Cowboy Sing Me Home

by Harris, Kim Hunt

  “You must have a favorite place.”

  She thought, but her mind was too tired to come up with anything. She was hit by a strong and senseless urge to say ‘here’, but bit it back. This wasn’t her favorite place. This town was full of crazy people who fought over stupid things and put clothes on their dead tree stumps.

  “I don’t know, Cowboy. I don’t suppose I have a favorite place.”

  “Well, then, what’s your favorite thing about living like you do?”

  She had an answer for him. It was her life, after all. She had a favorite thing about her life she could share.

  She just had to think of what it was.

  Endless driving. No friends. Holidays alone, or with her manager. No rest.

  Silence. Never ending silence.

  She enjoyed these things, she reminded herself. She was free. Her time was her own. She called the shots. This was the way she chose to live her life, because it suited her. This was who she was.

  Did she really have to like it, too?

  “Why spend all that time on the road if you don’t enjoy it?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I just said I didn’t have a favorite place.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Because it’s my life,” she said, irritated. Why didn’t he just shut up and let her enjoy the dance? She turned the tables on him, expecting that his answers would be no different from hers. “Why do you stay here? Why do you do your job?”

  “Oh, man, I love it here. My family is here, my friends, everyone I care about. I’m happy here. I love my job, knowing I’m contributing to my community. I’m a part of things here. Five generations of Tanners have grown up here. And the sky goes on forever. That’s why I’m here.”

  Oh.

  Their feet scuffed the worn floor as they shuffled around the room. Okay, that’s it, Dusty thought. Luke Tanner was just too… something, for her to become involved with, even for a few days. Too hokey. Too corny. Too happily-ever-after, dreams-always-come-true. Definitely not her type.

  She opened her mouth to tell him that, in not so many words. Instead, what came out was, “When we sleep together, I’d prefer we do it at my place.”

  Luke choked to keep from swallowing his own tongue. “Do what?”

  “I’d rather we go to my trailer. I’m more comfortable there. I get the creeps when I’m at someone else’s house late at night. And no offense, but I’d prefer you didn’t spend the night.”

  Luke tipped back his head and studied her. “You have this all worked out, don’t you?”

  “Just laying a few ground rules. I’m open to any preferences you have, too. Within reason.”

  “Who says we’re going to sleep together?”

  “Aren’t we? Isn’t this what you’ve been angling for from the minute you stopped to help me with my tire?”

  “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

  She gave a humorless laugh. “Umm, not so much. I don’t have time for subtle anyway. I’m here for two weeks, and half of one is already gone. If we’re going to spend the first week and a half dancing around each other, that doesn’t leave much time. Inexplicable as it may be, I’m attracted to you. You’re attracted to me. We’re both adults. Neither one of us is married. Right?” She gave him a pointed look.

  He shook his head, not trusting his voice not to squeak if he spoke just now. He stopped and picked up his mug to cover his discomposure.

  “So I don’t see the point in drawing out the inevitable. Do you have a problem with meeting at my trailer?”

  Again, he shook his head. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned, he thought. Not at all. The woman was offering herself, no strings attached. He should be elated.

  So why was he disappointed? “Listen, could you just humor for a minute and let me pretend like I’m… I don’t know. Wooing you?”

  She actually laughed in his face. “What am I, Scarlett O’Hara?”

  He shook his head and stared at the yellow and green lights of the jukebox. He felt a little sick. Like he’d just found out the prized antique he’d bought was really just cheap plastic from Taiwan. It wasn’t her; he turned back to her and she was just as golden and precious as she had been. But what she was offering…it wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

  As soon as the thought coalesqued in his mind, it brought all other thoughts to a screeching halt.

  What did he have in mind?

  Surely he, who knew for a fact there was no such thing as happy ever after and love-you-forever, hadn’t even subconsciously entertained the notion of anything more than a good time with Dusty while she was in town? The image flashed through his mind, of Dusty and him sitting at the breakfast table twenty years down the road, facing each other with the same expressions his parents wore when they faced each other. Was that what he’d hand in mind?

