by Laura Drake
“I’m…”
The light is dim because the sunshade is down, but I know she sees my blush when one side of her mouth turns up.
“I’m on vacation.”
She turns back to flip my eggs. “Oh yeah, probably.”
I squeeze past her to retrieve the cash box from the safe, and when I get back, she hands me my breakfast on a paper plate. “Thank you.”
“Just ask from now on.” She bends to check the supplies in the fridge.
I eat, then step outside to open the truck-wall-sunshade.
“Champ!” The voice cuts through the setup bustle.
My heart gives a soft skip at my rodeo nickname—a mashup of my last name and my barrel racing blue ribbons. Especially being yelled by that voice. I turn just in time to be swept up in Shane Dalton’s strong arms. He spins me around, yelling in my ear, “Hot damn, Champ, the place just isn’t the same without you!”
I put my head back and watch the sky go around, giggling like a teenager. “Put me down, you polecat!” Austin’s best friend is one of mine, too.
“Who you callin’ a polecat, you yellow-bellied sheepherder.” He smiles up at me, then sets me on my feet again. It’s a game we’ve played for years, hurling two-hundred-year-old insults at each other. “God, it’s good to see you.”
He ducks his head, hiding his face under the brim of his hat. “What happened, Carly? Austin is slinking around like a stray cur dog.” When he looks up, the worry in his eyes is a jackknife to my gut. “What could’a happened so bad that would break you two up?”
The eggs are staging a revolt and the toast and coffee are joining forces. “Look, Dalton, I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I spin and, my hand to my mouth, run. I make it to the grass behind the food truck before the eggs win the skirmish.
When I hoist myself back into the food truck, Nevada gives me a raised eyebrow stink-eye. To say that the atmosphere in the truck is better today would be an overstatement. But we do find a way to work around each other—a silent dance that gets a bit easier as the day wears on. She lowers the boombox thump a notch, and I’m careful to write legibly so she can easily read the orders.
Cora has a good reputation with the rodeo crowd, and there’s a line all afternoon. I’m grateful because it keeps my mind off…everything.
The loudspeaker is a background drone to the customers’ chatter and the grease pop on the grill until, an hour in, I hear what I realize I’ve been listening for all along.
“Okay folks, next up is a New Mexico boy, who needs no intro, because he made a name on the circuit years ago. Out of chute four, on Broomstick, Austin Davis!”
A roar rises from the local crowd. They scream and cheer for four seconds, then groan, and I swear I can hear their sucked-in-and-held breaths.
“Hey lady, can I get two cheeseburgers? Hey—”
“Shhhhh!” I’m leaning over the counter, trying to hear over my own heartbeat. I hate it when an arena goes quiet.
“He’s okay, folks, just lost his air there for a minute. Let’s give that cowboy a hand.”
“Dude. Ya gonna take orders, or stand there with your boobs hanging out?” Nevada’s grumble behind me makes me realize that the girls are trying to make a break for it.
The guy in front of me looks like he’s forgotten his cheeseburger.
I straighten so fast my vertebrae pop. “Do you want fries with that, sir?”
* * *
Carly
When night falls on a county fair, magic comes out with the stars. The rides are all dressed in fairy lights, and a veil of enchantment hangs over the midway, accented by screams from the Wild Mouse.
The after-dinner rush is over. Nevada didn’t want a break, so I take one. I pull in the cool-air scent: popcorn, cotton candy, and memories.
See, I believe that everyone has a “Time of Their Lives.” You can tell by listening to people talk. Billy Simmons, Unforgiven’s all-state quarterback, still talks about the homecoming game of ’87. Cora’s was the summer she met her husband. Mine? That rodeo summer with Austin, the year I was Rodeo Queen.
I’d fall out of bed at dawn to feed and groom my gelding, Buttwipe. Oh, don’t feel bad for him. Trust me, he earned the name. He was quicker than slicked snot, but he had the personality of a constipated octogenarian defending his lawn. He’d bite, kick, “accidentally” step on me. And I was his favorite person.
