The Last True Cowboy

by Laura Drake

  He’s looking at me like a mouse eyes a snake. “That’s what I get for listening to a guy who gets stomped into the dirt for the hope of a cheap belt buckle.”

  “They’re not cheap. And I’m serious. You want her back, right?”

  He nods.

  “Trust me; this mistake, I’m way too familiar with. You’ve ignored what she’s been trying to tell you for so long that when you tell her it’ll be different, she doesn’t believe you. And tonight, you reinforced why.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “She needs to know that she means more to you than money. There’s only one way to do that. Stop earning money.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Hey, I clearly have no woman skills, but even I could’a told you your five-point plan was garbage.” I lean forward in the chair. “Talking isn’t going to cut it. You have to show her that she’s worth more to you than money, prestige, and your own ego.”

  “I get that. I do. But that’s like asking me to quit being a man. You grew up in the same house I did. It’s the man’s job to bring home the money.”

  There’s something for me in my words, but I’m on a roll. I’ll think about it later. “She doesn’t need money.” I hold up a hand. “Look, you did it once. You built a business from nothing. I’ve seen what you can do. You’re good. If this doesn’t work, and she divorces you, you can start up your business again.”

  There’s sheer terror in his eyes. But under that, longing. And maybe a spark of hope.

  I sit back and lift my beer. “Desperate measures, bro.”

  “Frankly, the idea scares the hell out of me.” He swipes a hand across his forehead. “But so does losing Darcy. I’m going to put some serious brain cells to this.”

  “It’s weird. You and I went totally different ways, only to end up at the edge of the same cliff. Our problem is, there’s been a whole lot of talking and not much walking. You know what I mean?” My chest pocket rings. I pull out my phone. A local number, but one I don’t recognize. “Hello?” I can hear excited babble in the background.

  “It’s Fish.”

  The diner. My heart triphammers against my ribs. “What is it?”

  “Austin,” he whispers, but I hear his panic. “You’d better get down to the diner. Now.”

  Click.

  Chapter 20

  Carly

  It’s been a crazy Saturday morning. Lorelei called me early to tell me, between dry heaves, that she had food poisoning. I called Sassy Medina to come in early but she has traffic court, so she can’t work more than her normal shift, from eight to one. Which means I’m working from open to close.

  At one thirty, Fish pushes open the door from the kitchen and takes the tea pitcher from me. He hands it to Betsy Brandywine. “Here. Make the rounds, will you?”

  His hawklike eyes land on me. “You.” He grabs my arm. “You’re sitting down for ten minutes.”

  “But I—”

  He leans in and whispers, “You look like pregnant roadkill. Go. Sit. Down.”

  Shock stops dissent. If Fish noticed, the rest will know, soon enough. I sit on a stool at the bar. The moment of truth is almost here, and I’m still not ready. I don’t have any tactics, any tools, any ideas. No backup plan for a nonexistent original plan.

  I glance around the room. I know every person here: high school teachers, friends’ mothers, local farmers, fellow shop owners. Manny Stipple is on the stool beside me, talking to Moss Jones, who is slurping soup like a thirsty dog. A whiff of Manny’s booze-tainted sweat washes over me, and my stomach rolls in a greasy wave. I’m suddenly shaky. The babble of talk recedes to the sound of bees, humming, getting louder. I turn the stool to see where it’s coming from and the room keeps spinning off kilter.

  Spots dance on the edge of the room. The humming gets louder. A flush of heat spreads up from my chest. I’m hot. Sweating hot. I can’t breathe. Gotta get out of here.

  When I stand, I’m looking down the wrong end of a telescope. “I’m not…”

  The dots get bigger, blotting out the lights one by one.

  Blackness.

  Sound comes back first. The buzzing of bees, which morphs to hushed voices. Something is squeezing my arm. Faces hover over me; the closest are Fish and a guy I don’t know. There’s a tier of others above them. “Wha—”

  “Lie still now. Eighty-five over fifty.”

  The pressure cuff releases my arm.

  The unflappable Fish looks flapped. “You passed out, Carly. We called an ambulance.”

