Chemistry Lessons

Home > Other > Chemistry Lessons > Page 2
Chemistry Lessons Page 2

by Rebecca H Jamison


  Destry took a serving of chicken and dumplings. “Exactly,” he yelled. “My mother saw Destry Rides Again while she was expecting me.”

  Rosie had seen the movie once—she’d seen most of the old Westerns with her grandparents. She pushed the salt shaker across the table to Destry. “You’ll need this. Grandpa doesn’t salt anything.”

  Grandpa set out to cut up his entire plate of chicken and dumplings into bite-sized pieces. Though Grandma had trained him otherwise, efficiency had always been a higher priority for him than etiquette. “You should know we don’t keep secrets in this town. Betty McFerrin down the road already gave us the low-down on you. Told us how you came here from Philadelphia sight-unseen. What we don’t know is what you think of Lone Spur now that you’re here.”

  Destry’s brow wrinkled for the slightest moment before he regained his pleasant smile. “Betty McFerrin—she’s the one with—”

  “The jewelry?” Rosie prompted. Their neighbor was the self-appointed Coco Chanel of Lone Spur. In all her life, Rosie had never seen the middle-aged woman without accessories.

  Destry suppressed a chuckle. “I was going to say the ’76 Mustang, but I noticed the jewelry too. Yeah, she brought over a coconut cream pie the day I moved in. She makes a good pie.”

  “I broke a mustang once,” Grandpa said. “Had quite a time of it. You’ll be hard-pressed to get one these days, though.” Grandpa stood and shuffled off to the living room. “I have a picture here somewhere.”

  “Grandpa,” she called after him, “he meant Betty’s car, not a wild horse.”

  Destry hurried to swallow his food. “I still want to see the pictures. I’ve been thinking of getting myself a horse. Maybe he could give me some advice.”

  “The hardest part,” she said, giggling, “is helping him understand the question.”

  He sent her a wink that seemed to say, I’ve got this.

  Grandpa came back, carrying an old photo album, which he opened on the table between him and Destry. He pointed to a black and white picture of a man on a dark horse. “That’s Spooked Bandit and me.”

  Destry examined the photo while Grandpa told the story of his worst fall from the horse’s back. Destry’s eyebrows rose. “On second thought, an ATV might be safer.”

  She paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. Never one to waste time when eating, she’d almost finished her meal. “I know plenty of great horses waiting to be adopted. I wish I could afford to keep one.”

  He paged through the photos and asked questions, some of which Grandpa actually heard. Destry paused at a picture of the field in back of the house. “You have a beautiful place here.”

  Grandpa stuck out his bottom lip. “It’s a shame I’m going to have to sell it.”

  She sat up straighter. This was the first time she’d heard Grandpa say anything about selling their home. Sure, her Uncle Jeff had been talking about it for years, but Grandpa always told him he planned to stay on the ranch for as long as he lived. “What do you mean, sell it?” she asked.

  Grandpa wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back. “You know how your Uncle Jeff has been after me to sell this place and move to a retirement home. I’m finally starting to see he might have a point. This land deserves someone younger and stronger.”

  Like me she wanted to add, but somehow she couldn’t open her mouth to speak. She stared at Grandpa’s trembling hands as he brought a fork full of food to his mouth. His aging seemed to accelerate each day. Last week, he’d confessed that he could no longer punch the numbers on his phone, and she’d noticed more and more that he was forgetting things—his daily dose of medicine, the name of his doctor, the pot of soup on the stove.

  Still, he couldn’t sell the ranch—it was all he lived for. He had his finger on the pulse of the place, even if he couldn’t run things himself. He got up early enough to feed the chickens and rode around in the truck to check the fences. The ranch was his life. It was his purpose.

  It was also the only place where she had ever felt safe.

  Destry spoke up loud and clear. “If you really want to sell, I’m interested in buying.” His words kicked her right in the chest. She’d only felt that sensation one other time—on the day of the accident, the day her grandmother passed away. Back then, the emergency room doctor had diagnosed it as anxiety. She sucked in air, trying to expand her ribcage. What would happen to her animals if they sold the ranch?