I’d meet up with Austin and we’d grab breakfast with our buds, laughing about the night-before bar antics. Then I’d doll up—hair and makeup, bangles and satin—and borrow a flashy paint pony to carry the flag in for the opening ceremony. Then I’d run for the horse trailer, to change for my event. Rodeo all afternoon, dinner on the Midway, maybe take in a few rides, then hit the bar. Drive to the next rodeo—repeat.
Those were the days. I’d hoped those wouldn’t be The Time of My Life. I’d wanted that to be after we were married, and—
“Carly.”
Though it’s quiet, Austin’s voice slams into me, stopping me faster than a tie-down roping horse. I turn on my boot heel. “Damn, Davis, you scared the pee out of me.” He doesn’t need to know I’m being literal.
“Sorry. I just didn’t want you to get away from me again.” He takes off his hat and works the brim.
I hate that, because I know an apology is coming. And I so don’t deserve his regret…I have too many of my own. “Stop.”
“What?”
He looks up, and those green eyes do what they always do—zap my brain like a power surge to a computer, making me forget everything I must remember. I look away. He isn’t mine anymore, a fact we’ll both know—when I get up the guts to tell him.
He drops his hat on his head, then cups my elbow. “I heard you were working Cora’s truck for a couple weeks. Let’s walk.”
You do not want to do this, my more intelligent side whispers. My dumber side says, “I have to get back soon. Nevada’s all alone.” At least walking, I can focus on the fairy lights instead of him.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to say it, even if it makes no difference.”
His glance warms the side of my face.
“Could I ask you this one last thing, that you hear me out? Because I don’t know how to live with myself if you won’t.”
Oh, this is going to hurt. For a long time. But I owe him a lot more than to listen, so this is the least I can do. Not trusting my voice, I nod.
“You were right. One hundred percent. I was selfish, and self-centered. I was avoiding growing up, buckling down and starting our business.”
I hear him draw in a breath, and he stops at the edge of the sporadically lit contestant parking area where the dark hulks of pickups and horse trailers look like sleeping dinosaurs.
Here it comes. I tighten my muscles and straighten, to bear the weight.
“It wasn’t because I was having more fun on the road, or because I didn’t want to marry you.” He reaches for my hand, then changes his mind and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I was afraid.”
This is so not what I thought he was going to say that it takes me a second to process. “What?”
He nods. “I’m good at riding rough stock. Always have been. I don’t get the credit; it’s a God-given talent. But what if I’m not good at raising rough stock? The business end of it? We’ll be married, and babies on the way, and there’d be bills, and obligations, and loans…” He shrugs. “It freaked me out. I kept going, one year, then two, and…well, you were there. Every now and again, I’d look around and see the kids on the circuit and realize there were less guys my age every year, and I’d freak out. I’d go home and tell you one more year.”
I thought I was prepared. But this is so much worse than I anticipated. If Albuquerque had never happened, I’d be falling in his arms right now. I’d be telling him it’d be okay—we’re in this together, partners—and there’s nothing to be afraid of, because…
I hear a sound, and realize it’s a sob, and that it�
��s coming from me. I put the back of my hand to my mouth to bottle it up.
“I had to tell you. See, it’s not you, Carly; it’s me. You were always my first choice. I just didn’t trust that I was good enough to take it.” He searches my face. He knows me as well as I know him; he sees what I can’t say—that I can’t say yes.
I want so badly to tell him why I can’t. I’m not ready. I’m a coward. I just stand there, words clogging my throat, and watch him walk away.
Chapter 8
Carly
I’m standing at the white board outside the truck the next morning, pen poised. “What do you want for today’s special?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, yesterday it was fish sandwiches. How about rodeo dogs?”
“How about a double serving of, I. Don’t. Care.” She reaches up to crank the volume on the boombox.
