The Last True Cowboy

by Laura Drake

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m not that perfect girl.”

  I glance down at her belly. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” I want her to feel the pain, the betrayal I’m feeling right now.

  She’s pulled the world out from under me.

  Her face blanches with shock. Then her eyes narrow, and her chin juts. “You forgot one thing, Mr. High and Mighty. We were broken up. So, none of this is your business anyway.”

  “We’d have gotten back together. You know it. I know it. The truck episode last weekend proved it.” I cross my arms over my open chest wound.

  “No. I’m never going back to being ‘Rodeo Barbie’ again. I may screw up.” She swallows. “A lot. I may not know who I am yet, but I promise you one thing, Austin Davis. I’m danged sure gonna find out.”

  This is useless. I look at her round face, peeking out from all that fiery hair. Those sweet freckles sprinkled across her turned-up nose. The spirit in those eyes. This is gonna be the hardest thing ever, seeing her down the road, because she’s right. My Carly is dead, replaced by this…whoever this is. My anger burns down. The only thing left in the cold ashes is a blistered agony of pain. “Good luck with that.”

  * * *

  Carly

  I watch Austin walk across the field and out of my life. I want to chase him down, to try to explain about that night in the truck. But what would I say? That I was grabbing onto what I needed?

  It was like that song about seeking shelter against the wind. You are thankful for the shelter, but you don’t consider past that. I’m a horrible person.

  And his pain, and knowing I caused it, throws me into a new level of hell.

  My feet drag the dirt on the way back to the truck. I’d rather hide under it than climb in, but that’s not an option. I’d love even more to get on the bike and blow out of here. But I’m not in any shape to ride right now, anyway. Not that I care much what would happen to me.

  I need to toughen up. I have a baby to think about. At least, today I do. I don’t know about tomorrow.

  Nevada is cleaning the grill when I step into the truck. She takes one look at me, lifts a paper plate of cinnamon toast, and hands it to me. “You’ve gotta be hungry.”

  Nevada offering more than sarcasm? I must look terminal.

  “You look like you need a beer, and I’d get you one, but pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink.”

  Emotional whiplash stops me in the doorway. “What?”

  “Ex-con isn’t spelled s-t-u-p-i-d.” She turns back to the grill. “Let me guess. Your cowboy isn’t going to make an honest woman of you?”

  That hurts, but it’s just a bee sting on top of a bullet wound. “Oh, it’s lot’s worse than that. We’re never getting back together. And it’s my fault.” I sound like an overacting soap opera star, but heck, I kind of am. “I’ve made such a horrible mess of things, and there’s no way to fix it.”

  She walks to the fridge, in the front of the truck, and throws over her shoulder, “Well, well. Maybe we do have something in common, after all.”

  * * *

  Carly

  One good thing about working with someone who doesn’t like you—they leave you alone to your thoughts. Well, thoughts and head-banging music. The first few hours are busy, thanks to the rodeo. Late afternoon, there are only a few people cruising the food zone. It’s time. I untie my apron. “I need to run an errand. Can you handle this for an hour?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Like I need you.”

  “Good.” I slam the apron on the counter. “We’ve really got to address your attitude sometime.” I don’t wait for her retort; my nerves are crispy already, and it wouldn’t be fair to take it out on her.

  I put on my helmet and fire up the bike. Downtown, squinting at the building numbers, I pass alien souvenir shops and new age bookstores. The alleged UFO crash here in the ’60s has kept this remote town crawling with tourists ever since. I wish it would have crashed in Unforgiven—we could use the business.

  I turn in at the generic stucco building, the Roswell Pregnancy Center that I looked up last night. I need information.

  I still haven’t decided what to think of the little bean growing inside me. It’s going to change my life in ways I probably haven’t even thought of yet, no matter what I decide.

  Could I live with myself if I went through with terminating this pregnancy? I don’t need a law or a preacher to tell me it is a life. I know it. My body knows it. I haven’t felt a kick, or even a flutter yet, but I feel different. And it’s not about the sore boobs, or the hunger, or the nausea. It’s…I don’t have a word for it, except for life. Or the promise of it, running through me.

