her; Scarlet took care of everyone else, so it was time the rest of us took care of her.
I left with a promise to check on them in the morning, which was only a few hours away, and I headed back to The Barn. Mateo was out front giving a statement to the media with cameras rolling. Ugh.
I tried to slip by, keeping my head down with my curls covering my face. No such luck. It was Peter’s stupid cameraman, Aiden, who had eyes in the back of his thick skull that turned in my direction. The light on his camera acted like a beacon on my body for all the other reporters to follow. And they did.
Fuzz buckets.
I made a beeline for the gate that led to my apartment and raced right through, letting it slam closed behind me. Part of my brain registered a squeak, the other part was wondering if I had locked my apartment door. I erred on the side of caution and began fumbling in my pocket while taking the steps two at a time. I got the key out of my pocket and the door open just in time to hear the gate swing open, a clang, and my favorite cameraman yell, “Son-of-a-” as I slammed the door closed and pulled the shade.
Leaning against the door, I jumped when my phone buzzed on the counter where I’d left it plugged in to charge. I took a few deep breaths. I hadn’t run far but my adrenaline was still pumping. I went and retrieved my phone and read the message that was, surprisingly, from Mateo.
Your mom struck again. Right on top of his head. ☺
He actually used a smiley face at the end. I wondered if that was his way of laughing.
Whose head?
I asked, hoping it wasn’t a member of the media who would sue me for every dime I was worth. Which wouldn’t amount to very many rolls of dimes, if I was honest.
Your favorite cameraman.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Then I laughed as I half-scolded my mom up in heaven. Dag-nabbit, Mom. You’re going to get me in more trouble. Then I texted him back.
You’re lying.
Full moon, babe, he responded.
Babe. Mateo called me babe. Was that a proposition, or just a figure of speech like “catch ya later, babe” or “see ya tomorrow, babe”? I wasn’t sure how to take it, or if I should even address it. I chose to ignore it.
Do I need to come down?
Please don’t make me come down. Please don’t make me come down.
No, the wind has really picked up in the past 30 minutes.
I wasn’t sure if that was an excuse for the sign falling or if he was scared I’d blow away in the wind. Granted, I bordered on the thin side, but not rail thin. I sat there wondering how to respond when he sent another text.
Cade is here. When the media leaves, I think there’s something you need to see. We’ll be up in a few.
Well, that definitely put things into perspective. Mateo was texting in the friend zone. He had to be. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be talking about coming up to my front door with his best friend and my ex-high school sweetheart who’d kissed me my first day back in town.
Cade, however, hadn’t even come by to buy a book since that kiss and acted like I was just another voter in his reelection campaign for mayor in the fall. I knew he was extremely busy, but still. Would it kill him to follow through?
I put my phone back on the charger and made my way to the bathroom with Princess at my feet. I caught a whiff of her and my nose scrunched.
“Are you trying to tell me you need a bath, because I can smell you?”
She squeaked in response. I had yet to learn if one squeak meant yes, or if she was calling me an unpleasant name. One glance in the mirror, however, took my mind completely off her scent. I screamed.
Princess jumped. One of those straight up in the air, feet hanging with nowhere to go jumps, and her little beady eyes bugged out of their sockets.
My hands flew to my hair, only this time there were some expletives attached. I couldn’t help it. When tragedy strikes, I cuss. It’s ugly. I was probably going to lose my Southern belle card from not being more imaginative with my response. But I didn’t care. The hair on the left side of my head was fried. Like curls gone, ends sticking out several inches shorter than it was supposed to and fried ends looking more like wire than natural locks.
In Texas, bad hair is a deadly sin, and what I saw in the mirror was beyond bad. If I was vain, I’d curl up in a ball on the floor and cry my eyes out. But I’m not that vain—I only let one tear escape. That’s all I had time for because someone was at my front door knocking. More like pounding.
“Princess! Open up or I’m going to kick this door down!” Cade yelled from outside. When he used my nickname, I knew he meant business.
Fuzz buckets.
This is what happens when you act all girly and scream over stupid stuff. Men have to act all manly. They kick in your door and they see you with your hair looking worse than any man should have to see it.
“I’m fine! Don’t kick my door! I’m coming!” I responded as I frantically looked for a hair tie. Finally, I found one under the sink and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. The left side stuck straight out from the side of my head. Afro gone bad. I whimpered and pulled out the ponytail and grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my head like I’d just washed it.
“Open up, Princess!” Cade yelled again.
I ran for the door and tripped over the little Princess, who was making her way to the door like Cade was there to see her, and not me.
I flipped the lock and opened the door.
Cade looked me up and down, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon.
“Why are you out of breath?”
“Why are you screaming?”
“I didn’t scream.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.
“I heard you scream.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I heard it too,” Mateo added as he stuck his head around the corner and saw my towel. A grin spread across his face. “Did you break a mirror?”
My eyes narrowed and the normally stoic officer of the law laughed. Cade looked at him like he was under the influence of an illegal substance.
“I thought maybe you cut your foot or something.”
All three of us looked down at my feet. My combat boots were dusty and in need of a shine, but intact.
“I guess not,” Mateo said.
“What am I missing?” Cade asked, his gaze traveling suspiciously between me and Mateo.
For some reason that look made me feel guilty for something that hadn’t even happened. Which was utterly ridiculous since Cade was nothing but an old high school sweetheart.
“Nothing.” I turned to Mateo. “Was there something you wanted to show me?”