  I try to sit up, only to be eased back by the EMT. “Stay down. Your BP is so low you’ll pass out again.”

  I focus on the next circle of faces. My customers. “Let me up. I have work to do.” My head is full of cotton. I need to remember something. But everything is happening so fast I can’t catch the thought.

  “I’m starting an IV.” The EMT glances to someone I can’t see. “Get the gurney. We’ll transport her.” There’s a crinkling of plastic, and cold on the inside of my arm. “There’ll just be a little stick.”

  “Wait!” I jerk my arm away. “You can’t give me anything. I’m pregnant.”

  The room goes still; the only sound the whoosh of my customers’ indrawn breaths.

  Fish says, “Somebody call Austin.”

  “Don’t!” My voice is loud in the quiet. “It isn’t Austin’s.”

  “How far along?” The EMT asks.

  “Eighteen weeks.” I grab his arm. “Please. Is my baby okay?”

  He moves a stethoscope over my belly. “Heartbeat’s strong. But, you’re bleeding.”

  “What?” I try to sit up, to see, but terror melts my muscles to a useless quiver.

  The circle above me is broken, and a gurney rolls up.

  “Let’s get a move on. I want to get her to the clinic.”

  Many arms lift me onto the gurney and they strap me down. “Please, someone call Nana and Papaw.” My voice cracks. Bean and I have come such a long way. God wouldn’t take my baby just because I didn’t want it at first, would he? I snatch at the EMT’s arm. “Please. Save my baby.”

  “You just relax. We’ll get you to a doc fast.”

  As they roll me out, I realize that I could give a flying fart about what people say about me. There’s worse than people gossiping about my being pregnant.

  Lots worse.

  * * *

  Austin

  Carly! Adrenaline spurts into my blood and I vault off the porch and run for my truck.

  “What’s going on?” Troy yells.

  “It’s Carly. I’ll call you when I know.”

  I exceed every speed limit by 40 mph on the way to town, frantically hitting speed dial: Fish, Carly, Lorelei, Nana. They all ring then go to voice mail.

  I blow around a tractor lumbering down the highway. The farmer’s eyes are huge, then he’s in the rearview. The fear in Fish’s voice has turned my blood to a slurry of ice, making my heart and lungs labor. “Where the fuck is everyone?” I start dialing again. Fish, Carly…

  I take the turn onto the square with a squeal of tires that sends pedestrians running. Shit. I forgot it’s market day. I ease on the brakes. There’s a crowd in front of the diner, just standing around talking.

  No parking spots. I pull up behind the cars parallel-parked in front, hit the flashers, and get out. A truck behind me lays on the horn and eases around me.

  Moss is at the outermost edge of the crowd. I grab his arm. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with Carly?”

  He looks up at me with alarm, then his gaze slides away. No, slinks away.

  My panic redlines. “Someone tell me—screw it. Get out of my way.”

  The quiet crowd parts before me, but no one is meeting my eyes.

  Heads turn when I slam through the door. The booths are full, with a dozen people standing, but the room is silent as if it were empty. Fish is standing behind the counter, talking on the phone. In five steps I’m there.

  He ends the call, conce
rn in every line of his long face.

  “What? What’s happened? Where is Carly?”

  “She passed out. I called an ambulance. They’re taking her to the clinic. I just called her grandparents. They’re heading down there.” He shoots a look around the room and lowers his voice. “She was bleeding, Austin.”

  The baby. She must be freaking out. Oh, Tig.

  I need to see Carly. See that she’s okay. Help her deal with…whatever she’s going to have to deal with. I drag my fingers through my hair. But I’m not even sure she’d let me in. Even if she did, we’re not like we used to be. She may let me in the room, but she wouldn’t let me in. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Doesn’t matter. I need to go. I’m halfway to the door before it hits me. Something doesn’t feel right. I turn back to the room. Fish is the only employee I’ve seen. “Where’s Lorelei?”

  “Home sick.”

  “And that little girl, what’s her name?”

  “Sassy. Traffic court.”

