by Patti Berg
The man, who’d been leaning into the van, faced her, holding a bottle of Chivas Regal and a bouquet of roses. “These are for you. I told the guy he was crazy sending flowers and a bottle of booze at four in the morning, but he told me actions speak louder than words. Personally, I think he might have been drunk.”
Sam’s throat tightened as she took the whiskey and flowers. She made a valiant attempt to smile, but tears were already threatening.
“There’s a card, too.” The deliveryman dug an envelope out of his shirt pocket, handed it to Sam, then stuck the clipboard in front of her. “Could you sign this. I need to show I delivered everything.”
Sam’s fingers trembled as she set the gifts on the concrete. She kept the card clutched in one hand, and with the young man holding the board, signed her name.
He checked out the signature. “That ought to do it.” He climbed into the cab and slammed the door. “That cowboy sure went to a lot of trouble to have this delivered to you. Enjoy,” he said through the open window, and drove away.
With shaking fingers she drew a plain white note card from the envelope. A piece of paper was folded inside, and she opened it. One of Jack’s checks stared up at her. She angled it so she could see the writing in the light from the streetlamp. Her name was plainly written on the check, and a tear slid down her cheek when she saw one thousand dollars on the line below.
Her vision was blurred by the buildup of tears in her eyes, but she managed to read the note.
Sam,
Actions do speak louder than words. Yours send mixed messages, Whiskey, so I’ll have to check them out again.
For now, I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten your tip.
Jack
She sat down on the pavement next to the whiskey and flowers, not bothering to hold back her tears. They dripped right off her face and splattered on Jack’s note. He’d given her two dozen beautiful roses. He’d given her the finest Scotch whiskey. He’d given her a thousand dollars.
Best of all, he’d given her hope that she’d see him again.
And he hadn’t asked for anything in return.
nine
Jack sat in the saddle, hands folded on the horn, and watched his son mend a stretch of downed barbed wire. A Norther had blown in after he’d gotten home from Florida last night, and he turned the collar up on his jacket to keep the icy air from hitting the back of his neck. Beau didn’t have the luxury of a jacket, but it was his own damn fault, and Jack wasn’t going to coddle him now.
They’d been riding fence all morning, and the boy’s knuckles and palms were raw, bleeding from too many scrapes. He was shivering and wet, but Jack wasn’t going to bend. He’d reminded the kid once to take a jacket and gloves, but his words had gone in one ear and out the other. Damn, if he wasn’t exactly like Jack himself had been at that age.
“Can I borrow your gloves?” Beau had asked a few hours ago.
“What about yours?”
“I forgot them.”
Jack remembered shaking his head at the boy’s irresponsibility. He remembered pulling on the finger of one of his gloves so he could give them to Beau, then he stopped. “I won’t always be around to loan you a pair of gloves,” he’d said. “See how it feels to stretch that wire with your bare hands. Maybe you’ll remember the next time.”
The kid had struggled with the wire, stretching, twisting, doing exactly what Jack had shown him when they’d come across the first section of downed fence. The job wasn’t easy. Nothing out here was easy, but in Jack’s opinion it was the best life a man could have.
He wanted Beau to love being a cowboy for what it was, not because he was attracted to some romantic vision of home on the range.
They checked a few more miles of fence. If Jack was alone, he’d probably ride till sundown instead of noon, but he’d watched Beau shiver, watched the way his face twisted in pain when he stretched the last piece of wire. Heading for home seemed a wise idea. He’d always considered himself a hard man. But he was human, too.
They rode in near silence back to the ranch. Jack couldn’t think of anything to say, and Beau looked as if he were in too much agony to speak. Maybe he’d gone overboard teaching him a lesson.
“Your hands hurt?” Jack asked.
“Some.”
“Crosby’s got a cure for just about everything that could ever ail a man. He’ll take care of them when we get back.”
“Did Crosby take care of you when you were growing up?”
“Sometimes. Most of the time my dad did.”
The boy looked at him sideways. “Must have been nice having a dad who cared about you.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t like having me around, do you?”
“What makes you say that?”
Beau shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He put his spurs into the gelding’s flanks and took off at a gallop. Jack would have stopped him, but the kid needed to let off steam, and Jack needed to think about the question.
Did he like having Beau around? Hell, he felt like a mustang being saddled for the first time. The only difference, a mustang kicked and jumped until the saddle started feeling comfortable.
Beau didn’t feel comfortable, and Jack didn’t know if he ever would. But that didn’t keep those damned lumps from forming in his throat every time he thought of the boy, didn’t keep his chest from expanding with pride every time his son learned something new.
Beau was walking Diablo around the yard when Jack rode in. The boy had learned quickly that he couldn’t run his horse and not cool it off afterward. The horse came first; his wounds came second. He didn’t complain, and he did his job.
His grandparents had raised him well. Letting them take Beau after Beth was killed in the car accident had probably been the best thing after all. Jack could have fought for custody. His dad could have hired a dozen lawyers and spent endless amounts of money so Jack could keep his child, but he’d felt so damn guilty after Beth’s death that he’d signed away all his rights.
One impulsive act on his part had changed so many lives, had hurt so many people. He shouldn’t have begged Beth to run away with him that night. No one in his right mind would have married two sixteen-year-olds, but they were in love. They wanted to raise their baby together.
The accident had ended their dreams, had torn the girl he’d loved away from him forever—and he hadn’t been able really to love anyone since.
Until Beau. But hell if he knew how to show him.
Sam had wisely said that actions speak louder than words. He, unfortunately, was failing miserably at both.
Rufus barked at the boy, nipping at his heels, wanting nothing more than to have Beau reach down and ruffle his fur, but the boy ignored him, in much the same way Jack had been with Beau most of the day.
He swung down from his mount, removed the saddle, blanket, and bridle, took hold of the lead rein and matched his steps with Beau’s.
“Are you getting tired of being a cowboy?” he asked.
“No.”
“Mending fences is a big part of the job.”
“You think I can’t handle it?”
“I think you can handle anything, if you put your mind to it.”
Beau shrugged, refusing to cut Jack any slack. He’d been a pretty poor excuse for a man sixteen years ago, and figured a cold shoulder was a small price to pay.
When the silence didn’t end, he asked Beau about school. “How do you like your math and English tutor?”
“She’s okay.”
“Home school’s not quite the same as going to classes with a bunch of other kids.”
“I don’t mind.” Beau frowned, and angled his head toward Jack. “If I’m still here during the summer, I was thinking it might be fun to have a friend come up and visit.”
“I think that could be arranged. What’s his name?”
“Sean. We grew up together.”
God, he’d missed so much. He didn’t even know his son’s friends.
Beau shifted the lead rein from one hand to the other, and Jack watched him wince.
“Want me to doctor those hands for you?” he asked.
Beau glanced at Jack, a questioning frown narrowing his eyes. “I thought you wanted Crosby to do it.”
“No need to disturb him.”
They turned the horses loose in the corral and walked silently toward the house. Rufus, tired of being ignored, had curled up on the back porch, and out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught Beau reaching down to scratch the top of the dog’s head with swollen and scraped fingertips.
A smile touched Jack’s lips, and something reached inside him and squeezed his heart.
“Get the water good and hot,” Jack said, when they entered the kitchen, “and wash up with lots of soap.”
While the boy was at the sink, Jack rummaged through the cabinet where they kept bandages and other first-aid supplies, pulled out antiseptic, some of Crosby’s special salve, a pair of scissors, cotton balls, and bandages, and set everything on the table.
“Want a Coke?” he asked Beau.
“Could I have a beer?”
“No.”
“I figure I did a man’s work today.”
“You did, but that doesn’t have anything to do with beer.”