  Grandpa pulled on his earlobe. “I want to sell, but it has to be to the right buyer.”

  Had Grandpa lost his mind? She whipped her head toward Destry. “We’re not interested in selling.”

  He shifted his gaze from Grandpa to Rosie and then down to his plate, where he stirred his food around.

  Grandpa chewed carefully on his bite of chicken before he replied. “Now, Rosie, you know I can’t take care of this place like I used to.”

  “But I can,” she said, her words bursting out in a rush. “I’ve kept everything the way it should be.”

  Grandpa gazed out the window to the fields. “And it’s wearing you thin.”

  Destry shouted from across the table. “Mr. Curtis, I’d love to buy this ranch, but I have to say that Rosie takes better care of it than I could. I’m new to this whole business.”

  Grandpa took a shaky sip of milk before replying. “That’s true. Rosie’s got what it takes. And I can tell you’re the kind of man that can run this place too. I knew it when I first saw you out there irrigating.”

  Destry scratched his neck. “I appreciate that, Mr. Curtis, but Rosie can tell you I have quite a few technicalities to learn.”

  “Not a problem,” Grandpa said, taking on the lilting tone of a used car salesman. “There are plenty of old ranchers around here with the time to teach you.”

  Rosie couldn’t sit there, listening to this conversation any longer. “Excuse me,” she said, rising from the table with her plate in hand.

  As she walked to the kitchen, she heard Grandpa say, “Ranching’s more about persistence than anything else.”

  “Yes, sir,” Destry answered. “Excuse me a moment.”

  Destry came into the kitchen as she scraped her plate into the slop bucket. “I’m sorry I said that about buying the ranch. Sometimes I get too enthusiastic about my plans, and I speak before thinking.”

  She didn’t ask why he wanted to buy more land already, but she couldn’t help wondering. As far as she knew, he didn’t have any animals or crops. She forced more air into her lungs.

  “I can tell this place means a lot to you,” he said, smiling. “If you want to keep it for yourself, I won’t get in your way.”

  Standing there alone with him in the kitchen, it was hard not to feel the intensity of his gaze. He wasn’t standing that close, but it felt like he was, like he noticed too much and could see right through her. When he placed his hand on her arm, the heat of his touch was unexpected, and her heart began to pound, which was ridiculous. He was just a nice guy. A nice guy she hardly knew. Besides that, she already had a boyfriend.

  She swallowed and strained to push out a thank you. It came out sounding uneven and nasal. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve got some chores to do, but, if you have time, I’d love for you to stay and keep Grandpa company.”

  “Sure thing. He’s a character.” Destry walked back into the dining room, raising his voice for Grandpa to hear. “Betty told me you collect guns.”

  Rosie couldn’t wait around to make sure Destry kept his promise. Whether or not Grandpa had decided to sell the ranch, she had animals to feed. And she had plans to make—plans for keeping them secure.

  Chapter 2

  He’d only kept chickens for two days and already something had killed three. It had torn right through the wire cage he’d built and left a trail of bloody feathers. Even the smallest tasks out here were fraught with unexpected challenges. He was up for the fight, though. He would overcome.

  Now that his brother Cody was gone, it seemed a proper pe
nance to finally get to work on their dream of starting a Western resort, to keep the promises he never kept during his brother’s lifetime. But he had overestimated his ability to jump right into the thick of things out here in the country.

  He needed to start small—learning step by step—so he spent the afternoon rebuilding the chicken cage with stronger wire. Then, as night set in, he watched for the predator to reappear. With his BMW parked near the coop, he planned to switch on the headlights if he heard any commotion. He wanted—no, needed—to prove to himself and to Rosie that he could do at least one thing right on his ranch.

  He mused over how much she had stuck in his brain. He could almost imagine her right there beside him, wiping her hands on her muddy jeans while she explained the irrigation schedule. Nothing like a woman to put him in his place. Before he met her, he only wanted to learn about ranching so he could provide an authentic experience for the people who came to his facility. Now he wanted to succeed at it so he could prove himself worthy of her. She was so different from most women he knew—feisty and earthy, saying exactly what she thought. Not that he had any chance of winning her over. He already knew he wasn’t her type. He’d noticed her expression when he’d joked about her not having a bull, and after he’d expressed interest in buying their ranch.