  But what if I decide to have the baby, and can’t bond with it, because of how it was conceived? Not only would I be giving up the Carly I was, but I’d be harnessed to a being that I have no feeling for, no bond with, for the rest of my life. A life sentence, pretending to be a mother. Kids are smart. A kid would know. I’d not only be messing up my life, but another’s, too.

  How do women, married or not, ever have the guts to have a baby? The massive responsibility of starting a life, then steering that person on a path…Hell, I can’t even make good decisions for myself. Odds are, I’d really screw up a kid.

  At the dentist they do x-rays, and cover you in a lead apron. The responsibility feels like the weight of that apron. My decision will change everything, but how can I know how I’ll feel then, sitting where I am now? I can’t.

  But at least I can be informed. I drop the side stand, pull the key, tuck my helmet under my arm, and stride for the door.

  The lobby is small, empty, worn, and green: walls, carpet, and plastic furniture. I avoid the gaze of the matronly woman talking on the phone behind the check-in window and step to the racks of pamphlets hanging on the wall. The walls exude a musk of disinfectant, dust, and dread—as if the fear and worry of every woman who sat in these chairs has soaked into the walls. It makes me want to hold my breath.

  The lady pushes the glass back. “Can I help you?”

  “No, thanks, just looking.” I pick pamphlets from their slots. Thankfully, I can pass over the STD ones. And I’m way late for the birth-control ones. Pregnancy Facts. Your Body, Your Decision. Do I have to tell my parents? Can you really make a decision this huge from reading a glossy tri-fold? That seems as unlikely as the events that brought me here.

  Something about the place is giving me the willies. I glance out of the corner of my eye at the only door other than the one I came in. The door that lies at the end of one of my choices. My guts vibrate in a tsunami of wrong, wrong, wrong. My mind hasn’t gotten the memo my body already knows. There’s no way I’m doing this.

  Suddenly and perfectly, I know.

  A chinook warmth washes over the shelf of ice inside me. How could I ever have imagined that I could harm this little innocent thing inside me? It’s a baby. I’m carrying a miracle of life. I may not be sure about half its DNA, but the rest is mine.

  A video streams in my mind, of a nurse, handing me a burrito-wrapped bundle. I can see the look on my face: surprise, tenderness, bliss, and tears.

  My baby.

  Another blast of warmth hits—I don’t care if I lose everything: my home, my job, my place in the world. This baby and I will make it. I’ll see to it.

  My body hums a frantic one-note song:

  Getout-getout-getout.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  I shove a half-inch stack of folded paper into my jacket and push through the door.

  Back in the parking lot, I stand beside the bike, trying to catch my breath.

  I’ve chosen the lesser of two bad choices. But the weight of the lead apron, at least for now, is gone.

  For better or worse, kid, it’s you and me.

  Chapter 10

  Austin

  Shit. The only thing I managed not to fall off today was a fence. I shouldn’t be surprised; my brain sure
isn’t in the game. I heave my bareback rigging toward my gear bag, and get on one knee to unbuckle my spurs.

  “Austin.” Carly’s soft, sad voice comes from behind me.

  I stuff gear in my bag as fast as I can. “I’ve got to git.”

  “I know, but can I talk to you?”

  Half my stuff hanging out, I pick up the bag. “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t forget your bull rope.” She points to the fence.

  Crap. I tug the slip knot, throw it over my shoulder. She’s blocking my way.

  “Can I at least walk you to your truck?”

  I shrug. “Free country.”

  She’s tripping along, almost jogging to keep up. I sigh and slow down.

  “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

  I keep walking, threading my way through the lines of pickups. Where did I park my damn truck?

  “Austin, please. Will you just hear me out?”

  I reach my truck and toss my bag in the bed and turn. “Go ahead then. I’ve got to get on the road.” Man, she looks wrecked. Dark circles under eyes that are dull and sad…unCarly-like.

