The Last True Cowboy

by Laura Drake

  She opens the door and takes the long step down. “Buzz off, Slick. I gotta say good-bye to my Carly.”

  Floyd holds up his hands and backs away.

  I open the door, slide out, and walk to the truck bed where my leather jacket, helmet, and duffel sit waiting. I lift them out, smiling at the black helmet with the gaudy pink hibiscus on the side. Lorelei surprised me with it last night. I’m the one who should’ve gotten her a present; she’ll be holding down the fort at the diner.

  Leaving Austin tugs at my heart.

  Homesick sours my stomach.

  Hurry, the road whispers in my ear.

  Nana stands, bat-wing arms outstretched, her stray hairs waving me good-bye.

  I step into her arms and hug her tight. “Now, Nana, don’t go all drama-queen on me. It’s only a three-hour ride.” I pull in the smell of the only mother I’ve ever known, and hold it in my lungs.

  I feel her chest hitch. She’s got to be thinking about my mom and dad’s last ride. I pat her back to soothe, but I’m tired of ghosts. “I gotta go, Nana.”

  “All right, baby girl, but don’t you forget.” She steps back, grabs my chin, and looks me fiercely in the eye.

  I’m only half-listening. The motorcycle is calling me. “What?”

  “You’re a Beauchamp. And Beauchamp women are tougher’n cowhide.” Eyes glistening, she waves me off. “I gotta get to Bingo. It’s a twofer matinee, and I’m gonna kick that bitch Betty Jones’s ass.” She spins on her heel and climbs into the truck.

  I pick up my stuff and stride for the garage, hearing the spray of gravel and the squeal of rubber when Nana hits the tarmac. I half want to run and wave her down.

  Floyd is waiting for me, arms crossed, beaming like the mailman just delivered his “Cupcake of the Year” calendar. “I had ’em wash it up all pretty for you, and the first tank of gas is on me.”

  I set down my stuff. My bike reclines on its stand like Mae West on a fainting couch. A sunbeam from the high windows caresses it, fanning the cool blue flames on the tank. Something lighter than air fills my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  I’m really going to do this.

  “I’m really sorry about Austin, Carly.” He studies his boots. “Sincerely I am.”

  I throw my arms around him and lay a big ol’ kiss on his slab of a cheek. “I don’t care what Nana says. You’re the best, Floyd.” I step back before he can get his arms loose.

  “You’ll be careful, right? If you end up roadkill, your Papaw is gonna come hunting my ass, and he’s as good a shot as he is a moonshiner.”

  “You never miss a good chance to shut up, do you, Floyd?” I put up a hand. “Thank you. Really. Now go away, willya?”

  He walks away, and I carry my stuff to the bike. Fear and excitement put a fine shake in my hands as I set the duffel on the passenger seat, and bungee it to the sissy bar. I shrug into my dad’s butter-color suede leather jacket. I grabbed it from the closet this morning, figuring if I’m borrowing his dream, the jacket comes with it. It’s too hot to wear, but the thought of my skin grating on asphalt rips an icy shudder down my spine. Heat, I can live with.

  I throw my leg over and settle, liking how the seat cups my butt. I don my pretty helmet, thread the strap, and snug it up. Then I pull the bike upright and sit a few heartbeats, trying to absorb the moment.

  In a very real way, I’m going home, and I can’t wait. The excitement of the rodeo crowd, the smell of cotton candy, feeling a part of something bigger, taking a small part in the history of the American West. It’s something I know, inside and out. Maybe I’ll manage to settle there, to lose the off-footedness I’ve felt lately. Maybe by slipping back into the rodeo circuit, I’ll find my way back to who I am.

  Regardless, it feels good doing something instead of hunkering down in Unforgiven, waiting for the sky to fall. When I return, who knows how I’ll be different. Adventures change you. The one to Albuquerque sure did. So do babies.

  As of now, I’m responsible one hundred percent for my own safety. My own life.

  Plus one.

  I’m not even capable of making good decisions for myself. How could I be responsible for another? But I’m not going to solve the Rubik’s Cube of my future, sitting here. I turn the key, pull in the clutch, and hit the starter. The engine roars to life, pulsing pure power between my thighs.

