The Love of a Cowboy

by Anna Jeffrey

  She was exhausted when she sank to her cot, yet sleep eluded her. Watching the moon travel across her open bedroom window, she had relived every day and night she had spent with Luke McRae.

  The alarm, heedless of the late hour sleep came, buzzed at five and she had staggered to the bathroom and tried to cover the havoc that showed on her face. Now, she could see that make-up hadn’t hidden the hours of angst. But her appearance no longer mattered, did it?

  Nothing mattered—at least not in Idaho.

  She twisted her long, black hair into a roll and secured it on top of her head with a gold claw clip.

  I’ll get my hair cut. Who cares now if it’s long or short? Soon as I know Dad’s okay, I’ll go to Fort Worth and get a new do. A makeover.

  She finished her make-up with a dash of burgundy lipstick and surveyed for one last time the cramped, white bathroom where the necessary fixtures barely fit. She would miss the efficiency, she mused, of being able to stand in one spot and reach anything in the room.

  Where the hell is Piggy? You would think that just this once…

  Three hours to the Boise airport. If they left this minute, she would have less than an hour to check in and pick up her ticket.

  It would be hot in Dallas. She returned to her suitcase and changed her polo shirt to a tank top and switched from socks and boots to sandals.

  She paced, then sat down on a box, drumming her feet on the hardwood floor. She was a snappish bundle of nerves by the time the idle of an engine out front caught her ear. She shoved on her sunglasses to hide her swollen eyes.

  Piggy blustered in, grabbed one of Dahlia’s bags and charged toward the front door. Dahlia stamped behind her and they were on their way, bulleting along the snake-like highway to Boise, as if it had no blind curves or steep drop-offs alongside it.

  Piggy’s questions about the parking lot meeting with Luke were inevitable, so her nosy quizzing came as no surprise. “Nothing happened,” Dahlia told her. It hurt too much to say aloud that Luke had brushed her off like lint on his shoulder. Piggy didn’t press. Dahlia tilted her seat backward and closed her eyes. “Try not to turn us over while I nap.”

  The next thing she knew, she was being dumped at Boise’s small airport with only minutes to spare. As she headed for the gate, Dahlia remembered she hadn’t even asked Piggy where she had spent the night.

  She boarded the 747 feeling detached from everything familiar. After four months in the mountainous Northwest, calling up a picture of the flat Texas landscape was hard. From Boise to Denver, a blue-haired gnome occupied the adjoining seat, chattering about church work, illnesses and immoral relatives. Dahlia had two drinks of Black Velvet and water instead of lunch and nodded off.

  During a layover in Denver, she bought the new issue of Cosmo and found every article to be about men. Getting the most out of your relationship. Pleasing your lover. Great sex. If this was a conspiracy to torment her, it was working. She felt as if someone was holding her head underwater. She threw Cosmo in a trashcan and plodded the concourse like a refugee, her purse hanging from one shoulder, her carry-on satchel from the other. Normally, the bustle of an airport gave her an effervescent feeling. Today, she thought it cold and lonely, the busy travelers pushy and rude.

  Passing in front of a dim cocktail lounge, she glanced inside. A place to wait. But when some movie star look-alike—she couldn’t think who—gave her a smile and a hitch of his chin and pointed to an empty stool beside him, she ducked her head and quick-stepped to the ladies’ room.

  As she washed her hands, her reflection in the wide mirror startled her again. All summer, except for the weekends she had spent in hotels or motels with Luke, she had seen herself only in the notebook-sized medicine cabinet mirror in the cottage’s bathroom. The woman staring back looked older somehow than the girl who had gone to Idaho for the summer. It was a silly idea, because she was still the same age as when she left Loretta last spring.

  The difference had to come from within. Because of the potent sexuality of her relationship with Luke, she was aware of herself as a woman in a new way. For the rest of her life, her attitude and behavior around men would be different. This new-sprung knowledge was wondrous in a bizarre way, and exciting, like carrying a concealed weapon through the airport. Okay, so she was a late bloomer. Most women probably got it before they were staring at thirty.

  Luke. She felt a rush of heat low in her belly. How could just thinking of him cause that? She had to get over it, but could she? Would she ever meet another man she wouldn’t compare to him?

  Dissolving into a seat in the waiting area, she leaned on her hand and tried to doze, but her thoughts gave her no peace. What if Dad were crippled? Or worse yet, paralyzed and helpless? What if he didn’t survive? Would Luke revive his relationship with Lee Ann Flagg or return to sleeping with women outside of Callister? The questions brought a new threat of tears, so she rose and paced the crowded aisle. By the time she heard her Dallas flight called, she could hardly wait to get on the plane.

  Then, they were landing and the gold of dusk stained the horizon. She had slept from Denver to Dallas. De-boarding, the portable corridor between the plane’s doorway and the terminal was suffocating. The temperature had to be over a hundred. She began to sweat. Her feet hadn’t touched Texas soil and already she wished she were back in the mountain valley she had left behind.

  Chuck Moore, the butcher and long-time, quasi manager of the Handy Pantry, met her with a hug. Because he was Dad’s trusted employee and good friend, he was her friend, too.

  “I’m sorry, Dally,” he said.

  Dally. The pet name Dad had called her from childhood. A reminder she had come home.

  “Do they think he’s going to be okay?” she asked.

  “They haven’t told me much. He’s in the ICU. Dr. Webb’s been anxious for you to get back.”

  During the two hundred mile trip from the airport to Loretta, Chuck told what knew about her father’s condition: Elton hadn’t been feeling well for a while, had taken some days off. He collapsed in the butcher shop, was taken to the hospital in the ambulance.

  Other than that, they talked little. Fine with her. Her mental and physical reserves were spent. The call about the stroke, then in the same hour, being dumped by the man to whom she had given her body and soul, the wearing, day-long air trip with too much idle time to think—all combined had shredded her very fabric.

  It was near ten o’clock when Chuck dropped her off at the rundown house that had been home most of her life. Unlit, it looked even shabbier than she remembered. She was met inside by a tomb-like silence, punctuated by the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and loud ticking of the antique mantel clock that sat the top of the TV in the living room. Both were sounds of home.

  She found the keys to her BMW in the exact spot where she had left them—in the kitchen cabinet drawer beside the refrigerator. The Beemer was where she had left it, too—parked in the garage beside her dad’s ten-year-old Plymouth. The snappy Z3 started up without argument and she drove to the hospital.

  The RN on duty—Loretta Community Hospital had only one per shift—was Piggy’s cousin, JoAnn. With quick, squeaky steps, she led Dahlia to the ICU’s window across the hall from the nurses’ station. There, in the dimly-lit room’s only bed, lay a body, still as death, making an indistinct outline beneath the covers and hooked to blinking machines by ropes of tubes. Her hand raised and flattened on the glass, as if it could snatch from jeopardy the only person who had loved her without condition.

  “He’s just sleeping,” JoAnn said before Dahlia asked.

  “He—he looks so small.”

  “All this equipment is intimidating. When you come back tomorrow, we’ll let you in to visit for a few minutes.”

  “Tomorrow?” Dahlia glanced at the two chairs beside the ICU room door. “No, I’ll stay here tonight.”

  “Don’t you be looking at those chairs. It doesn’t serve any purpose for you to try to sleep here.” JoAnn�
��s arm slid around her waist and Dahlia found herself steered away from the ICU window. “We’ll take care of him, Dahlia. He’s in pretty good shape, considering.”

  “But I want him to know I’m here.”

  “We’ll tell him. Go home. Get some rest. You look worn out.”

  “You’ll call me if he asks for me? Or if he . . .” She took a deep breath . . . “if he gets worse?” She had almost said, God forbid, if he dies.

  “We’ll call. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Dr. Webb will probably go fishing, so he’ll do rounds early. Get here before nine o’clock if you can.” JoAnn’s arm hooked through hers. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.” They ambled down the quiet, semi-dark hall toward the front exit. “What’s my cousin up to and how was Idaho? I’ll bet y’all had fun. My husband’s always wanted to go hunting up there.”

  “Piggy’s coming back next week. Idaho was beautiful. In any direction, it looks like a painting. And it’s cool . . . JoAnn, is Dad going to make it?”

  “He’s in good hands, sweetie. Talk to Dr. Webb tomorrow.”

  Six hours later, Dahlia tiptoed into the ICU. She had spent a fitful night, lost in nightmares of brick walls crashing down on top of her alternating with bouts of half-sleep where disjointed memories sawed through her brain like a dull knife. Now, she stared at the body whose impression in the bed was less than that of a pillow. This old man with hollows for eyes, thinning gray hair and pale, crinkled skin couldn’t be her father. Dad would be clean-shaven, his hair combed. And he would be wearing Dockers with a clean shirt.

  “Hi, Dad,” she whispered, schooling her voice not to crack.

  He attempted to speak, but seemed to be chewing on his tongue. Fear leapt into her heart. She felt an odd shifting of the ground beneath her, like seasickness, and a need to catch her breath. Summoning her courage, she picked up his hand, found it ice-cold. A piece of tape had loosened from an IV needle in the back of his hand. She gently pressed it down. “I’m back, Dad” she said, and felt stupid. Obviously she was back.

  A tear seeped from one of his eyes and trailed past his temple. Fending off a sob of her own, she turned her gaze to the maze of technology surrounding them. She wanted to cry out, tear loose the tubes and wires and shake her dad back to being the man who held an office in the American Legion, who was known as an honest merchant who gave thousands of dollars worth of food to needy families. Her only living family. The barrage of emotions so stymied her, all she seemed to be able to do was stand there in silence, holding his hand, weeping inside and feeling helpless.

  In what seemed like only seconds, the nurse stuck her head through the doorway and reminded her of the time.

  As Dahlia left the room, animal sounds rose from her dad’s throat and she began to shake inside. The nurse told her Dr. Webb was in the hospital, then sailed away to find him. Dahlia paced, running through mental exercises to calm herself.

  Soon, the balding doctor came up the hall at a brisk gait, sure enough wearing his fishing clothes. He explained her father had suffered a temporal lobe stroke, couldn’t speak, but could hear and understand what was being said. There was some paralysis on the right side. The doctor expected improvement in both his speech and his mobility. “We’ll do the best we can here,” he said in conclusion, “and as soon as he’s up to it, we'll get him to Abilene to a neurologist.”

  After the doctor rushed away, Dahlia stood outside the ICU’s window, staring at the patient inside who seemed like a stranger. Something touched her arm and she jumped and turned to face a nurses’ aide who told her she was needed at the grocery store.

  Ten minutes later, Dahlia came to a stop in the parking lot behind the Handy Pantry and entered through the back doorway. A few feet inside the storage room, she saw the Coke delivery truck driver in with a gathering of employees. They applauded. Her eyes smarted. No one had ever applauded when she entered a room.

  The worry on their faces brought home the impact of Elton Montgomery’s sudden illness and uncertain future on people other than herself. After the school, the cotton co-op and the hospital, the Handy Pantry was Loretta’s largest employer. A few employees had worked at the grocery store for years and had family-like affection for her dad, even for her. They would be concerned for his recovery. Others would be merely worried about their paychecks. For the first time it dawned on her that all these people, her dad’s employees, now depended on her.

  Panic sent a flurry through her stomach. Not once in her most far-reaching imaginings had she expected or planned to be in charge of the Handy Pantry. From the day she enrolled in college, she had mapped out her future in Corporate America. She hadn’t even expected to inherit the grocery store, having always assumed Dad would someday sell it and retire.

  Now, two dozen people peered at her with rapt attention, waiting for . . . what? Then she remembered—they were two days from payday. That answered the what-should-I-do-next question.

  She pulled her thoughts together and informed the employees of her dad’s condition. She thanked them for their loyalty, told them their jobs were safe, though she had no idea if that was true.

  After a short conversation with the Coke truck driver, she headed for the ladder-like steps that led to Dad’s office and the grocery store’s checkbook. Fortunately, her name was and had always been on the bank account.