“Well, first, I thought you might want this back.” He handed me my mom’s iron sign.
“Was he hurt badly?”
“A few staples and he’ll be as good as new.”
“Seriously?”
“His head isn’t as hard as mine is,” Cade said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that or break down in front of these two, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Tell Bobby Ray to figure out a way to hang it more securely next time. I’m not sure I can always blame it on the weather.” Mateo’s face turned serious. “I need to show you something on the front of the store.”
“What is it?”
“Let’s go down and take a look.”
The three of us made our way downstairs, with me sandwiched in between them looking completely ridiculous with a towel on my head. I thought I should ask Cade about his campaign or something about The Cowboy Ranch Invitational, but I was beat and everything that came to mind sounded lame. We made our way to the front of the store and Mateo pulled his flashlight out of his pocket. The broken glass had been cleaned up and the crime scene tape was down, making me feel better about the sale that I’d be having in a few short hours.
The white-yellow beam of Matteo’s flashlight hit the front barn doors. Off to the left, the pink paint had been blackened. Charred actually, with the branding iron that nearly fried my face. The barn now had a new symbol on the front door of a cowboy riding a bull and the number 611 prominently burned into the wood below it.
I knew that number. Not because I was a fan. But because I recognized it as the fiery image I’d almost been scarred with, and my best friend was more than a fan of the man who wore it on the back of his shirt. The number 611 was worn by one man every time he rode a bull.
Dalton Hibbs had branded my barn.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, after my shower and a frustrating attempt to fix my hair, I went over to check on Scarlet. Her head would be splitting when she woke up, but when I arrived, she was still wrapped like a burrito in her sheets. Joellen and I made the joint decision to leave her that way. I had no doubt she was going to have one heck of a hangover and helping with the auction this early in the morning would be a bad idea. I made my way back down to The Barn wearing my daddy’s old straw Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots that belonged to my mom. I topped the outfit off with a pair of cutoff shorts and a pink bibliophile T-shirt from the store that read Open the Doors to Heaven with a Book.
Before I even started the sweet tea for the day, I called my back-up for the event. Joe Buck’s waitress at the bar, Sugar, had started filling in for me on my days off when Aubrey decided she could no longer work at The Barn. Several months back we’d almost sold the family business, but our Realtor had been murdered and the sale fell through the cracks. From that day forward Aubrey was uncomfortable in the store. After the investigation was over, we’d run an ad for help and Sugar was our first and only applicant. I was so glad to have her; with her help, I didn’t have to worry about dad trying to put in too many hours.
Sugar was also a good source of town gossip since she worked at The Shed. Of course, there were those rare occasions like last night when the gossip ventured outside the revelry of The Tool Shed Tavern.
Sugar arrived right before we were due to open and had to squeeze her way through the growing crowd of men, women, and children. If there was something people liked in small town, Texas, it was an auction. Even a silent auction would bring people out of the woodwork, and since the proceeds benefitted The Cowboy Ranch people were ready to come in and check out the new book art that I’d spent most of the previous day putting out on display, along with the bid sheets I’d placed in front of them.
Scarlet and I had worked for a several months to gather the rather large selection of different items. She’d created the more difficult pieces like the bull rider Dalton had purchased. She’d also sculpted several Disney princess themed items; my favorite was of Ariel from The Little Mermaid saving Prince Eric as he drifted to the bottom of the sea. Complete with a shipwreck and coral covering the bottom, the entire piece was backlit by a blue light. There was also a whimsical scene of The Lost Boys and Peter Pan flying through the air over Captain Hook in a rowboat paddled by his trusted first mate, Smead. The ocean waves were rough, with painstaking care taken into making the pages swirl and curl over the front tip of the boat as an alligator stalked them. Scarlet’s pieces were over-the-top and I hated to see them go.
I’d spent my
time making high-heeled shoes out of pages from a damaged edition of Cinderella and purses, which were actually functional, out of hard-backed books. With the pages removed, the covers became the purse and they were lined with material to compliment the color and topic of the book. Each one had a different handle made out of chain, wooden rings, beads or anything else I could find.
Princess had a way of choosing my books for me. For instance, she’d shredded One for the Money by Janet Evanovich, and I’d almost cried. Yet despite the story being destroyed, the cover was still perfect and disposing of it seemed almost sacrilegious, so I turned it into my favorite purse with a money print lining and a shoulder strap made from a chain sporting coin charms. The clasp was made from a real quarter turned into a button and a loop of matching material added to the vintage flavor. I was pretty proud of how everything turned out.
My best piece, however, was a wagon I’d made out of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie. I’d made the wheels out of wire, but the rest was all from the book and I was amazed at the artist inside me dying to get out. For as long as I could remember, my art had not passed the kindergarten level, but apparently when I left my five and six-year-old students in Colorado, my skills grew up.
My dad had also gotten in the spirit and created a chest out of a couple sets of old encyclopedias bound in three different shades of burgundy with gold trim. He’d glued all the books together and then took his band saw to them and created four sides and a bottom. The lid was glued together to create a half moon with the middle carved out for the interior. The latches were made from aged and weathered leather straps and gave it an antique appeal.
He’d also let the little kid in him come out and decoupaged a chest of drawers with the pages from Calvin and Hobbs. Princess had eaten the last half of the book so at least the spunky little kid and his tiger could still be enjoyed in a new way.
“I think it’s about that time,” my dad said as he brought out a box of last-minute additions our class had donated to the cause.