by Claire Adams
“I couldn’t let you risk it, though,” I said, shaking my head. “I believe the gallery would become a popular tourist site, but it’s impossible to know for sure. Who knows how things might go? That’s not really my area of expertise, nor is it yours.”
“I’ve talked to some of the renters and out-of-towners, though,” he said. I couldn’t help thinking how sweet he was. He and I might not always see eye-to-eye on my chosen line of business, but he was always there for me in his own way. “Everyone that I’ve talked to says that it sounds like a great idea.”
I sighed. “Thinking it’s a great idea and actually purchasing tickets for a gallery are two entirely different things.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“Believe me, I appreciate you asking around,” I said. “But I still won’t let you put up the ranch as collateral. This place has been in the family for years. I’d hate to think what might happen to it if the gallery couldn’t pay its debts. The bank could repossess our land, the house, the stables, and everything else. And it wouldn’t just be us affected, either. It would affect anyone who leased space in the stables, anyone who came here for a ride, anyone who ever interacted with the place.”
It would affect Trethan, my mind reminded me, as though it was relevant to this conversation.
I shook my head to clear it, banishing the thought. “I really appreciate the offer,” I said, reaching out to grasp my father’s hand where it rested on the table. “But this gallery, I need to do it on my own. It needs to be my project.”
Dad looked like he wanted to argue, but after a long moment, he merely grunted and turned his attention back to his food.
Neither of us spoke again until after we’d finished our meal. “I’ll clean the dishes,” Dad said gruffly, standing up and scooping up my plate as well as his. He paused for a moment, staring down at the dishes in his hands. Then, he spoke, each word deliberate, “You’re so much like your mother, you know. She would have been proud.”
He stalked off without another word, and I sat there for a long time, thinking over those words. Would she have been proud? I wasn’t doing anything worthwhile with my life. I had the idea for the gallery, but without the funding, I would never be able to make that dream a reality. As far as anyone was concerned, I was just bumming around, living at home. Not exactly the kind of life that a parent wished for their child.
“So, what’s this about a gallery that I hear?” Trethan asked suddenly, dropping into a chair across from me.
I jumped in surprise and heat reddened my face. My hands clenched as I tried to figure out some way to tactfully get away from him. I’d been thinking about him more and more since I’d come back, but since our conversation out on the ranch the other day (well, really since I’d seen him out on the ranch the other day and noticed his muscles and the perfect curve of his ass), I hadn’t been able to forget about how much I’d like for him to bend me over the nearest surface and have his way with me.
I shook my head, trying to come back to the conversation at hand. “How did you hear about the gallery?” I asked suspiciously. I doubted he’d been talking to Julie about it. I knew that Trethan and my dad had some sort of a connection now that he the right-hand man around the ranch, but I didn’t think Dad would mention my gallery prematurely before the place had funding.
Trethan grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said. “I just overheard it while you were talking to John about it. You’ve found a job, then?”
“Not exactly,” I said, shaking my head. I hoped that’d be enough to get him to drop it, but he continued to look interested
I shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about curating a gallery here in White Bluff,” I told him.
“We already get a ton of tourists every year. I don’t think it’ll be difficult to sell some regional art to these people. If they come here on vacation, they like the area and the culture. I figure with all the local artists around, I should be able to source pieces. Plus, art from this area has such low representation when it comes to the larger galleries. It would be neat from a sociological and cultural standpoint, just as much from a-” I broke off, flushing warmly enough that I could feel my ears burning. “But I guess you’re not interested in any of that stuff.”
“Why wouldn’t I be interested in it?” he asked, surprising me.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Because you hate art?” I suggested.
“I don’t hate art,” he said. He looked away from me as he said it, though, and I could see the way his hands clenched into fists. “I used to,” he continued, his voice quiet. “Or at least, I used to think that I did. But that was kind of an act. I was trying to be cool, to stay in my persona. Stoners don’t just sit around talking about the finer points of modern art, you know.”
I snorted and shook my head. “You’re still trying to convince me that you’ve changed, huh?”
Trethan didn’t respond to that, but when he looked back at me, his gaze was serious. “That’s really cool, though,” he said. “I like the idea of a gallery here in White Bluff. You’re right; there are a lot of people here who deserve more representation.” He paused. “You’ve really grown from the little girl that I used to know.”
I shrugged. “It’s been years,” I reminded him. “I’d like to think that I’m a little more put together than I was before I went off to college.”
“It’s not just that,” he said. “I can tell that you care about other people. You always did, but it’s even more pronounced now.”
I snorted. “And you don’t?”
He was quiet. “Sometimes I think I might care about my promises more than I care about the people that I’ve made my promises to,” he said cryptically.
I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but my heart evidently had different ideas about what to ask. “Are you seeing anyone?” I blurted out before sense could catch up to me.
Trethan laughed. “Like a girlfriend?” he asked. “Nah.” I must have looked pitying because he scowled darkly at me. “Don’t go feeling sorry for me. I fuck around. I’ve fucked around with half the women in this town. Maybe more than that. And most of the tourists, too.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” I said, wincing.