  “I was selfish. I admit that. I was tired, and lonely, and missing you so bad.” She clasps her hands in front of her and looks at the ground, like a chastised schoolgirl. “I didn’t go planning that. I just got caught up, and…”

  Even with her hair falling in her face, I can see her blush.

  “I couldn’t stop.”

  She looks up, her mouth turned down, her bottom lip shaking. “I didn’t even think about you thinking we’d be back together. Thinking doesn’t happen much when we start—” She takes a breath and looks up, into my eyes. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m an idiot. I made a bad mistake. You can think I’m a flake, or whatever. But I can’t stand that you think I’d hurt you like that. On purpose.”

  Damn me. I want to wrap her in my arms and tell her everything’s going to be okay. But that’s just because she looks so much like my Carly. To remind myself she’s not my anything anymore, I grab the door handle. “Okay. I gotta go.”

  * * *

  Carly

  We decided to stay the night, and the next morning a glance in the bathroom mirror gives me a start. My face is bloated; my eyes are pools of reddened sadness, the bags under them so dark they look like three-day-old shiners. And I don’t want to think about trying to comb the hoorah’s nest on top of my head.

  Inside me, though, there’s an odd stillness that holds the faintest whiff of peace. After all, yesterday, I told Austin. Badly, but I did it. I made the decision to keep the baby. Two things I thought I couldn’t do, and I’m still standing. I know it’s only the beginning of many things I must do that I don’t think I can. Like telling Nana and Papaw. And Unforgiven.

  And I’ll have to figure out how to live without Austin. That’s going to be hardest of all.

  But the jitters aren’t dancing this morning, and I have no trace of morning sickness.

  The way things are going, I’ll take what I can get.

  I strip out of my T-shirt and underwear, and step under the cheap water-saver showerhead. How can the spray hurt when there’s barely enough water to wet my skin? I soap my belly slow and soft. Only I would know there’s a little pooch to it.

  Mornin’, baby. A smile rises in me. I don’t have Austin, but I’m not alone.

  Ten minutes later, I’m trying to repair the damage to my face with a makeup miracle.

  Bang, bang, bang! “What, are you nesting in there? I gotta pee.”

  I pull the door open to Nevada’s perpetual frown. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

  Arms full of clothes, she mumbles something and pushes past me.

  I step out. “We need to make a grocery run on the way out of town. I saw there’s a Costco—”

  She slams the door on the rest, so I sit on my bed with my tiny travel mirror and finish my makeup. I’ve had about enough of Miss ’Tude. I’ve made allowances for what I’m sure was her crappy childhood. I’ve gone out of my way to try to get along. I even put up with her eardrum-stabbing music. I’m no longer the soft little yes-woman. I’m tough. “Honey, you may be all Homie, but you push a country girl too far, you gonna see some cat-crap crazy,” I mutter, brushing on mascara.

  She reappears in ten minutes in micro shorts and a ratty-looking T-shirt with BITE ME in faded letters.

  “You know, Costco sells T-shirts and shorts with real legs on them.”

  “Do they sell cans of ‘Give-a-shit’? Cuz I’m fresh out.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll meet you in the Costco parking lot. You know where it is, right?”

  “I know where it is. I don’t know why you just don’t give me the credit card. You afraid I’m going to steal from Cora?” She stands, feet apart, chin out, her hands fisted at her sides.

  I lift my dad’s jacket from the chair and shrug into it. The thought had occurred to me, but this probably isn’t a good time to bring it up. I grab my helmet from the desk. “Let’s go, I want to get on the road. We may be able to pick up some lunchtime business somewhere.”

  “You’re gonna have to wait. Somebody was hogging—”

  Nevada’s not the only one who can slam a door.

  * * *

  Carly

  A half hour later, I’m sitting on the concrete in the shade of Costco, fuming. She doesn’t do makeup. She pulls her dishwater mop into a ponytail, and God knows, she doesn’t spend time on her wardrobe. She’s dawdling to tick me off. And it’s working.

