The Last True Cowboy

by Laura Drake

  When I lean against the doorframe and clear my throat, Troy looks up. “Oh, don’t let me stop you. As Dad’s financial planner, you get a say. But just so you know, none of Dad and Mom’s money is funding this ‘risky venture.’”

  “Welcome home, son.” Dad stands and comes around his desk to shake my hand.

  “Hey, Austin. No offense meant.” Troy sits on the desk, his tie dangling from the pocket of his suit jacket and the top button of his shirt undone. That’s as far as he unwinds.

  I know he didn’t mean it personally. Troy is all business, all the time. He always was intense, but his butthole has tightened considerably over the years. “None taken. But I think you ought to know the facts before you start throwing your opinion around.”

  “I’ve looked into it. You’re looking at a good five years to prove out a good line of horses, much less bulls. Then there’s the extra costs: stouter fencing, more bills, and a string of horses means a farrier, and—”

  “And, they’ll earn three times what beef cattle will. Not only the fees and payouts, but in semen and brood stock sales.” I step into the room.

  “And the added expense of trailers and trucks to haul them. Insurance, and—”

  “Boys, if you’re going to have a pissin’ contest, take it out back. Let’s have a drink, eh?” Dad opens the fridge below the bar behind his desk, pulls out two Lone Stars, and hands one to me, then pours a Dewar’s for Troy, because my brother can’t even drink a beer like normal folk. “Time enough for business later.”

  I pop the top and take a long pull, then sigh.

  Dad tips his chin at my leg. “Did you get stepped on again?”

  “Yeah, damned mud-fest arena.”

  Troy shakes his head. “You rodeo cowboys have a death wish.”

  “Nope. Just want to live while I’m still breathing.”

  He snorts a laugh and takes a sip. “There are other ways to live, brother.”

  “And I’m going to find out what they are.”

  They stare at me.

  “What?”

  Dad settles into his big leather chair. “This is where you say, ‘Next year.’”

  “Nope. Starting tomorrow.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. I’m your hired hand, if you still want me.”

  A huge grin spreads across his long face. “Hell yes, I want you.”

  “About time.” Troy stops swinging his foot. “Now maybe Mom and Dad can finally retire.”

  “I’m in no hurry to retire,” Dad says, but the grin hasn’t dimmed.

  “Dinner’s ready.” Mom’s voice gets stronger as she comes down the hall. “Come on, before I feed it to the prairie dogs.”

  “Come in here, darlin’.”

  We all stand when she walks in the room.

  Dad walks around the desk and claps me on the shoulder. “Austin is home. For good.”

  She spins to me. “For really, for good?”

  The hope on her face makes my gut burn. Have they been waiting for this? How long have they put off retirement, so I could do what I want? “Yep.”

  She takes the few steps to hug me. “Home safe, for good. My prayers have been answered.”

  Troy raises his glass in a salute. “Better late than dead. Welcome home, brother.”

  Mom herds us to the dining room. There’s a table in the kitchen, but she wouldn’t dream of serving a dinner there. Even though it’s just us, the table has a cloth and placemats and matching everything. Weird that I grew up here, and none of this stuff rubbed off on me. Troy sucked it all up first, I guess. He’s welcome to it. I sit.

  Mom brings in the tureen of chili and the cornbread and after Dad says grace, we dig in. Mom’s chili is the best in town and she’s got the county fair blue ribbons to prove it.

  “Well”—Mom puts her cloth napkin in her lap and shoots me a smug smile—“I guess this means we’ll be planning a wedding soon.”

  A gut bomb goes off that has nothing to do with jalapeños in the chili. I knew Mom would bring this up, but hoped it’d be one on one. I put down my spoon. “Um. No.”

  Troy pats his mouth with his napkin. “What’d you do now?”

  Mom’s face is all downturned lines. She can read me—she knows it’s serious. “Oh, Austin. What happened?”

  No one is hearing it from me. “Oh, you know me and my bronc-for-breakfast manners.”

  “She always forgives you, son.” Dad reaches for more cornbread. “Carly is a sweet girl. She’ll be back.”