“Then don’t go asking about my sex life,” he said hotly. “Yeah, I fuck around with anyone I want to. I go down to the Roasted Bison, and it’s like the whole goddamned town is out on display, especially on a Friday night. I don’t go home alone unless I choose to go home alone.”
I stood up, almost knocking my chair over in my haste. That only made him laugh. “Yeah, it’s a real show,” he continued cruelly. “Lately, I’ve been getting on the mechanical bull — I’m actually really good at it. The women watch me, squirming in their wet panties and-”
“That’s enough,” I interrupted, my face practically on fire. “God, I was starting to think that maybe you really had changed. I guess that was just an act, though, wasn’t it? You’re just the same as you always were.”
Trethan looked like he wanted to say something in response, but instead, he just turned away, setting his jaw. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said.
I shook my head in disgust and stalked off.
Chapter Thirteen
Trethan
I slugged back another beer and then marched toward the mechanical bull. I didn’t know what it was about the past week, but I’d just felt restless and frustrated for days. I tried to drink away the feelings, but it didn’t do much good. I wondered if a ride on the bull would help. Maybe the rush would finally settle whatever it was that churned inside of me.
I hopped up on the bull and nodded over at Pat, who knew by now that I was only interested in riding the thing at full speed. With drugs and drinking and hard work and everything else, I’d never been the kind of guy to do things halfway.
I fell easily into the rhythm of the ride that evening, moving with the bull and focusing on the ride. At the edge of my consciousness, I was aware that a crowd sta
rted to gather around the ring. I grinned a little as people started cheering me on, loving their attention, and concentrated on staying secure on the bull. I was getting better at it the more I rode. I wondered again whether I could maybe make a living out of riding bulls like this. Or rather, make a living out of riding real bulls. I still had never been on a live bull, but it couldn’t be too different.
I glanced out toward the crowd, making sure they saw how much I appreciated their cheering. It was then that my eyes landed on Vanessa, standing awkwardly at the far end of the bar. She watched me while trying to look like she wasn’t watching me. I could tell. What was she doing here? Did she come here just to see me?
That moment of distraction was all it took. The bull dropped forward, and I went flying. I rolled through the fall. That much had become automatic after taking a few tumbles. It had been a while since I’d gotten bruised like I had the first time.
I lay there for a moment, catching my breath. Then I hauled myself to my feet, waving my hands at the crowd and playing things up. A few women already made eyes at me, but I pointedly didn’t look back at them, ignoring their disappointed faces. As soon as they turned their attention to the next rider, I slid through the crowd and approached Vanessa, tapping my hat to her.
“Now what’s a good little lady like yourself doing in a place like this?” I asked her. It was a line I used on girls I was trying to pick up, those out-of-town girls impressed by a cowboy drawl and a bit of a swagger. But with Vanessa, I was genuinely curious what she was doing here in that cute, flowery dress and strappy white shoes.
She shrugged and glanced away from me, looking uncertain. I wondered if she knew, herself, why she was really here. “I just wanted to get out of the house,” she said. “It’s not like there’s an awful lot open around White Bluff, even though it’s still pretty early.”
“True,” I agreed. “Why don’t we get a plate of wings to split? You want a beer or anything?”
“A beer would be good,” she said, although she still glanced around the place, looking slightly uncomfortable.
It made sense; she’d always been more of the prissier sort. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her in the rougher bars like the Roasted Bison before. And since John didn’t drink, he wasn’t the type of guy to frequent these places, either. Not that there weren’t plenty of respectable folks who came to the Roasted Bison. But the crowd tended to be a bit rougher, made up of a fair number of farmhands and ranchers. Hell, there were peanut shells all over the floors and dudes spitting tobacco into little pots all down the bar.
I led Vanessa back toward one of the booths. I figured she might be more comfortable there. I knew I should be pushing her away. Away from the Bison and away from me. She was too good for a place like this, and she was definitely too good for a guy like me.
I noticed the way men were eyeing her, checking out her cute little behind and those shapely legs that her dress flowed around. White hot jealousy flared up in me. I felt the urge to fight every bastard who even looked at her. I swallowed that jealousy. It tasted bitter.
We sat in the booth, away from prying eyes. It was easier to focus on Vanessa, now that it felt like just the two of us.
“I just don’t get it,” I said, leaning back in my seat and studying her.
“You don’t get what?” she asked.
“I don’t get why you came back to White Bluff, that’s all,” I said. “I thought you hated it here. It felt like you couldn’t get away fast enough.”
She laughed. “I never hated it here,” she told me. “I was definitely ready to leave here and go somewhere else for college, but I could never hate it here. It’s my home.”
“But with the degree you got, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to head off to some big city and work for a gallery there? I know you want to open your own place, but maybe that would be easier if you had a little experience first.”
She got prickly the moment the words were out of my mouth. “As a matter of fact, I have some experience,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been able to graduate if I hadn’t done a few internships. Why do you think I’ve spent most of my summers away?”