  I spend the first hour of the trip white-knuckled terrified. I remember how to shift, and lean, but there was no traffic on the dirt back roads where Austin taught me to ride. I block out the picture of my instructor’s green eyes. Maybe someday I’ll learn to block the memory before the shiv slips between my ribs.

  I pull over for gas at the edge of Albuquerque. I haven’t been here since that weekend. I shoot a look around at the patrons of the crowded gas station. The odds of seeing Brett…No, that’s not his real name. I looked it up online, and there’s not a Brett Cummings who resides in New Mexico. What would I do if I did see him? My whole body flushes like how Nana describes one of her hot flashes.

  I’d stalk over, slap his face. No. I’d pull him aside, tell him “I’m pregnant,” and ask what he was going to do about it. Oh, who am I kidding? I’d probably run to the bathroom, hide, and throw up. I’m not the bold, brassy Beauchamp woman I used to be. My confidence is shaken, and my self-esteem is whimpering in a corner. I throw my leg over and pull off my helmet.

  The lady on the other side of the pump who’s filling her truck gives me a thumbs-up. “You go, girl.”

  I just smile. At least I look badass on the outside.

  Five miles later, I’m all alone on a straight road that leads through brush-covered plains. The sun warms my cold fingers. The fringe of my dad’s jacket is playing in the wind. Scents come to me: sage, and dust, and clean, high desert air. I suck it in, and the sense of doom that’s dogged me the past weeks recedes. Thank God for Cora. This is just what I’ve needed.

  I let the wind blow all thoughts out of my head and relax in the moment. If only I could live cocooned in the Right Now. My lips stretch into my first smile in what seems forever.

  Way too soon, but two hours later, a road sign for Comb’s Corners flashes by. I take the exit and roll to a stop at the old-fashioned town square, with the stone county courthouse in the center. The lawn is covered in swap-meet sun shades that shelter tables of artwork and crafts. Brightly clad people swarm, lending a festival feel.

  The food truck is parked on the street opposite me; Cora’s arm is waving out the window. I ease into the crawling parade of traffic around the square, keeping my feet down to stay upright. I tuck in front of the truck, grateful for the bike; God knows where I’d park a car.

  I’ve just dismounted and pulled off my helmet when Cora is there, enveloping me in a huge hug. “Thank God you arrived safely.” She backs up enough to see my face but doesn’t let go. “How are you?”

  “This second? Great.” The relief of having someone who knows still love me hits me so hard it weakens my knees. I soak up her hug. I hadn’t realized how much I needed one. “It’s second to second, lately.”

  “Are you feeling all right? Have you told anyone?” she whispers.

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  With one last squeeze, she lets me go. “Well, you’re here now. Come meet Nevada. I’ve just got time to show you the ropes. Uber is picking me up in an hour for the airport.”

  She takes my hand and leads me to the truck. It’s red, with CORA’S CATERING in orange on the side. The long serving window is open and propped, providing shade. Baked goods, chips, and cookies crowd the tilted shelf; the serving counter is above it. I see the thin back of the cook at the grill, and the message on her T-Shirt: OMG—NO ONE CARES.

  “Nice shirt.”

  Cora darts a look at me. “Well, I did tell you she was unconventional.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

  Cora cuts through the waiting line of customers, opens the rear door, and takes the two steps up. “She�
�s here!” Her voice is fakey-happy. “Nevada Sweet, meet Carly Beauchamp. Carly, this is Nevada, the best cook in my fleet.”

  The blonde turns, wielding a spatula like it’s a weapon. She’s shorter than me, and slightly built with a boyish figure, wearing a grease-spattered half apron over blue jeans. She’s still young, but has the tough, skin-over-bones face of a long-term barfly. Nana would say she looked like she’d been “rode hard and put up wet.” But it’s the animosity blazing from her blue eyes that brings me up short. She looks me up, then down. “Yeah.” And turns back to flip the burgers. She lifts a can with holes in the top and sprinkles something over the meat.

  “What’s in the can?” I say, just to be polite.

  “You a cook?” She doesn’t look up.

  “I used to be.”

  “Then it’s none of your business, now, is it?”