  Luckily, her grandfather was a little less intimidating. Mr. Curtis would make a good mentor. He’d given him plenty of advice about living in Lone Spur. Not only that, he’d given Destry a rifle, a beef brisket from his freezer, and a bag of alfalfa seeds. The rifle still lay in the trunk of Destry’s car. He’d have to buy a gun safe for it next time he went to Copper City.

  The sun set against the hills as he relaxed into his leather seat and watched his acres stretch toward the gray hills in the distance. There was so much potential here—potential to make a difference for people like his brother—if he could just put together the right team and gain the trust of his neighbors. All he wanted was to help people. So far, though, he had been the one who needed help. That needed to change.

  He opened the sunroof and breathed in the cool, desert air that smelled of dry grass and warm sand. Darkness tinged the night sky with deeper shades of purple until all turned black. Thousands of stars dotted the sky. He’d seen skies like this in Africa but hadn’t known they existed in the United States, at least not outside a planetarium. He could trace not only the constellations, but the Milky Way. It was no wonder the Africans called it the backbone of the sky.

  He’d almost forgotten the reason he was sitting outside when he heard squawking from the direction of the coop. He switched on the headlights.

  An animal, perhaps a dog . . . no, it was a coyote, stood at the edge of the coop having already torn through the wire cage. It had a chicken grasped in its jaws. The stronger wire had done nothing. He jumped out of the car and ran toward the coyote that was now slipping under the wire of the coop. “Get out of here!”

  The animal stopped, staring at him. It seemed to have no fear.

  “I spent all day building that cage!” he yelled.

  Why didn’t it run away like the lizards and squirrels when they saw him coming? It just stood there with his lifeless chicken in its jaws.

  He picked up a rock and threw it at the coyote, trying to scare it. “Stay away from here.”

  The coyote ran a few feet into the dry grass. Then it turned to look back at him with wide-open eyes.

  A seasoned rancher would shoot it. Coyotes were predators, after all. But he had never shot a living thing before, only aluminum cans and a few spoiled melons. He came here to help, to heal, not to kill.

  Still, if he didn’t do something, the coyote would probably keep eating his chickens. He walked back to the car, hoping it would be gone after he loaded the old .22 rifle, but once he finished, the coyote still stood only twenty feet away in the tall grass by the fence.

  He would have rather been aiming a camera than a gun, but if he was going to succeed here, he’d have to adapt. He crept closer to the animal. It stood motionless, taunting him with the prize in full sight. He knelt and rested the butt of the gun against his shoulder. His gut didn’t urge him on. “Run, you stupid coyote!” he shouted, placing a sweaty finger on the safety release.

  The animal cocked its head.

  He lowered the gun. “Run!” The coyote took a few steps and then paused again, staring at him.

  Maybe if he fired a warning shot—something to scare it away. He raised the gun again, aiming to the left of the coyote. With shaking hands, he squeezed the trigger. The gun fired and spat a hot casing out to his right. He heard a yelp. Then nothing. The coyote had disappeared. He listened but heard no other sound. Was it hiding in the tall grass? It was hard to tell in only the glow of the headlights.

  After grabbing his flashlight, he approached the area where he’d last seen the animal. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t hiding, snacking on his poor chicken while it waited to make another run for the coop. He saw nothing until he almost tripped over it, lying on its side. The bullet had hit the shoulder, making a bloody mess, and Destry squeezed his eyes shut at the sight. He hadn’t meant to hit it, but at least the chickens would be safe now.

  Then he noticed a glint of metal at the animal’s neck. It almost looked like—it couldn’t be a collar.

  With trembling hands, he lifted the fur at the animal’s neck. He could see the collar clearly—a tan one with a silver buckle. He’d shot someone’s dog, and it didn’t look good. He’d only meant to scare it off.