  Ten more minutes pass before the truck pulls in the lot and parks. I’d love to march over and chew her out, but I’m not giving her the satisfaction of going to her.

  She walks right past me, ignoring the cart I’m standing next to, pulls out another, and pushes it through the doors when they whoosh open.

  Okay, that’s it. I leave the cart and stomp after her. “Just what the happy heck is your problem?”

  “You want to do this now? Okay.” She stops and plants a fist on her hip. “All your little ‘countryisms.’ Look, you want to say ‘fuck’? Say it already.” She puts her head back and yells at the beams, two stories up. “Fuuuuuuck.” She turns to me and shrugs. “See? Not so hard.”

  I point to the glowering mother who has stopped her cart to put her hands over her toddler’s ears.

  She snorts. “Deal, lady. I’ll bet he’s already heard it from his father.”

  I put a hand on her forearm. “Stop it.”

  She jerks away. “Don’t you touch me.”

  “Seriously. You’re rude, crude, and you have no manners. I’ve never done anything to you, yet you’ve hated me since you first slapped eyes on me. You’re going to tell me why, if I have to dogpile you in in the middle of this store until you do.”

  Her face is screwed into a red knot of distemper. “Little Miss Perfect.” She hisses. “All the men fall all over you—”

  “What are you talking about? They do n—”

  “You don’t see them watch you when you walk by? Like they’re stray dogs, dying to have you pet them. They get all stumbly and tongue-tied around you. I don’t get it—it’s like they think you’re girl-next-door wholesome. Shows what they know.” She pushes the cart into the first aisle.

  I stand, stunned for a moment. I’ve spent the past month and a half beating myself up, slinking around, feeling guilty. I’m not taking it from this one. A crimson fountain of rage goes off in my brain. “I’m not done talking to you, bitch!”

  She stops. As does everyone else within hearing range.

  “I made mistakes. But at least I’m not a felon.”

  Her face hardens like cement in the sun. I’ve gone too far, and I don’t care. I stomp down the aisle until I’m even with her. “I don’t give a flying bat booger what you think of me, Nevada Sweet. I’m your boss. Cora left me in charge, and you will show respect for that, if nothing else.” I notice we’re by the flour. I heft a ten-pound sack and heave it in the cart. “Now, shop, damn it.”
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  She shoots me a look, but shuts her mouth.

  She may be smarter than I gave her credit for.

  * * *

  Carly

  The bike vibrates beneath me. I’m following the truck, but staying back a hundred feet to avoid the buffet-zone right behind it. My thoughts are skipping like a rock tossed across a lake.

  It may have been justified, and it sure felt good, but I’m ashamed of my behavior in the store. I was taught not to lower myself to a bully’s level. Nana would snatch me bald, if she knew.

  Nana. Under my ribs, a hollow place bursts open and homesickness fills me. I want my Nana.

  I’m exhausted. I’m heartsick. I want to go home. And this is only the beginning of a long road that’s going to end with a helpless human in my arms, and a much longer road ahead. Alone is one thing, but this is like hanging off the side of a cliff, clinging to a branch that’s loosening a bit more every day. That kind of alone.

  I thought it’d be good to get away from Unforgiven’s prying eyes and local gossip. Now all I want to do is go where everyone and everything is familiar. Even if they hate me when the news gets out, at least there’s Nana and Papaw.

  Unless they hate me, too. I imagine their matching looks of disappointment, hardening to disbelief when I tell them the baby isn’t Austin’s.

  I’ve got to stop this. I’m not going to know for sure until I tell them. And to tell them, I have to be home. But Cora’s not due back for another week. That week stretches unending ahead of me. I have no idea how I’ll get through it.

  Hey, maybe Cora’s not having fun, either. She could be sick of diapers, and arguing with her daughter. Maybe she’s as ready to come back as I am to go. It’s possible.

  I check the left lane, pull into it, and hit the throttle until I’m even with the driver’s window. I hold up my hand, fingers touching my thumb; our signal for “I have to pee.”