He set a Coke on the table, popped the top, then twisted the cap off his Bud and took a swallow.
Beau pulled a chair out with his boot and sat, then picked up the Coke and took a drink.
Without speaking, Jack lifted the boy’s empty hand, inspected the abrasions on his knuckles, the blisters on his palms, and the cuts that seemed to appear in every fold of skin. Then he poured the antiseptic on a cotton ball and went to work.
“I heard you were made captain of the baseball team right before you left home,” Jack said, keeping his eyes on the wounds.
“No big deal.”
“You told me you’d been kicked out of school.”
“Seemed like a good thing to say at the time.”
“Why’s that?”
“I figured if I was a failure, it would make you feel guilty about never being part of my life.”
“I carry around my own guilt,” Jack said, glancing at his son. “Your statement didn’t add much to it.”
Jack put a bandage around Beau’s thumb, then took a swallow of his beer. Setting the bottle back on the table, he pushed it toward Beau. “I suppose a swallow or two wouldn’t hurt. Just don’t go telling Mike. He doesn’t approve of cussing, drinking, or smoking. Hell if I know how we ever became friends.”
Beau laughed, and God it sounded good.
Beau picked up the beer with the hand Jack had cleaned and bandaged. “Did you ever play baseball?” he asked, holding the bottle to his mouth.
Jack looked up from the palm he held. “We didn’t have a baseball team where I went to school.”
“Why not?”
“There were only three guys and two girls in the school, and we ranged in age from six to seventeen. Would have made a pretty sorry team.”
“Was my mother one of the girls in the school?”
“No.”
Beau took another sip of beer and handed it back to Jack. “Where’d you meet her?”
“At a rodeo in Sheridan. I was fifteen and got thrown from a bronc. Broke my shoulder, and her dad—your grandpa—patched me up.”
“I don’t think my grandfather liked you much.”
Jack lifted his eyes from Beau’s hands. The boy was staring at him, looking for answers Jack didn’t want to give.
He’d stretched the last bandage over Beau’s palm. Pushing up from his chair, he grabbed his beer, and went to the window. “You’ve got schoolwork to do. Might as well get busy.”
“You ever going to tell me about you and my mom?”
“Nothing much to tell.”
He needed fresh air, needed to get out of the house and away from Beau. He dumped the rest of the beer down the sink and went outside.
The past was crowding in on him, and he didn’t like it at all.
Rufus followed him across the yard, his tail wagging, his nose turned up waiting for a friendly pat, a chance to nuzzle. But Jack wasn’t in the mood.
“Go on back to the house,” he told the dog, and Jack watched Rufus turn around and run. Beau was waiting for him, kneeling just outside the kitchen door, staring at Jack with way too many questions in his eyes.
When he reached the old cottonwood, he stopped, leaned against the tree, and pulled a cigar and lighter from his pocket. He’d quit smoking in front of Beau. He’d given up the quiet of his home, the sheer pleasure of riding out alone whenever he wanted, and his peace of mind. He’d be damned if he’d give up the cigars entirely.
He’d forgotten his coat, and it was getting cold. The wind blew the cigar smoke away before he could enjoy the smell, and it shook the old wooden swing that hung by ancient rope. Seventeen years ago he’d pushed Beth in that swing. He’d had only one good arm at the time, but she was as light as the summer breeze, and he’d pushed and pushed, listening to her laugh as she soared high into the sky.
When she settled down on earth, he’d wrapped his arm around her and kissed her. It was early summer. Wildflowers were blooming, and they’d smelled so damn good mixed with her perfume. They’d found a spot near the stream where the grass was high and the ground was smooth. Man could never have made such a perfect bed.
Beth was the first girl he’d ever loved—emotionally as well as physically. And Beau was right. Her father had despised him. He was a spoiled, wild kid who got whatever he wanted. And that day, down by the river, he’d wanted Beth.