  He picked up his mug and took a deep swallow, told himself it was just his pride that was hurt. He was used to making a bigger impression than this, that was all. If she wanted to set the rules, that was fine. But he was definitely going to play.

  “You’re throwing off my game here. I’ve been imagining a few more slow dances with you. And dinner. Bringing you flowers.” He set his glass down and stepped toward her, watching for some sign, some signal that he was getting under her skin. Some sign that her cool composure was slipping, just a little. “And then, during dinner, I would wonder if you’d let me kiss you. And when I did kiss you if I’d do it slow, ease up on you. Or just do it. Sudden, full force, fill my hands with your hair and pin you up against the wall. Then we’d go to your place.”

  If he’d meant to shake her, his plan backfired. Suddenly he wanted her so intensely he could feel it, could see and feel and taste how it would be between them. The electricity that sparked between them on stage would be there, between them in bed. It crackled now, setting every nerve on end and making it nearly impossible for him not to reach out for her.

  She held her ground, matching his stare with one of her own. He thought something shifted in her eyes, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Okay, in the first place, this isn’t high school, with us meeting across a malted in the soda shop. And second, you don’t have time to woo me,” she said calmly. “You have too many rehearsals.”

  He laughed lightly and shook his head, backing away. “Well, I guess that’s the way it has to be, then.”

  “Look, Ace, if you want a good little Aloma County girl, go get you one. If you want me, you have to take me like I am.”

  “Ahh, yeah. I want you.” He’d never wanted anything so much in his life.

  “Okay then.” She took a deep breath and reached for her guitar, hoisting the strap over her head.

  He smiled when he saw her hand shake as she fiddled with the strap. She wasn’t as composed as she’d have him think.

  “Okay then.” He grinned. “Tonight and tomorrow night I have to sleep at the jail, since we have a prisoner. But Friday night….your place, after the first dance. And I won’t bring my PJs.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dusty set the box of microphones and cords down inside the foyer and took an uneasy look around. It had been a long time since she’d seen the inside of a church, but the feeling was pretty much the same as she remembered: hushed silence, muted colors from stained glass windows, an indefinable smell that mixed fruit punch, old lady floral perfume, delusion and desperation. Or maybe that was just her. She shuddered. She couldn’t get out of this place too soon.

  She took a quick look around the sanctuary, but it didn’t take long to see there was no one present save her and that trusty old holy ghost. She moved toward the only other door she could see, at the front of the sanctuary, her footsteps absorbed by the thick green carpet. She pushed open the door gingerly and peered around the edge. She could hear a piano and singing, but couldn’t see anything except another hall. She felt like she was walking into someone’s house uninvited. Which, in a way, she supposed she was.

&n
bsp; “Hello?” Her voice came out wavery and timid. That irritated her; she was here for a legitimate purpose. She may not be a card-carrying member of the church, but she had as much right to be in this hallway as anyone else did. “Hello!”

  No one heard. Instead she stood there feeling like a fool. With a sigh, she advanced down the hallway. Taking a right, she met another hallway, leading away from the muffled strains of the banging piano. She started to turn back, but out of the corner of her eye saw a man in a white t-shirt outside a window.

  He was replacing it. Good, she thought. A custodian or handyman or something. In other words, a normal person instead of a churchy person, who could tell her where to leave the microphones so she could get out of here.

  She walked up to the window and smiled. The man smiled back and motioned for her to lift the window. She did, with some effort.

  “Good,” he said when she got it open. “It didn’t fall out. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely.”

  He stuck his hand through the window. “Hi, I’m Mark.”

  “Dusty,” she said as she shook his hand. “Rodney asked me to bring the microphones and speakers for the big shindig this weekend.”