  “Nevada.” The word spirals up at the end, in a warning. Cora pushes past me. “Carly, why don’t you help me get caught up with the line, then I’ll show you what you need to know.”

  I’m stepping past when a snort of dismissal comes from behind, too soft for Cora to hear.

  Lovely. Any delusions I harbored that this was going to be a relaxing three weeks fly out the serving window.

  An hour later, a compact pulls up. The driver beeps the horn and waves.

  “That’s my ride. I’ve got to git.” Cora unties her apron.” Carly, text me or call me with any questions, okay? Nevada”—she waits until the girl turns—“you behave. You hear?”

  The cook flicks me a look and her nostrils flare, like she smells something off. “Yes’m.” She steps into Cora’s hug. “You have fun. Hurry back.”

  Cora bustles past and snatches her purse and suitcase waiting at the back door. “I’m going to love me some grandkids.” She bustles down the steps, and the driver comes to help her with the suitcase.

  I close the door and walk back to the serving window.

  “Oh, this is going to be a certifiable riot,” Nevada grumbles behind me.

  Now there’s something I can agree with. I pick up the order pad, pull the pen from behind my ear, and address the frazzled mommy who’s next in line. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Chapter 7

  Carly

  By the time the blazing orange at the horizon has disappeared, I’m throbbing: my back, from handing food out the window, my feet, from standing all afternoon, my ears, from the techno-punk that Nevada has blasted from the boombox over the grill since Cora left. I asked her to turn it off—no response. I asked her to turn it down, and she complied, sort of. But the bass thump remained, a white noise irritant that I didn’t recognize until my jaw muscles cramped from grinding my teeth.

  When the last customer wanders away with hands full of chili dogs, I step outside, lower the metal sunshade, and lock it, transforming the restaurant back to a vehicle.

  I take the steps back into the truck. Nevada is cleaning the grill. She looks worse than I feel. Grease-spattered shorts, filthy apron, her dirty blond hair flopping out of her ponytail.

  “What do you say we grab a shower, then find something to eat that’s not soaked in grease?”

  She grunts, which I’m taking as a yes. “Where is the hotel you and Cora stayed last night? I’ll meet you there.”

  She points to the front of the truck. “Maddy’s Motel, a mile that way.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Yeah.”

  The spatula scrapes across the metal grill—and my nerves. “I was asking if I could have one.”

  “You didn’t say that.”

  I sigh loud enough for the passersby to hear. “Did Cora leave her key to the room at the motel for me? If so, where?”

  She waves the spatula at the front of the truck. “Console between the seats.”

  “Thank you.” I squeeze by, careful not to touch—I’d probably get thorns embedded in my skin. I snatch the old-fashioned plastic key with a flaking “10” in gold paint from the pile of junk in the console. Cora told me that she and Nevada roomed together, staying in cheap hotels to save money, but that I could choose better hotels and get my own room if I wanted. But I’m already beholden. No way I’m going all princess at Cora’s expense. Even if it means rooming with a human cactus.

  I climb over the passenger seat and out the door.

  Nevada might make it a bit awkward, but this is a tiny blip on my radar—hardly noticeable compared to the massive blip coming at me, bigger every day. I drop my hand to the buttons of my jeans. No bulge yet, but someday soon…A bomb’s tick-tick-tick echoes through me, flash-freezing my guts.

  I put on my gaudy helmet, throw my leg over the bike, and fire the engine. Too bad there’s only a mile to go. I’d love to hit the road and have the wind blow my worries away. I check traffic and ease out onto the circle.

  Maddy’s Motel is as shabby as its key. Turquoise cinderblock, with a red neon sign out front. I unstrap my duffel and walk to room ten where, for lack of a nail, the “1” has fallen upside-down. I push the door open with my boot and the hot, closed up-smell of cheap smacks me in the face, conjuring ghosts of countless rooms just like this—rodeo-road hotel rooms I shared with Austin. Back then, I hardly noticed the bare lightbulbs and scratchy sheets. Sepia stop-action memories flash: his bare chest, his hands, his boots next to mine beside the bed. I pull in a deep lungful of happier days, and almost choke on nostalgia that burns like a hit of cheap weed.