The sound of a car coming up the road tore his attention from the past, from one of the best days in his life, from the memory of the girl he’d loved.
He pushed away from the tree, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked off to the west. The rear wheels of a blue Explorer kicked up mud. The unfamiliar vehicle swerved and slid on the slick dirt road, as if someone was in a hurry to get to the ranch.
Jack took a puff on the cigar as he headed down the slope, taking his time getting back to the house. At the pace he was going, he’d get there about the same time as the speeding car.
He pictured Beth at his side, walking hand in hand over the grassy slope. He heard her laughter, realizing that Beau’s laugh had sounded just the same. He remembered that day over sixteen years ago when she’d lovingly held a newborn in her arms, then held him out to Jack. He’d been scared to death of that little bundle, but had felt damn proud holding the child he’d helped create. He remembered touching the tiny hand, running the tip of his callused finger over the soft pink palm.
He’d walked around the hospital room, telling his son about the pony he’d get him when he turned two. He’d talked about fishing together, going hunting, and riding the property that would someday be his.
But all his hopes and dreams had been shattered three weeks later—when Beth died, when he’d allowed Beau’s grandparents to take him away.
He hadn’t seen that little palm grow and mature into the hand he’d doctored this afternoon. He hadn’t seen the boy take his first steps, hadn’t held him when he fell down and scraped his knees. He’d missed so much—and he had no one to blame but himself.
How could he make Beau believe that even though he hadn’t been part of his life, not one day had gone by when he hadn’t thought about his son—or loved him?
For a man who’d easily turned a million-dollar ranch into a nearly billion-dollar empire, he’d sure made a mess of his personal life. First Beth. Now Beau. And, of course, there was Sam.
He thought about her smile, her laugh. He detested Florida, especially the superficially rich trappings of Palm Beach, but he wanted to hop a plane right now and see Sam again.
The timing was all wrong, though. He had to focus on Beau, to build something strong and lasting between them. When that was accomplished, he’d go after the redhead. Maybe she’d know what she wanted by then, maybe she
wouldn’t push him away.
He stubbed the cigar out in the dirt just before he reached the house. Beau was sitting on the front porch, his boots perched on the railing. Mike was walking out of the barn with two of the hands who lived a few miles up the road, and the screen door slammed as Crosby hobbled out the front door.
“Someone’s in a gall-darned hurry.”
The Explorer turned off the road, swerved to miss a mudhole, then skidded to a stop right in the middle of the yard.
“Well, I’ll be,” Crosby muttered. “If it ain’t little miss Lauren.”
“Who’s Lauren?” Beau asked his dad.
“My sister…your aunt.”
Jack walked toward the car, totally baffled by Lauren’s sudden and uncommon visit. He opened the door, and a sobbing Lauren threw her arms around him.
“Oh, Jack,” she cried. “I’ve just had the worst two days of my entire life, and I never, ever thought I’d get here.”
Jack smoothed damp strands of hair from her cheeks and tried to calm her down, but he knew from experience—and from memories of her two divorces—that he was in for several long rounds of tears.
“Did Peter do something to hurt you?” Jack could feel anger seething inside. He’d told Peter he’d break him in half, and he’d meant every word.
Lauren looked stricken when she raised her head and nodded. Her already-red face turned blotchy, and she started to cry even harder.
Sliding a comforting arm around her waist, he led her up the stairs, but she stopped before they reached the threshold. She sniffed back her tears, applied a lacy white handkerchief to her nose, and aimed her eyes at the befuddled kid sitting on the porch.
“Oh, Beau!” She threw her arms around the boy. “I am so happy to finally meet you.” She pushed him out to arm’s length. “You look exactly like your dad when he was sixteen. Exactly. It’s wonderful to have you here.”
Lauren twisted around, smiling as she looked at Jack, at Crosby who was scratching his whiskers, at Mike walking toward the house, his arms laden with three suitcases, probably only a tenth of the gear she’d brought with her.