  “Oh, good. The choir has been waiting for those.” He scraped a putty knife along the edge of the window and scooped up some gray goop. Then he bent and crawled through the window. “Ahh. Ten o’clock in the morning, and already it’s sweltering.”

  He wiped his hands on a dirty towel, then used it to dab at the sweat along his browline. “You’re Dusty Rhodes. I saw you at the barbecue. Thanks for bringing the equipment, and be sure and tell Rodney thanks for loaning it.”

  “No problem. Kind of surprised me, you know, a church using equipment from a bar.”

  Mark tilted his head and gave her a puzzled smile. “Oh?”

  “You know. Den of iniquity and all that.”

  “It’s sound equipment,” Mark said with a laugh.

  Dusty shrugged. “I know that and you know that. But you know how church people can be.”

  “Boy, do I ever. But luckily right now all anyone’s interested in is having a successful Jubilee. Where’d you leave the stuff?”

  They walked back toward the sanctuary, and as they did the music from the other end of the hallway grew louder.

  “That’s the choir, obviously. They’ve planned quite an extensive program.”

  Dusty figured as custodian, he must keep up on all the happenings of the church. As they passed the choir room door, someone inside hit the mother of all sour notes.

  A few voices faltered, but the pianist banged gamely on. Dusty cast a sideways glance at Mark.

  He was failing at his attempt to hide a grimace.

  “They need a bit more practice, I suppose.”

  That was being generous, Dusty thought, but kept it to herself. Whoever hit that note needed a muzzle.

  What the woman lacked in talent she made up for in volume, though. Dusty had to give her that. The warbling voice followed them back through the sanctuary, and even carried faintly as they moved to the back of the large room.

  Dusty showed him the microphones she’d brought, all the while trying to ignore the painful strains emanating from the choir room. “I brought some mike stands, too, in case they needed them.”

  He followed her out to her pickup and carried the stands in. When they re-entered the foyer, she saw him wince at a particularly unpleasant note from the choir room. He threw her a pained smile. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Do you have time to show me how to hook this all together? The Jubilee’s going to be on the courthouse square, where the barbecue was last night. But if you could show me how…”

  “Sure. What’s the setup? A soloist, a trio, just straight choir? A mixture of all the above? Oh good Lord,” she said when the voice in the next room warbled to a fever pitch. “She isn’t going to be one of them, is she?”

  Mark made a face. “Afraid so. That’s Mavis, our lead soprano.”

  “I don’t believe amplification is what is called for here. Geez, has anyone told her how awful that is?”

  He sighed and inserted a microphone into a stand. “It is pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  “Bad isn’t even the word.”

  “And all these people coming for the festival…” He shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter, of course,” he said, as if to remind himself. “What matters is that everyone has a great time. It’s about rallying the troops, you know. Not about talent. Thank heavens.”

  “If you say so.”

  The “music” stopped. Dusty breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It is an awkward situation,” Mark said as he strung cord across the dais. “No one wants to be petty and small-minded. But at the same time, I can’t help but think about all the people who will be here, and how nice it would be to have a truly outstanding choir. Everyone’s doing their best to pull out all the stops for this thing. All four denominations in town are joining together to put on great shows, all eight nights. That in itself is a miracle. Hours and hours of work have gone into this. I’d hoped that with the combined voices, maybe Mavis would be… blended a little. But she just sings louder to carry over the rest.”

  “High screechy notes carry,” Dusty informed him as she slid a mike into a stand.

  “I noticed that.”

  Behind them, a throat cleared.

  Dusty looked up to see a tall woman with a beehive of strawberry blonde hair standing in the doorway. Her face was much the same color as her hair. She sent Dusty a pursed-lip look, then turned to Mark. She took a deep breath, her ample bosom puffing up like a frog’s throat. “Brother Mark, we’re trying to decide between Bringing in the Sheaves and Up from the Grave.”

  “Brother Mark?” Dusty peered at him. “You’re the preacher?”