  “Yes, she is, and no, she won’t.”

  Mom pushes her plate aside. “Tell me what happened, Austin. Maybe I can help work this out.”

  I knew that wouldn’t appease her. But I can’t do this now—talk, or eat. “Thanks, Mom, but I just want to settle. Okay if I go do that?”

  “You go on, son,” Dad says.

  I blow out of there before anyone can say anything else. I retrieve my bag from where I dropped it by the front door and head down the hall.

  My old room is a time capsule of how great my life used to be. Rodeo posters on the wall, the one of Lane Frost, sticking it on Red Rock over my pine log bed that’s covered in the quilt Carly made me for Christmas two years ago. The buckle display case, full of shiny silver. Worthless silver. How empty all those wins are, without someone to be proud, someone to share them with. Why didn’t I realize that? All the excuses I made. All the years I wasted. All gone.

  I know I’m going to have to move on. She made it clear that she’s not my Carly anymore.

  We used to be in lockstep. I could’ve told you her opinion on anything because, most often, we shared the same one. But she’s changed. Or, more likely from what she said the last time we talked, she’s always had different opinions, and just kept them to herself. How was I supposed to know that?

  I understand a woman’s brain about like I do quantum physics.

  The walls close in. No way I can sleep in this grave tonight. I shoulder my bag, open the door, and retrace my steps.

  Mom is loading dishes in the dishwasher.

  “I’m going to go to the homestead house. That okay with you?”

  She turns, hands dripping water, her look dripping concern. “Oh, Austin.”

  “I’ll tell you about it later, okay? I just need some time alone.”

  “I understand.” She walks over and gives me a hug that makes me want to crawl in her lap like I’m two again.

  I pull back. “I’ll stop by. Soon.” The weight of her worry follows me as I slam out the front door into the night.

  I’m backing out when my lights hit Troy’s fancy car, covered for the night. Normally, he’s rushing to get home to Albuquerque. I wonder about it for a nanosecond, but I’ve got my own problems.

  Ten minutes later I pull in the dirt yard. In the headlights, the old house looks even more haunted than my room at Mom’s. I shouldn’t be surprised; ghosts from your past aren’t left behind that easily. I drag my duffel and sleeping bag up the steps and across the porch. When I open the door, I have the strangest feeling, like voices cut off mid-whisper. I skirt the middle of the parlor, where Carly and I made love the last time we were here. I glance to the stairs leading up. I know if I had a light, our footprints would be undisturbed in the dust.

  I should have stayed in my old bedroom. At least the memories there aren’t fresh wounds. I limp to the dining room and roll out my sleeping bag on the floor. We never made love in here.

  Carly’s known me for twenty-five years. How could I have been all that, for twenty-five years, and now I’m dog meat? Feels like she’s grown away from me. Or past me?

  Then there’s the baby. If only it were ours, life would be so different. Funny how an unplanned pregnancy six months ago would have meant giving up so much. Now, it would be the only way for me to keep so much. Maybe it shouldn’t matter who the father is. But it does. Deep down in my core, it matters.

  So: I’m not enough for her, she’s carrying someone else’s baby, my rodeo caree
r is over, and my dream of a rough-stock business, even if I decide to go through with it, may be nixed by my dad’s financial planner.

  How did life implode so fast? Or had it been on a long, slow slide, and I just refused to see it?

  I kick out of my boots and clothes, then lay on my back and stare into the dark, listening to the whispers telling me I’m a fool.

  Chapter 16

  Austin

  My stomach wakes me with a growl, complaining about the bowl of chili I skipped last night. I roll over and groan. Another thing I’m too old for: sleeping on a hard wood floor. I struggle to my knees, and remember my bruised foot when I try to stand. “Goddamn that hurts.” I hop around until it stops bitching.

  Wishing for coffee, I glance to the funky old gas stove in the kitchen. I could probably get it to work if I cleaned out the lines. I add a store run to my list of things to do today, dress, and head for Mom’s for food and coffee. When I pull in, Troy’s BMW is still covered and in the same spot. That’s odd.