Slayer is screaming “Raining Blood.” Great. I hate that I even know that song. I didn’t, before being stuck in a tin can with a sullen, grown-up two-year-old for ten hours a day. I don’t understand why she’s so hostile. I find myself both wanting to find out the answer, and wanting to stay ignorant. I fill out the rest of the board, making specials of what we have left over. We’re going to have to hit a box store and stock up before we leave town.
As I watch the early risers walk the grounds, a hollow feeling fills my chest. Funny, I’m back in my old world with people all around me, yet I’ve never in my life been so lonely. I’d love some distraction from the problems that my brain works over like well-worn worry beads. But everyone I know here is tied somehow to Austin, and I don’t know how to answer their questions.
Homesickness hits. You can’t know lonely in Unforgiven. You know everyone in town, and they know you. Even driving on a back road, people at least wave, and many will stop in the middle of the road for a good chin wag.
But then again, that’s how gossip spreads. A flush of heat shoots up from my chest that has nothing to do with the rising temperature outside.
And I’ve got to talk to Austin. After his admission last night, my secret wears on my conscience like a hair shirt. I may not be the person I thought I was, but I’m not someone who can live with having Austin find out about the baby from someone else.
One impossible task at a time. I work like a robot, taking orders, checking the line from the window every few seconds, looking for broad shoulders and a Cattleman Creased Stetson. I’ve been speech-writing in my mind all morning, trying to come up with some way to explain, without having him hate me.
This is going to be a stunning shock to Austin. So far, most of my scenarios end up with tears (mine) and anger (his).
And I haven’t even started on the explanation for Nana and Papaw.
There’s a recurring theme here. I can’t seem to make a freakin’ decision. About anything. It’s like I’m in one of those dreams where it’s essential you do something, but you move in slow motion, and minutes tick away…
Life used to be so simple. Joking with the regulars at the diner, the comfortable routine with the staff. At home, setting the table for dinner with Nana and Papaw, with nothing more on my mind other than what’s on TV that night. Counting the days until Austin came home, so we could fall into the bed over the store and make love all night. Best yet, though, spooning with my best friend, talking about nothing and everything, until I’d drift off, safe in his arms.
You think you appreciate it, at the time. I didn’t, but I do now…
I’m tired. Tired of worrying. Tired of not liking myself. Tired of being whiny. Well, like Nana says, “You made yourself a shit sandwich. Now you get to eat it.” Man, I miss her.
Luckily, business slows while the rodeo’s happening. I give Nevada a break, and she’s gone forever. By the time she climbs back in the truck, I’ve got my apron off. “Where the heck did you go?”
“Why? You got somewhere to be?”
Her smirk crawls under my skin. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
As always, she has a retort, but I’m out the door and don’t hear it. The announcer is two riders into the bull-riding event when I sprint to the arena. It’s only ninety degrees out, but the crowd is packed in the bleachers, raising the temperature and blocking any stray breeze. I find a slot and slide between a little girl and a cowboy wannabe nursing a beer.
He tips his hat. “Hello, pretty lady.”
I give him a quick nod, then focus on the chutes.
“Next up is Shane Dalton. He rode Battle-axe for eighty-two points yesterday. Let’s see how he does on Sit and Spin.”
I cup my hands around my mouth. “Go, Shane! Stick on him!”
“You know that guy? Is he your boyfriend?”
My stomach flips. As much from the BF comment as the wash of beery breath from Mr. I-bought-the-buckle.
The gate swings open, and a red spotted bull comes out butt first. Shane’s up on his rope, and balanced, ready for the bull’s next move. It turns right. Bad choice for the bull. Shane matches the animal’s timing, jump for jump. After four seconds, he starts spurring with his outside foot, big money chops, to impress the judges. When the horn blows at eight seconds, Shane pulls his hand out of the rope and the bull’s next kick throws him off. The cowboy hits the ground running, and after a glance over his shoulder to be sure the bull isn’t chasing, he pounds his fists into the air.
“How ’bout that, folks?”