  Something niggles. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel the shape of it enough to know this is the exact wrong thing. Stop. Think. That’s when it hits me. I’m thinking about what I want, not what she needs. This is what she’s been trying to tell me—that I think of things in terms of myself, and how it affects me.

  Double shit with whipped cream. She’s right. Carly doesn’t need me at the clinic. Her Nana will be there.

  If I’m to help, it has to be help that she needs. And what she needs now is for someone to take care of her other baby: the diner.

  But still, I have a silent talk with my feet, that want to run for the door. I force them to turn, and keep walking until I’m around the counter. I scan the shelves, see white cloth, and pull out a half apron and tie it on. “I’m going to need your help finding stuff, Fish. I’ll have a million questions.”

  “There’s hope for you and your black soul yet, Davis.” He grins at me. “Let’s do this.” Then he turns and walks through the door to the kitchen.

  I pull out a book of tickets, drop it in the pocket of the apron, then pick up the coffeepot and the iced tea pitcher. I look up at the packed room. “Okay, people. If you’re eating, have a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” I look around at the bystanders. “If you’re not eating, show’s over. Go on outta here.”

  A few people leave, but most stay. Standing room only. Great.

  I tuck a pen behind my ear. “Y’all are going to have to be patient with me. I’m better at spurring beef than serving it.”

  That gets a laugh.

  Old Mrs. Simmons walks over and takes the pots from my hands. “I’ll do this. You get the orders.”

  “You’re an angel, ma’am.” I bend down and kiss her cheek.

  “Pssssht. I’ve known you and Carly since the day you were born. Least I can do for all the entertainment you two have given me over the years.” She winks at me, then totters off to do refills.

  I head to the first booth, pad out and ready to write. “What can I get y’all?”

  It’s half the Historical Society Committee. The mean half. Ann Miner looks like she’s been drinking unsweetened lemonade. “Are you aware that Carly Beauchamp is pregnant?” she hisses like the snake that she is.

  Carly doesn’t deserve the slime this woman’s words are dipped in. But hell, didn’t I pretty much do the same thing, when I found out? And I was her guy. Face flaming, I look down at the order pad in my hand, and speak loud enough for the room to hear. “Carly is at the hospital, in trouble. Maybe you oughta think about cutting her some slack.”

  If Ann Miner’s nose got any higher, she’d tip over backward. “Well. I never.”

  I’m pissed, and so damned worried about Carly that the words fall out, unfiltered. “Ma’am, maybe if you had, just once in your life, you wouldn’t be so quick to judge.” I stare her down until she blushes and looks away. “Now, what do you want to eat?”

  Six hours later I’m covered in sweat, grease, and too many stains to name. My feet are killing me, and I have a newfound appreciation for every waitress who has ever served me. How do they do this, day after day? The grumpy diners, the slippery plates, the kids finger painting the tables in catsup.

  I ring up Booger Rothchild, the last customer, and one of Unforgiven’s three city cops. “Y’all be sure to come back, now.” I hand over his change.

  “Tell Carly I’m pulling for her, won’t you?”

  I follow him to the door. “You bet. ’Night.”

  The bells tinkle when the door falls closed. I turn the key in the lock.

  “Not bad for a cowboy.” Fish has come up behind me and takes his keys from me.

  “Today, I found another profession I can’t handle.” And how has Carly been doing this, pregnant?

  “Not tough enough, huh?” He smiles.

  “Not by half.” I untie the apron and empty the pockets. “Got some good tips, though.”

  “Ha. Pity tips.”

  “Hey, I earned every dollar.” I stuff the apron under the counter and hand the bills to Fish. “These are Carly’s.”

  He claps me on the shoulder. “You go on. I’ll take care of cashing out.”

  I’m almost to the door when his voice comes from behind me. “You tell Carly we’ve got it under control here. She doesn’t need to worry about a thing.”

  “I will. Thanks, Fish.”

  I did what needed to be done, but now I’m doing what I want, and no one is going to stop me. I unlock the truck, fire it up, and head for the clinic. The hospital doesn’t normally give updates if you’re not family, but I know everyone there, and I called so often they eventually told me that Carly and the baby are both stable. They’re keeping her overnight for observation.