  I stand on the porch a moment, undecided. Knock? Ring the bell? Walk in? What is the etiquette when you return to the house you grew up in? I’m not a kid anymore, but I’m not a guest, either. To cover my bases, I knock and open the front door. “Hello?”

  “I’m in the kitchen, Austin.”

  Mom is sipping coffee and reading the paper at the kitchen table. “I’ll bet it was musty and drafty over there.”

  “Yeah, but I figure if I’m living there, it’ll give me incentive to get it weatherproofed by the time winter hits.” Not her fault this house makes me feel like I walked into a happier-time-warp. “Why is Troy still here? Where’s Dad?”

  “They’re out feeding cattle.” She stands and walks to the fridge. “You must be starving. How about some bacon and eggs?”

  “That’d be great.” I give her a hug. “Have I told you lately how much I love your cooking?”

  “Flattery will get you breakfast. Pour yourself some coffee.”

  “Yes’m.” I like coffee in the morning, but I’ve never needed it for my existence, like Tig. Stop. If I’m going to move on, I’ve got to quit relating every everyday thing to a Carly memory. I grab my mug from the cupboard, the one with UNLIKE GOLF, BULL RIDING REQUIRES TWO BALLS, that Carly got me—Stop. I pour from the industrial-size coffeemaker on the counter. No Keurig here—it’d wear out in a few months. I lean against the counter and watch Mom work.

  When the bacon is spitting in the pan, she wipes her hands on her apron and turns to me. “Hon, what happened?”

  “I messed up.” I pace from the island to the door and back. “Tig told me she wanted me to come off the road so many times I figured it was just our yearly fight, and went on with business.” I run my hand through my hair. “I took for granted that she’d always be here, waiting. How can it be so clear you’re an idiot after, and not before?”

  “Oh, honey, y’all have been through this before. She loves you. It’ll work out.” She forks bacon out of the cast-iron skillet and cracks three eggs into the grease.

  The fact that she dodged the Troy question reminds me that Mom can keep a secret. Besides, if you can’t trust your mother, you might as well hang the trust thing up. Carly’s secret has been eating me up inside. Maybe it’ll help to let it out. Maybe Mom will have some woman insight. “It’ll work out. Just not the way anyone expects.”

  She turns at my tone, the spatula in her hand dripping grease. “What is it? Just tell me.”

  “It’s my fault, really. Don’t you dare think bad of her for it—”

  “Austin, I’ve known that girl almost as long as I’ve known you. You couldn’t tell me anything that would make me think bad of Carly Beauchamp.”

  “No one took her seriously, that we were broken up. Not me, not the town. She took it for a month, then headed to Albuquerque, to blow off steam.”

  “Not alone?”

  “Yeah.” Insight hits in a starburst. “You know, it just occurred to me. She couldn’t see it was dumb until it was too late. Just like me.”

  “This story is not going to end well, is it?” She’s standing looking at me, and can’t see the smoke signal of overdone eggs.

  I step around her and flip off the burner. I’m starving, and what the hell—they’ll only be black on the bottom. “You go sit. I’ll be right behind you.” I push them onto the plate with the bacon, then carry it and my coffee to the table.

  “She’s pregnant, Mom. With some other guy’s baby.” The blunt-force fact smothers all sound, save the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

  She makes a strangled sound in her throat. “Does she love him?”

  “The guy?” My hand fists on the tablecloth. “She doesn’t even know who he is. Where he is. And she’s not looking, anyway.”

  Her fingers feel their way to my fist and unravel it, then twine with mine. “Has she decided what she’s going to do now?”

  I can’t look at her. “She’s keeping the baby.”

  Her fingers tighten. “Good for her.”

  “I don’t know how she can just forget who fathered that baby, and love it anyway.”

  “It’s not who made it; it’s an innocent soul, Austin.”

  I feel as small as a scorpion, and about as nasty, but I can’t lie. I just shake my head.

  Mom’s fingers let go. “Austin Patrick Davis, surely if that girl can bear this, you can…” Her face falls to disappointed lines, and her hand retreats to her lap. “No, I can see that you don’t get it, do you?”