The crowd cheers. I put my fingers in my mouth, curl my tongue, and let loose a piercing whistle. Shane hears it. He finds me in the crowd and points at me, laughing.
“The judges liked it, too. They score it an eighty-three and a half points!”
“Mommy, that lady hurted my ears.”
I look down. The little girl is scowling at me, hands over her ears. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I promise not to do it again.” I manage to sit, though my toes are tapping a hurry-up dance on the wood boards. I checked the day sheets; Austin’s up next.
“Can I buy you a beer? Hey, whasyername, anyway?”
Great. Unfortunate taste in clothes, irritating, and drunk. The rodeo trifecta. “No, thank you.”
Saved by the announcer. “Austin Davis bucked off yesterday, but he’s back today, and knowing him, looking to take it out on his bull, Dust Devil. Out of chute two, let’s cheer on a local favorite!”
I can’t cheer. I never could. I’m suspended in frozen anticipation, holding my breath, sitting on my crossed fingers.
The wannabe bumps my elbow. “Hey, honey—”
“Shhhhhh,” I hiss.
A massive black brahma rears in chute two, and the cowboys grab Austin’s flak jacket to keep him from falling under the bull’s hooves. With a hand tied to the animal, the chute is the most dangerous place to be. “Get out! Nod! Nod!” I mutter with the last of my breath and finally, he does.
The gate swings, and the bull takes off, running straight and crow-hopping across the arena. This is the worst kind of ride; the bull looks easy but isn’t. Every jarring thump pulls Austin off his rope. His score is going to suck.
If he makes it to the whistle.
Even as I think it, Austin loses his spur hold, and his legs fly out behind him. His hand pops out of the rope, and he lands face-first in the dirt. The bull gallops off.
Getupgetupgetup.
After an agonizingly still moment, Austin pulls himself to his feet and his hat billows dust when he smacks it against his thigh. The bullfighters entice the bull to the exit gate.
“A rare second buck-off for Davis. Let’s show some appreciation for the effort.”
Austin takes his rope from one of the bullfighters and limps to the gate, the crowd’s applause his only parting gift.
I want to catch him before—
“Hey, sweet cheeks. Whatyasay—”
My boot on his instep cuts off whatever drivel he was about to spout. I stand, and ignoring his wheeze, step down from the stands and jog for the contestant area behind the chutes.
When I find him
, Austin’s pulling tape off his wrists. “That bull was a pig. Totally not your fault.”
He turns at the sound of my voice. “Yeah, I’ll tell that to Shane when I don’t have gas money.”
“You need gas money? I’ve got—”
“I’m not taking your money, Tigger.” His gaze is watchful, reminding me of Shane’s “stray dog” comment. “What did you want?”
For things to be the way they used to be. “Are you staying tonight before heading out?”
“I am.”
The look on his face freezes in place. Open and unafraid, he watches me close, his gaze flicking over my every movement. But his eyes, sad and hopeful and sweet, somehow form an arrow that pierces my chest. I’m going to hurt him. Bad. I wish I could walk away and never see him again, just so he could stay innocent.
But that’s the coward’s way out. “We need to talk. Can we meet after dinner?”
“Sounds good. And Tigger?” He steps into my personal space and runs a finger down the inside of my forearm. “I miss you.”
I want to forget. To lean into him and share the weight on my shoulders.
But that weight is what is going to drive him away. “Good.” I straighten my shoulders and take a step back. “See you then.” I turn and walk away before I can change my mind.
* * *
Carly
The long, dread-filled day is over. I walk in and out of yellow pools of sodium light in the contestants’ parking lot. Did I, just this morning, wish I could talk to my best friend? Well, I’m going to get the chance in a few minutes, and all I want to do is jog back to my bike and get the flock out of here.
Because, after tonight, I don’t think I’ll have a best friend.
I spent the day making a bullet-point list of items to cover in the conversation. By afternoon, the bullets zipped through my brain, faster and faster, until even Nevada noticed I was a mess. Well, I think she did; she just pointed to her T-shirt: