“You know they have computers for that?” Mabe asks, leaning against the counter.
“I don’t know how to use one. Not going to start now.”
Mabe nods. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
It’s quiet for a moment as Erla underlines the words unprofessional manner in the letter.
Mabe says, “I’ve always been told that I should sleep on a big decision before I make it.”
“I won’t have the gumption in the morning, Mabe—you know that.”
“Then, maybe it’s not a decision you need to make. Maybe it’s your grieving heart telling you to stop smiling because it’s okay to be sad. Isn’t that what you told me when I lost John and then Francine?”
Tears start to well in Erla’s eyes.
Erla has gone mad.
Crazy.
Maybe she’d die a crazy, old coot with no one left.
A brokenhearted, crazy, old lady.
Maybe she’d dye her hair purple and call herself Lucy and have a million cats.
Erla lays down the pen as her eyes start to overflow.
“Come on, old friend. I brought ice cream. Let’s go sit in the living room, eat ice cream, and cry.”
Erla nods as Mabe takes her hand, two spoons, and the carton of vanilla.
3
Casey
I look Tess straight in the eye.
Is that what she remembers? That I just walked away?
She’d been emotionally unavailable for weeks before that. Sure, I knew her heart was breaking. But mine was too. She forgets there were two of us who lost more than our hearts that night.
Two of us who traveled the long road home from Oregon that night, in silence, waiting for a sign to convince us we’d made the right decision.
But nothing came of any of it, except broken hearts.
I had been at the beginning of my career with the Professional Bull Riders at that time. Eighteen and stupid as hell. Sometimes, I made decisions based on my ego. Truth was, if she’d asked me to stay, I would have. I’d still have ridden bulls, lived in and out of airports, my truck, done interviews like the PBR asked me to. I would have stayed. But she wasn’t ready. Tell you the truth, maybe I wasn’t either.
I take Toby by the arm and pull him up so that I’m using my body weight to carry his.
Before I get him in the truck, I look back in The Whiskey Barrel, and Tess is holding her head in her hands, just like she did the night in my truck when we pulled up to her house. I knew she did the same thing every time I got on a bull.
Bull riding is my blood. After my first big win and when I finally saw I could make a living on the PBR circuit, I knew I wasn’t supposed to do anything else. Sure, in the beginning, I did side jobs in the off-season to make ends meet, but I made a promise to myself that I’d make damn sure it wasn’t for too long.
I knew it broke Tess a little more every time I got on a bull. At that time, at thirteen, we were friends. Good friends. But I think deep down, she had feelings for me, just like I did for her. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see the fear in her eyes every time I walked away for a mere eight seconds. After, I’d thank God I hadn’t died, and at the same time, it allowed my ego just eight more seconds. One step closer to becoming a world champion.
When Conroy died, it was easier to leave, and when Tess asked me to stay, I didn’t—maybe a real man would have. I did exactly what she’d asked. The loss of our brothers was hard. But even harder was what we’d just walked through twelve hours earlier.
All this town is to me is one big tragedy after another.
We had no idea what we were coming home to until the next morning when the air seemed somehow thinner and sad, and my reasons to breathe became minimal.
I drop Toby off at Dillon Creek PD, so he can sleep it off. Denton is there to help me get Toby inside.
“Wish he’d get sober,” Denton says after he shuts the jail cell.
“He won’t. Not when we do things to take care of him. It’s too easy to stay drunk and not have to face your life.”
He nods. “Take care of yourself, Atwood. That last ride in Texas blew me away.”
Denton is referring to my ride on Traitor.
“Thanks, man.”
He smiles, leans against the cell for a minute. “Sure you get all the buckle bunnies everywhere, huh?”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t from time to time. Sometimes, they made it easier to forget a shitty ride. Made me forget about my broken bones, my pains, my ailments. Made me forget about the loss of a brother or the poor decisions I’d made.
But instead of telling him what I think he knows to be true, I say, “Not worth it.”
Denton laughs. “Well, if they’re looking for a badge, send one my way, would ya?”
“Roger that.” But I won’t.
They’re just in search for the next million bucks, the biggest belt buckle. Denton deserves a better gal.
I suppose the cowboys who invest the time in them might be trying to fix their souls and have a piece of ass at the same time.
Rounding my truck, I start to think about what I have left in life. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old bull rider who’s made a living putting my life on the line. I know I can’t stay on top forever, but I’ve had some real good rides this year. I’m still making a good living. I was world champion twice. Partly endorsements for boots, belts, jeans, and hats. But nobody’s going to want a washed-up cowboy in their ads ten years from now. Nobody’s going to want to see a cowboy try to fight for a way to come back even though his body says no.
We ride bulls with broken arms.
Broken jaws.
Broken ankles.
Broken legs.
Torn ligaments.
Torn tendons.
Dislocated shoulders.
That’s just a small list of my injuries.
It’s just a matter of time before my card is pulled, when I’m hit with another major injury. Doctors put us back together just so we can go back to the arena and do it all over again.
Not Billy Thornton though. Billy was at the top of his game from eighteen to twenty-seven until he took a hit so hard that he had no choice but to retire. Brain injuries aren’t fixable or flexible.
There went the endorsement deals.
His bull-riding career.
His money.
His wife.
He lost it all.
Saw him in an IcyHot commercial not too long ago. I guess there are some companies that are willing to put you in front of their ads, even when you’ve lost the only thing the world agreed you were good at.
Is that what my life will amount to once everything else is gone?
An IcyHot commercial, a broken body, and a whole lot of belt buckles in a big, empty house full of memories?
I’ll be at my parents’ place until the next event. It’s familiar. It’s the life I know. I’ve never lived in Dillon Creek and not lived at home.
I run a hand over my face.
Tess used to run her hand over my face when she didn’t want me to see her laugh. She said it was because she didn’t like her smile, and when she laughed, it only got bigger. The left side of her face didn’t smile. In fact, it stayed the same. Never changing. But the other side of her smile and her eyes overcompensated for all of it. Like I could always see who she truly was when she smiled.
Her smile was one thing I loved most about her, and I haven’t seen it in years. I know why. A lot of little things, two big things, and an unforgivable world can wear on a heart. Especially one like Tess’s. I think about how she just lost her job and she’s not willing to talk about.
Suppose I’d feel the same way if the PBR fired me. But I also suppose I make them too much money for them to kick me out. You’d have to do or say something really shitty for them to ask a cowboy to leave and not come back.
I pull into my parents’ driveway and park my truck. My phone chimes as I make my way inside. A mild pain spreads to my chest,
and I’m not sure if it’s from my past heartache or if it’s just what she does to me, but the text is from Tess.
Tess: Sometimes, it’s easier to blame the scapegoat.
I smile and start to type.
Me: I get it.
I delete it.
Me: Makes sense.
I delete it.
Sometimes, words just don’t fill a moment the way you’d like them to. I guess it’s true—sometimes, silence is the only answer. So, instead of doing what I want to do, which is make her feel better, I slip my phone back in my pocket.
Dad is sitting at the table by the window, watching M*A*S*H.
“Where’d you run off to?” he asks as I get a glass of water.
Every so often, I get the inclination to lie to my dad. Not because of what he’ll think of me, but because sometimes, I think it’s easier for him. Truth is, I don’t want to tell him I was at The Whiskey Barrel because that would make him think of the Morgans, which would make him think of Tripp, which would make him think of Conroy and the day he lost one of his sons. Nobody should outlive a child. I don’t want him to think about Conroy. I’m afraid he won’t be able to fall asleep tonight because this is what he does. He doesn’t sleep but maybe four hours a night. It makes my mom worry, especially if he’s got a long day ahead of him on the ranch.
“Ran to Eureka to get a few things.”
Dad glances at the clock. “Little late for that?”
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, Dad?”
He gives a half-smile. The other half he saves for Conroy.
“Yeah, I should.”
Dad turns off the small television at the table, stands, touches my shoulder, and kisses the top of my head. “Night, son.”
“Night.”
Dad was never affectionate before Conroy. He was tough on us boys. After all, he had to make cowboys of us all. Dad always told me as long as my legs weren’t broken, I’d better be able to walk out of the arena.
Calder comes through the door.
“It’s late, cowboy,” I kid.
“What do you care?” Calder grabs a couple of beers and hands me one.
I open it. “I don’t.”
“Where’s the next ride?”
“Idaho.” I take a long swig of my beer.
Calder is almost finished with his, and he peels at the label. “When you leavin’?”
I smirk. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Nah. But you’ve been home for a month. I’m wondering what’s keeping you here. Couldn’t be a certain teacher, could it?”
“No. There hasn’t been an event.”
“Never kept you home before.”
“Stuff then.”
“Stuff. Like what?”
I think twice before I answer Calder. Of all my brothers, he and I are most alike. We’re slow to speak up; I guess it’s because we sometimes overthink things. But maybe I’m stalling because I really don’t know what the hell I’m feeling.
“You … you ever feel like life is passing you by? Like, people we went to high school are having kids and getting married and finding their careers and shit.” I take another swig of my beer as Calder grabs another one. “The bull riding won’t sustain me forever,” I say.
Calder sits down and stares at the red-checkered tablecloth. “You thinking about retiring?”
No. “A cowboy never quits. Besides, I don’t think I could. I love it too much.”
“What will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back? Another major injury? Haven’t you won enough money? Collected enough belt buckles?”
Calder’s questions hit me square in the eyes.
“It’s not about the money or the belt buckles. It’s just about being better than you were the year before. Maybe the adrenaline.”
“Ego.”
Leave it to my brother to call me out.
I smile. “Yeah, that too.”
“What about Tess?”
I cock my head. “What about Tess?”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. I think that’s why you’ve stayed here this time. I think you’ve realized that she’s it. She’s the one.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Saw you leaving The Whiskey Barrel with Toby Lemon awfully late tonight.”
“Can’t I help out a friend?”
“Who’s that? Tess or Denton?”
I let out a long mouthful of air. Rub my face with my hand. “I don’t know, man.”
“Bullshit. You’re just scared to say it out loud.”
His words get under my skin.
“And how’s it going with Camilla? Made a move yet?”
Calder holds my stare. “That’s different.”
“Oh, yeah? How? Come on. You’ve had the hots for her since she moved here to marry Joe Crane—rest his soul.”
“It’s different because I don’t think she’s ready for me.”
“How do you know that? You barely say hi to her in public. You barely—”
“I fix her fence. I take care of the shit around there when she needs my help. I’m there when she needs me.” He takes another swig of his beer.
“Oh, so you’re her handyman?”
“Yeah.”
We both start to laugh.
When our laughter dies down, Calder says, “All I’m saying is, if it’s Tess, you’d better hang on. I’m not sure our families can live through all that shit again if there’s no happy ending this time.”
I know.
Calder, Colt, Dad, and I are moving cattle on horseback this morning when something spooks the cattle in the tall grass, and they divide. The dogs move them up the pasture and gather them again.
“What is it?” Dad calls to Colt, who jumps off his horse to take a look.
“It’s a baby fox.” Colt kneels down next to it.
I jump off my horse and walk over to Colt. “He’s a little bastard.” I look around for its mom.
Calder and Dad keep an eye out on the cattle and an eye for Mom. They can be mean as hell when you stand between them and their babies.
Foxes are bad for the cattle business.
“We can relocate him to the Barbett Ranch,” Calder says, and we laugh.
Barbetts have a big cattle ranch that butts up to ours. Dad and Rudy Barbett have gone rounds for years over a slice of land that sits just beyond the joined property line. They both want to buy it. But some guy from Seattle owns it, and he’s not willing to sell.
Barbett has accused Dad of some shady shit, but Dad’s not that way. And Barbett is also crazier than a rabid raccoon.
“Dad, hand me the gun,” Colt says. “We’ve got to take care of this problem.”
Dad always packs a pistol in his saddle sack. Usually though, it isn’t for tiny animals; it’s to protect the cattle and ourselves from bigger problems like bears, mountain lions, and other larger predators.
Colt loads the gun. Stares down the barrel. Clicks off the safety.
Five seconds go by.
Ten seconds go by.
“Twinkle toes, what the hell are you waiting for?” Calder calls out.
Another five seconds go by.
Colt drops the gun. “I can’t do it.”
Colt hands the gun to me, and I take aim, putting the little bastard in my sights. My finger toys with the trigger, and my hand begins to shake. Curled up in a tiny ball, as if trying to protect itself by making itself the smallest it can from predators—or four guys on horses. It picks up its small head and tries to cry out.
My heart sinks, and I slowly lower the gun. “I can’t … I can’t shoot it either.”
Calder rolls his eyes and jumps off his horse, muttering something about pussies under his breath.
Calder takes the gun from me. Takes aim at the baby fox.
Five seconds go by.
Ten seconds go by.
“You can’t do it either,” I say.
“Shut up.” As the fox struggles to get up on all fours, Calder
lowers the gun.
“You’ve gone soft, boys.” Dad dismounts his horse. Takes the gun from Calder, walks it back to his saddle sack, unloads it. “Leave it. It’ll die from natural causes out here.”
But Colt is already on the phone with Anna. “Yeah, okay.” He walks to his saddlebag, grabs his gloves, puts them on, and walks back over to the fox, who is too little to fight Colt’s grip when he picks it up. He shoves it in his jacket. “If it survives the day, I’ll take it to Anna.”
Dad sighs. “You new-age cowboys are something else.”
He smiles, and we start to move the herd to the lower pasture and spread out. Dad’s point rider. Calder is the swing rider. Colt is flank rider, and I’m drag.
Borges Atwood, Dad’s dad, was tough. Old school when it came to the ranch life. Dad’s old school, too, but he’s got a soft spot for animals. Always has. Because Dad didn’t shoot the baby fox either.
We finish out the ride, and cleaning up the horses. Sure as shit, the fox is still alive, so I jump in with Colt to take the little guy to town to Anna’s clinic.
Tess’s car is parked outside the clinic when we get there, but there’s a commotion on Main Street in front of the Dillon Creek Echo, the town newspaper. Michael—Ike, the publisher’s, son—along with Delveen and Pearl are standing outside.
“What’s going on?” I say to my brother as we get out of the truck and watch.
Colt grabs the box with the fox. “Who the hell knows?”
He goes inside, and I follow with a pounding heart. Part of me needs to see Tess, see how she’s doing, and part of me doesn’t.
Kimber is at the front desk. “Did you guys hear?”
“No. What’s going on?” Colt asks.
“Ike Isner died last night. Found him at the Echo office, dead as a doornail.”
“No shit?” Colt says.
Anna and Tess walk out from her office. Tess looks as though she’s been crying as she walks past. I want to reach out and touch her, ask if she’s okay, but I don’t. Instead, I take in her scent and catch her eye.
I follow her out because I can’t help it.
“Hey.” I touch her arm. “Are you all right?”
And she stops. Sighs. Allows my hand to stay where it is, which is at her elbow. “Fine, Casey.”
Saving Tess Page 3