  “Yes,” he said shortly to Dusty, then turned to the woman with the tall hair. “Whatever you think is best, Mavis. I trust your judgement.”

  Mavis sniffed, threw another glare in Dusty’s direction, and swung out of the room.

  After she’d gone, Mark looked at Dusty, a stiff smile pasted on his face. “Do you think she heard us?”

  “Is her face always that color?”

  Mark made a sound between a sigh and a groan and his smile drooped. “I only saw her that color one other time, when she and Beatrice Winters got into an argument over how much sage should be put in the cornbread dressing at Thanksgiving.”

  A moment later, a door slammed.

  “I believe that was Mavis, storming out.” Dusty said as she untangled cord. “Why didn’t you tell me you were the preacher?”

  Mark continued to look toward the choir room. “Some people have a chip on their shoulder about clergymen, and the church in general. You seemed like one of those people.”

  “I have a chip on my shoulder about liars, too.”

  “I didn’t lie. I misled you.”

  “And I’m not a big fan of people splitting hairs.”

  “I guess I should go after her.”

  “Why? Do you want her to come back and ruin your Jubilee?”

  “Not especially. But I like the idea of hurting her feelings even less.” He made his way toward the door. “Just leave that stuff, Dusty, and I’ll work it out when I get back.

  As he walked out the foyer door toward the parking lot, a group of women came through the door that led into the hallway.

  “Oh.” A frail-looking, gray-haired woman froze, then turned back to the others. “There’s a girl here.”

  Evidently she didn’t come upon girls in the church very often, Dusty thought. She nodded at the group. “I’ll be through here in a minute.” The least she could do after running off his “star” soprano was to get the setup taken care of.

  “We’re not trying to rush you, sweetie. We’re just surprised to see an unfamiliar face.” Another woman stepped forward, her sun-lined face wrinkling into a smile. “Especially a pretty young one. Are you helping Brothe
r Mark get ready for the Jubilee?”

  “I’m setting up microphones. Brother Mark went to find Mavis.”

  “She left in a huff,” the first woman said. “She was all bent out of shape over something.”

  “Louise, we shouldn’t be talking about it until we know the whole story. That’s how gossip gets started.”

  “Well Helen, she was in a huff,” Louise insisted. She turned to Dusty. “Made some nonsense remark about taking her high screechy voice home, then she grabbed her purse and stormed out.”

  Dusty waggled her fingers, not liking the tiny bubbles of guilt that started to form in her stomach. “That would by my fault. I didn’t realize she could hear me, and I… ummm… described her singing in that way.” No point beating around the bush. What were they going to do, sic the Holy Spirit on her?

  Silence greeted her. Maybe they were going to sic the Holy Spirit on her.

  “Well,” the second woman said breathlessly, looking a little faint.

  “If that doesn’t…” Another one said behind her.

  “I’ve never…”

  “It’s about darn time somebody said something,” Louise said.

  The women turned to stare drop-jawed at Louise.

  “Well, it’s the truth. And sometimes the truth hurts, but still it needs to be said. We’ve been listening to that off-key whining for years. Nobody says anything because we don’t want to hurt her feelings. But the truth is, that woman can not sing.”

  “Louise…” Helen said.

  “Don’t ‘Louise’ me, Helen. You know yourself we’ve talked about how we wished Mavis could tone it down a little, or maybe get another hobby. If she could just find a key and stick to it, it would help. Or could lower her voice a little…but she’s just so durned loud.”

  “Louise,” Helen cajoled.

  “Helen, if the good Lord had meant for her to sing, he would have given her a little bit of talent.”

  “Louise!” Helen hissed. “Not in front of the Methodists!”

  “Oh, so what if the durned Methodists hear us? They understand. They have black sheep of their own to deal with. Look at those ridiculous choir robes Norma Buchanan made and expects us to wear. You don’t think some phone calls got made about that?”