  As he watched for signs of breathing—please let there be signs of breathing—he pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips. There was a lot of blood, but the injury didn’t look too bad. He’d learned plenty about first aid from his mountain climbing trips. He’d sown sutures in a friend’s knee—once on the Australian coast and once on the Appalachian Trail. He could care for a wounded dog. Maybe.

  Carefully, making sure the dog wouldn’t bite him, he tied the fabric strips over the bloody patch of fur. The animal didn’t flinch. “Sorry, guy,” he whispered. The wound didn’t seem bad enough to kill it. Then again, it was a small animal, and it had lost a lot of blood.

  He placed his other hand at the base of the dog’s neck, feeling for a pulse—not that he knew where a pulse would be on a dog. He felt nothing, but he wasn’t about to give up. Was there a country veterinarian close by?

  Back in Philadelphia, he could’ve called a friend for help. Here, he was on his own. Trying his best to keep pressure on the dog’s wound, he lifted it and carried it toward his car. Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt breaths coming slow and shallow.

  He’d have to get help from his neighbors—either the McFerrins or Mr. Curtis. It was an easy choice. He got in his BMW and with the dog on his lap, drove half a mile down the dirt lane to the Curtis place.

  “Please be alive,” he whispered.

  He drove straight up to the Curtises’ front porch, parked, and slid out, carrying the dog in his arms. Rosie’s dog, Cheddar, ran to greet him while Mr. Curtis sat on his plastic chair, sharpening the blade of a hoe in the glow of the porch light. “What are you doing with Wile E?”

  He raised his voice so the old man could hear. “I shot it. Accidentally. I thought it was a coyote.” Two cats ran off the porch as he came closer.

  Mr. Curtis pushed himself out of his chair. “She is a coyote. Rosie rescued her when she was a pup.” He touched the animal’s head. “I guess you didn’t see the collar until the deed was done.”

  Destry didn’t answer. Of all the pets he could’ve shot, why did it have to be Rosie’s? She already thought he was an idiot.

  Mr. Curtis placed a trembling hand on the coyote’s snout. “She’s gone the way of all the earth.”

  He caught his breath. “You mean?”

  “Dead,” Mr. Curtis affirmed. “I don’t blame you for shooting her. What’d she do? Make off with one of your chickens? She brought a dead chicken home yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir,” he ans
wered. “She’s killed four of my chickens.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ll replace them for you.”

  He swallowed. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shoot your pet.”

  “I’ll tell Rosie later.” Mr. Curtis pointed to the lawn. “Go ahead and leave her there.”

  Destry took one step toward the lawn before he changed his mind. He’d caused this problem. He should be the one to tell her, even if it meant dealing with her anger or worse, with her grief. “Where can I find Rosie?”

  “I guess we’ll bury her over by the fence near those sunflowers,” Mr. Curtis said, pointing in the direction of his fields. He obviously hadn’t heard the question.

  Destry made another attempt. “Where is Rosie?” he yelled.

  Mr. Curtis frowned. “Out in the barn, trying to fix the tractor.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He’d seen the barn the other day while they irrigated.

  “And, son, a word of advice—you best wear a shirt. You’re welcome to borrow one of mine. I’ve got a few hanging out on the line.” He pointed around the corner to the clothesline.

  Destry looked down at the bloody remains of his shirt, now wrapped around the coyote’s leg. He wouldn’t be wearing that shirt again. After setting Wile E down on the grass, he walked to the side yard and selected a large T-shirt. He didn’t notice what it said on the front until he walked back into the light: “Old Fart.” On any other day, this would have been funny, but right now, it seemed inappropriate. He took off the shirt, hung it back on the line, and selected the only other T-shirt. This one featured a scene of the Grand Canyon.

  He walked toward the barn, imagining he’d find Rosie working alone with a wrench in her hand. But, as he got closer, laughter traveled toward him. Lilting and musical.

  He peeked into the barn to see Rosie sitting on a man’s shoulders, trying to reach a bottle of oil from a high shelf. She was wearing a fitted T-shirt, one that revealed the curves of her waist and hips.

 

‹ Prev