I shrugged. “I figured you had nothing to do in this town.”
She shook her head. “Of course, it wasn’t that. My father still lives here. I’ve missed him. And, there’s a lot I’ve missed about small-town life. I grew up here. I know everyone in this town. When I was in college, I didn’t know half my neighbors. Heck, there were people in my classes whose names I didn’t even know. That anonymity is kind of nice, I guess, but it starts to feel like people are never all that genuine. It sounds silly, maybe, but I just wanted to have a conversation with the person I bought groceries from, or the person cutting my hair, or anyone else that I interacted with.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I said slowly.
“And, I missed people,” she continued. “People other than my father.” She gave me a meaningful glance and then looked out over the rest of the crowd and took a sip of her beer.
I sat silently for a moment. As much as I appreciated her saying that she’d missed me, I knew we couldn’t keep going down this road. I turned to look out toward the crowd as well, automatically picking out the attractive women with my gaze. “Sometimes, it’s good to move on, though,” I said quietly.
Vanessa looked surprised to hear me say that. She shook her head, reaching out to lay a hand over mine. “I really am sorry I missed your father’s funeral.”
Of course, she thought when I said it was good to move on, I meant that it was good to quit missing people you could never see again. What I really meant was, it was good to move on from people you should never see again.
I snorted. “I’m glad my father’s dead,” I told her. It probably wasn’t something I should admit to, but I’d had enough of the sympathetic looks, and I’d certainly had enough of people telling me all the great times that they remembered having with my father. I didn’t have very many fond memories of him, despite being his only child.
Vanessa looked shocked at my admission. “There’s a difference between moving on from someone and being glad they’re dead,” she said.
“I know that,” I snapped. “And I’m telling you, I’m glad the fucker’s dead. In fact, I personally spat on his grave.” This too was met with silent disbelief. “You didn’t know the guy. Not really. No one did. Or at least, none of you knew the same guy I did. He was an abusive asshole.” I sat back, folding my arms across my chest.
Vanessa looked at a loss for words. She shook her head, and even though I knew it was more of a reflexive action than an active sign of disagreement, I couldn’t help feeling a little bubble of anger at the motion.
“Don’t believe me?” I asked, laughing harshly. I sat forward and rolled up my sleeves, pointing to the thick scars that spiraled along my arms. “I’ve covered them up with tattoos as much as I can, but all these are scars from when he used to beat the piss out of me. They’re all down my back, too. You can feel them, if you want to.”
Vanessa brought her hands up to cover her mouth. “Trethan, I had no idea,” she said. She looked like she might cry. “If I had known, I would have-”
“You would have what?” I interrupted harshly. “You would have helped me? How, exactly?”
She fell quiet, still staring down at my arms. Slowly, she reached out and traced one of the scars, her fingertip skittering lightly across the raised, gnarled tissue. “I had no idea,” she said finally, her voice barely audible.
There was something in the way she said it that made me feel bad for bringing it up. I shrugged and rolled down my sleeves. “No one knew about it,” I said gruffly. “Don’t worry about it. Whenever I ended up with a new scar, everyone just figured I’d been out fighting again. Anyway, I got good at hiding them after a while. No one ever knew about them except Dad and me.”
Vanessa was silent for a moment. Then, she looked up at me, her eyes sharp in the dim lighting. “You’re not your father, tho
ugh.”
I gave another bitter bark of laughter. “What makes you so sure?” I gestured toward the rest of the bar. “Different bar, maybe, but the story’s the same. I get drunk nearly every night, and then I take home a woman whose name I’ll never bother to remember, fuck her, and then tell her to leave. On a bad night, I might even get into a fight. I’m no different than my father.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said.
“Then you’re an idiot,” I said. “It’s all in the breeding. You know that. You’ve grown up on the ranch. You get a high-spirited stallion, even if you put him to a sweet-tempered mare, the offspring is going to be a fiery stallion. On the other hand, if you’ve got a horse that’s totally skittish, jumps at every noise, you’re only going to ever get skittish colts from him.”
I took a deep breath. “My dad was a drunken asshole, and he’s sired a drunken asshole of a son. I’m never going to be anything better than that. And, this whole town knows it.”
“My father doesn’t believe that,” Vanessa said quietly, tracing the grain in the table with her fingertip. She glanced up at me and then dropped her eyes back down, biting her lower lip. “If Dad thought you were as bad as all that, there’s no way he would let you be around the horses. He really believes in you.” She paused. “Do you know the phrase ‘it takes a village to raise a child?’ Maybe your dad wasn’t the best role model, but your dad wasn’t the only one to raise you. This town is too small.” She smiled a little. “Not to come full circle, but that’s one of the things that I kind of missed.”
I didn’t know what to say in response to that; it was my turn to look down at the table. I clenched my fingers into fists and then let them go, wishing it was that easy to dispel this restless energy inside of me. “I do owe your father a debt,” I said at last. “He took me in when it seemed like everyone else had turned their back on me.”