  Lord, I wasn’t asking for a Hollywood career. My dreams weren’t big. Just to have a bunch of kids in a big, falling-down old homestead house, with the man you made for me beside me every morning. Why was that too much to ask?

  But even as I think it, I know. God didn’t ruin my dream. Austin and I did. Looking at it from the other end of disaster, waiting another year doesn’t seem that horrible.

  But the tail whip of truth follows close behind. It wasn’t the year of waiting. It was being second. I’ve got to remember that, when missing him hurts. I want a guy who puts me at the head of the line, just like I do him. I dump my bag on one of the beds and head for the shower. Nevada will want one when she shows up.

  I’m still waiting an hour later when she slams through the door. I turn off the farm report on the TV. “You okay? I was about to go looking for you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen. I hardly think I need a mother hen to look after me.”

  I give her my best rodeo-queen smile, through gritted teeth. “Okay then. Why don’t you hop in the shower, and we’ll find something to eat?” I step to the rickety desk and pick up the cardboard flyer. “Looks like our choices are Friendly’s Chicken or the Pizza Palace.”

  She drops a canvas sailor’s duffel on the bed, pulls it open, and paws through the contents. “Already ate.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Fixed myself a BLT in the truck.”

  The irritation that simmered all day boils over. “That’s downright rude. You knew I was waiting for you.”

  She takes the one step to the bathroom and slams the door.

  Okay, be that way. I snatch my helmet and shrug into my jacket. Friendly’s it is.

  * * *

  Just before dawn, I’m washed onto the shore of wakefulness by a massive wave of nausea that propels me from bed at a run. Once I rid myself of last night’s dinner, my stomach settles. I’d like to blame it on the greasy chicken, but more likely, it’s thanks to the tiny bean in my belly that demanded I scarf it in the first place.

  Might as well get a shower, since I’m up. I’m going to need all the together I can get, because today we travel forty miles to Santa Rosa for the Guadalupe County Fair. And Rodeo.

  And Rodeo = Austin. My gut does a backflip and I hover at the toilet, hand over stomach, until it decides to settle again.

  Two hours later, I bump over the grass, following the truck to the food zone of the midway: a corridor of trailers, tents, and trucks, whose placards advertise hot dogs, beer, funn
el cakes, and fried pickles. I pull in behind the truck, drop the kickstand, take off my helmet, and sit for a moment, inhaling the smell of Rodeo: crushed grass, livestock, and fair food.

  How could I have forgotten? The contestants milling, pinning entry numbers on each other’s backs, the vendors calling to each other as they set up, the mic checks, the bustle behind the chutes. An undercurrent of potential builds until the air fairly crackles with it. My body reacts: my blood speeds up, my steps are lighter as my mood rises like the helium balloons the man next to us is blowing up.

  God, I’ve missed this.

  Nevada rounds the corner of the truck. Today’s T-shirt says, SARC: MY SECOND FAVORITE “ASM.” She stops and puts a hand on her hip. “You going to help, or sit there all day with a dorky look?”

  I pull the key. “Cora did tell you I’m your boss, right? It would help if you showed a little respect.”

  She gives me a “whatever” flip of her hand and takes the steps at the back door of the truck. Some of my helium escapes.

  When I walk in, Nevada is up front, in the driver’s compartment. I grab a couple eggs and two pieces of bread. I eye the bacon, but my stomach says nuh-huh. I’m fiddling with the knobs on the grill when Nevada yells, “What do you think you’re doing?” She barrels to the back and stands hovering. I can tell she wants to push me out of the way, but her fists remain at her sides. “You trying to take my job? Back off.”

  Her reaction is so over-the-top, it dawns on me—she needs this job, and she sees me as a threat. Well, that’s an easy fix. “I don’t want your job.” I take a step back, hands up. “I don’t know what Cora told you, but I have a job. My family owns a diner in Unforgiven, and—”

  “Cora told me all about your perfect little life.” She flips on the grill, spreads some butter, and cracks my eggs.

  “Perfect?” God, if she only knew.

  “Oh yeah. Rodeo queen, the town sweetheart, the local stud for a boyfriend. So, I’ve gotta wonder…” She drops the bread in the toaster, then turns and spears me with a look. “What are you doing here?”