  I stop on the way and pick up some flowers. Nothing massive, just a simple bunch of ones that remind me of Carly—daisies and something yellow, and fragile little white things the clerk called baby’s breath. Fitting, I thought.

  Unforgiven’s not big enough for a hospital, but the clinic can handle most of the small-town medical emergencies. Bonnie Carver, who was a few years behind us in school, is manning the desk, and directs me to Carly’s room.

  Carly is lying in bed, pale as milk, an IV in her arm, the green lights on the stand displaying her vitals. In the harsh overhead lights, I can read every shade of emotion on her face: fear, anger, exhaustion, but over them all, a layer of crushing powerlessness.

  A protective snarl rises in my chest. I choke it back, but I can’t stop my feet from taking me to her side, or my hand from taking hers. I lean in. “How can I help?”

  Just for a fraction of a second, I’m sure she’s been waiting for me. The relief is there in her eyes. When she blinks, it’s gone.

  But in that nanosecond before she turns away, it slams into me—what it’s like having Carly love me. Depend on me. Like a smell, or a song—it put me back there, back when I had it all, and was too stupid to know it. It throws into sharp contrast the difference in my life, before and after. Makes me realize that my life is more precarious than it ever was when I was riding bulls.

  This is my future, lying here in this bed.

  She pulls her hand away and looks over my shoulder. “You didn’t need to come.”

  That’s when I realize we’re not alone. Her Nana and Papaw are sitting in chairs on the other side of the bed, watching my every move. Papaw looks like he longs for his shotgun.

  I straighten, take a step back, and take off my hat. “Mr. Beauchamp. Miz Beauchamp.”

  “Oh, I’m not Nana anymore, eh?”

  My face is on fire. I stand there, flowers in one hand, hat in the other, feeling like a naked man in a bull pen.

  “Nana, don’t give him a hard time.” Carly turns to me. “Are those for me?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry.” I look around for somewhere to put them and she points at the water pitcher on the stand beside the bed.

  “Thank you.”

  I drop them in and look down, working the brim of my
hat. “I just came by to set your mind at ease. The diner is closed up, safe and snug.”

  “What…how—”

  “I now can add ‘waitress’ to my résumé.” I look down at my boots. “Not that I’m ever going to take it up. I’m not tough enough.”

  “That’s a fact.” Nana cackles.

  Carly smiles. “Man, did anybody take a video? I’d pay money to see that.”

  “Well, you won’t. I confiscated all cell phones when they walked in. It’d ruin my reputation.”

  “Seriously? You really waited tables?”

  Her tender look has my knees going soft. “Well, I figured there was nothing I could do to help here, so…”

  “Thank you, Austin.” She’s smiling, but her brows are frowning. “That was the perfect thing to do. I’m grateful.” The smile slides from her face. “The diners. I blurted out my news…How did they take it? They didn’t harass you, did they? Because I—”

  “It’s fine. You have more important things to worry about.”

  But she is worrying. She chews the corner of her mouth just like this when she’s worried. I can’t help myself. I take her hand.

  Nana jumps in. “Me ’n Papaw will go down there in the morning and straighten things out.”

  “No!” Carly and I say together, her voice louder than mine.

  “No need, Miz—Nana. Fish is managing it.”

  “You plannin’ on settin’ a spell, Austin?” There’s a challenge in Nana’s blue eyes.

  “All night, if they’re keeping her.”

  She stands. “Come on, Leroy. We’re goin’ home.”

  Carly slides her hand from mine. “Nana, you don’t have to go. And you”—she glares at me—“are not staying.”

  “Here.” Nana pats the chair closest to the bed. “You just set right here.”

  “Nana.” Carly’s voice is a clear warning.

  “Come on, Leroy, I’m tired.” She lays her hand on her husband’s forearm. He stands and, with a warning glare at me that speaks volumes, they walk out.

  I step to the door and flip off the fluorescents. The lamp by the bed softens the harsh, industrial lines of the room.