  She found the office murky and uncomfortable. Someone had turned off both the lights and the air conditioner. Without the window unit blowing, the long, narrow room felt like a sauna and smelled like a stale refrigerator. She switched on the overhead light and the air conditioner. A deafening roar filled the room and instantly she missed the mountains again, where air was fresh and didn’t need artificial cooling.

  In the middle of Dad’s desk blotter stood a stack of time cards nearly buried by papers and unopened envelopes. The piles of unattended mail seemed larger than her dad would have normally allowed but she didn’t question that. One thing at a time, she told herself. She would write paychecks before thinking of anything else.

  Dad’s old chair welcomed her with a familiar screek. Prowling through the desk drawers, she found the employees’ pay records, then payroll tax table provided by the IRS. She grimaced at the sight of it. Her acquaintance with that government agency had been more than a passing one. She had hoped never to see their name or logo again, but there it was.

  Chuck had already tallied the hours worked, so all she had to do was follow the procedure already in place. She pulled the vintage IBM Selectric on its metal stand from the corner and went to work.

  Toward the end of the check-writing, she began to feel queasy. Food was her first thought though she hadn’t been hungry for four days. Noon had come and gone. She went downstairs and took an apple from the produce display and a TV dinner from the frozen food case, aware that employee eyes were on her every move.

  Sitting at her father’s desk, eating among the litter, she felt even more alone than usual. And inadequate. Dad had been everything in the grocery store—butcher, buyer, bookkeeper, stock boy, janitor and cashier—and still made it home for supper every night by eight. Growing up, she had done any and every odd job the store required, from cleaning the bathrooms to butchering to managing the produce, facts that, over the years, had given Piggy fodder for a thousand crude jokes.

  Dad had never called on her to actually manage the store, even temporarily. Though she had lived in his house and worked as his employee every day for two years since fleeing Dallas, she had been too preoccupied with her own problems to insert herself into the nuts and bolts of the daily operation. She owned a piece of paper declaring her an expert in business and marketing, but no college course had taught her how to run a grocery store in a small agricultural town. All she could rely on now was her common sense and what she had learned about the grocery business through osmosis.

  She sat back and scanned the room, re-orienting herself. The walls were still the same drab green with only patches bare of thumb-tacked papers and pictures of employees’
children. There were pictures of Dahlia herself—in her tennis whites holding a trophy, in her cap and gown giving her high school valedictorian address, in a different cap and gown, accepting her summa degree from SMU. Dahlia, the Over-achiever, the Asian stereotype. Of course she had inborn drive and discipline, but a huge component in her accomplishments had been a desire to make Dad proud of his one child who was only half white.

  Her eyes came to rest on a framed black-and-white picture atop a filing cabinet. Her mother. Though the picture had been there for years, Dahlia had always found it easier to look through it rather than at it. In fact, she had often wished her dad would put it away.

  Memories of her life when her mother had been alive were distant and scattered, but one remained vivid: the day seventeen years earlier when she had been plucked from class by the school principal and escorted to the office where her dad waited. She had gone to school that morning not knowing her mother was sick enough to die. Dad. Her shield, her anchor, her best friend.

  On the wall behind her mother’s picture, a yellowed calendar hung askew. 1987 stood out beneath a faded print of a mountain landscape. Dad had dreamed of spending time in the mountains. Except for his military years, he had rarely left the flat plains of West Texas. Guilt assailed her. He had stayed home and minded the store while she had lived his dream. She made a silent vow: when he’s well enough, I’ll take him to see the mountains.

  Over the weekend, she didn’t see Dr. Webb on any of the four hospital visits she sandwiched between unpacking and resettling. She missed him again Monday morning. Anxious and determined to waylay the elusive doctor, she arrived at the hospital before the patients had finished breakfast on Tuesday. Dr. Webb had mixed news. There was still a danger of re-stroke. Dad’s right side was disabled, but he would likely respond well to therapy and recover most of his mobility. He wouldn’t return to the fourteen-hour days demanded by the Handy Pantry. And that meant someone had to take on his job. The grocery store was their livelihood.