  “Even if I could get past the fact that she slept with someone else, what if the baby doesn’t have red hair and freckles?” I look up. “What if it looks like him? The only thing worse than not stepping up would be to be resentful of an innocent child. To resent Carly. To turn the beautiful thing we had into a twisted, ugly freak show that we’d both be sorry for, then have to live with forever.”

  She sits a moment, thinking. I know that look. She’s waffling between a lecture and a sales job. When she clasps her hands on the table, I know she’s decided.

  “You and Troy are grown men. It’s hard for me to accept that I can’t paddle your butts and send you to the corner to think about your actions.” Her knuckles go white. “But you make me want to go cut a switch, I swear to God.” Her eyes narrow. “All this time, I thought you really loved that girl. Now it’s clear that you’re not capable. And that makes me so sad.”

  That dart hits, and the poison that spreads under my skin feels familiar. “There’s more problems than that, Mom. Carly’s changed.”

  “Well, of course she has. A baby changes everything.”

  “Her and me, we used to be two halves of one whole. Now, I don’t know what is going on under all that hair.” I give up trying to be all mature, and drop my head in my hands. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” Except sex, apparently. This isn’t helping. It feels like fire ants are crawling under my skin. I can’t do this anymore. I stand. “I gotta go, Mom.”

  Her voice follows me out the door. “What about your eggs?”

  Remembering a bag of jerky leftover from the drive home, I retrieve it from the floorboard of my truck and chew it as I head for the barn behind the house.

  The barn is cool, shady, and full of the smells of my childhood: hay and horses, manure and leather. I find Dad spreading fresh straw in a stall.

  I step into the stall and hold out my hand. “Give me that. Why are you doing the scut work?”

  “I’m not too good, or too old to be taking care of the animals.” But he hands it over. His shoulders started sloping a couple years ago. They’re now downright stooped, his hands gnarled, the knuckles swollen with arthritis from a lifetime of hard work out in the open.

  “No, but I’d say you’ve put your time in.” I take the fork and start spreading straw. “Where’s Troy?”

  He glances out the breezeway, past the paddock, to the golden plain beyond. “He went for a ride.”

  “What’s up with him, anyway? He usually bl
ows back to the big city before someone asks him to get his hands dirty.” I move to the next stall.

  “Ah, don’t be too hard on your brother. He’s hit a rough patch.” He follows and puts his boot on the lowest stall slat.

  I break up a flake of straw from the bale on the floor and shake it into the corners. “What kind of trouble?”

  Dad avoids my look. “He’s bedding down with us for a while.”

  “Trouble at home?”

  Dad moves the toothpick he’s working to the other side of his mouth.

  “Whoa.” Troy and Darcy always went together like diamonds and platinum. Darcy is an Adriano, and the Adrianos were as close as New Mexico gets to royalty. Their ranch covers over a hundred thousand acres, thanks to what’s rumored to be a shady land grant back when we were still a territory.

  Another unshakable relationship bites the dust.

  “A lot of that going around lately.”

  “What?” Dad asks.

  “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

  Dad heads back to the house, and his breakfast. I finish with the stalls and saddle my old buddy, Cochise. I got him as a colt for Christmas my freshman year of high school. The name came natural, since he’s a black-and-white paint, and because I watched way too many Bonanza reruns as a kid. Troy’s mare, Smooth, is missing from the paddock.

  I tie some wire to the saddle skirt, put the pliers and stretcher in the saddlebag, and a ten-minute lope later, I spot them in the far end of the farthest corner of our land. Even out here, he’s immaculate: creased jeans, white broadcloth shirt, clean straw hat, and spanking-new ostrich boots. He looks like he stepped off the cover of Western Horseman. If I had a doubt Troy was avoiding me, his pinched face would have killed it.

  “What do you want?”

  “I need a reason?”

  “Nah, I guess not.”

  I pull Cochise alongside and fall to a walk. A hawk’s piercing hunting cry, the swish of grass, and the jingle of bits are the only sounds. Troy and I aren’t real close, but we never had a problem talking before. “Peaceful out here, huh?”