“What? Oh, no. It’s just that I brought my guitar with me tonight. I read something in a magazine about a boy with autism responding well to music. Not that I’m a great guitarist,” he pointed out. “And I know next to nothing about autism.”
“I wish I knew more. Every expert, every doctor and every therapist has a different theory,” she said. “But you used to be good enough on the guitar to play in that band during college. And, Coop, it’s thoughtful of you to think of Lily. She loves the blocks you bought. But I’d really like to hear you play for a while tonight.”
“Great, but please hurry and dish up your food. I can’t wait to dive into this while it’s hot.”
“Dig in. Don’t wait for me.” Willow was quick, however. And even at that, Coop had sampled everything on his plate before she returned to take a seat two steps below him. “I intended to get you a chair, but you seem to be doing all right without it. Be careful leaning against that post, though. I noticed some of them are rotting at the base. From the weather, I guess.”
Turning, he inspected the one at his back. “Looks like two or three posts and part of the foundation will need to be replaced before we can paint the place. I didn’t pick up any paint this trip, but I can get new boards and paint next time. You’ll need to go to town with me to choose a color.”
“Cooper.” Willow paused and shook her head, a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “What part of I don’t have the money to make all these repairs or to cover the stuff you’ve already bought don’t you understand? I thought we already had this discussion.”
“This is the best meal I’ve had in weeks,” he said, ignoring her. “Is there any more cornbread? No, don’t get up. I’ll help myself. Is it in the oven or on the back of the stove?”
“I left the pan in the oven, which is still warm. Coop, we are going to talk about the amount you spent today and set a schedule for me to repay you. You cannot change the subject whenever it suits you or because you want to avoid talking about something. I remember you always used to do that to get your way. It’s still annoying.”
He came back with a chunk of cornbread for each of them. “I think gray with a dark blue trim would look good back here next to those oaks, don’t you?” he asked in a thoughtful voice.
“Cooper Drummond!” Willow’s exasperation was unmistakable.
He grinned as he waved a fork in the air. “This house isn’t all that big. I can rent a power sprayer and clean the siding, get rid of the moss and mildew in an hour or two. It’ll dry while I return the rig, and if we both paint, we can get it done in no time. I knew a couple of guys on the circuit who sold their homes, and they told me that for every dollar they invested in painting and so on, they made back three when they sold. You’ve never said what you plan to do once you sell, but you did say something that suggested you might move somewhere you can get more help for Lily. Everything costs more in the city so you’ll need to get as much as you can for the ranch.”
She dug a crater in what remained of her meat loaf. “I don’t recall mentioning anything like that. What did I say? And when?”
“It was vague.” Coop gestured with his cornbread, then chewed and swallowed a bite before answering. “And I’m reasonably sure better programs are available in someplace like San Antonio. Carrizo Springs is a nice town, but I doubt it’s a high-tech center for the latest and greatest in innovative medicine.”
“Your point is?” She set her plate aside and leaned back against the opposite post, closing her eyes.
Coop probed further. “Is there a treatment for autism? If so, what all is involved?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s a disorder with many facets. I first noticed something was wrong when Lilybelle was around two.” Willow rubbed a thumb over her palm. “I told our doctor about my concerns when Lily began to withdraw. She started that rocking with her stuffed rabbit, which was suddenly the only toy she had any interest in. Not that she owned a lot of toys, but she had a doll, and books she’d loved.” Willow stopped, a catch in her voice.
Coop waited, then finally prompted, “So, this local doctor sent you to a therapist?”
“No. He sent us to a specialist in San Antonio. They did tests. ABA, they call them—applied behavior analysis. Tate was upset about the cost. All they could really tell me was that she’s developmentally delayed and has impaired communication, which I already knew. It wasn’t until a visiting nurse came to the house that the word autism was attached to Lilybelle. My heart nearly stopped. The nurse could tell, and since the specialist hadn’t labeled Lily, she arranged for a cognitive therapist, who spent an hour assessing Lily before writing a list of things I was supposed to do. Repetitive play. Exercise. Reading from the same book every night. Keeping to an exact schedule. Setting a structured environment. She said fewer girls have autism than boys do. But one in every hundred and ten children are born with some form of it.”
“That’s a lot,” Coop commented.
Willow nodded. “I tried to follow her suggestions. But I spent most of my day doing chores, and I took Lily with me when I fed and watered the cattle. At the end of the day, we were both too tired to look at any of her books. And she gets cranky when she wants to sleep.”
“Did the therapist only come that one time?”
“Twice. The second visit, she brought information about a school in Austin that has a program for kids from age two to adulthood. The tuition costs a mint. There are scholarships, but the kids live there. It’s not the only school, of course. All big cities have them, I guess. Tate was in favor of sending her if he didn’t have to pay.” She paused. “He rarely interacted with her. He told the therapist Lily wasn’t his daughter. He even said that to his dad. Tate and I got into a huge fight over that. Anyway, the therapist left, said she’d be back in a week and that she’d bring the papers to apply for funding. I went and packed for Lily and me. We had a second car then. I drove off, but Tate came after us in the pickup. He ran me off the road and dragged us back. Then he sold my car. Things were tense between us before, but they spiraled downhill after that. I fired the therapist to keep her from bringing the papers. Tate stayed too drunk to realize what I’d done. It was like we were his possessions. He had a dog-in-the-manger attitude when it came to me.” Willow’s eyes filled with tears.
Coop felt a painful wrench to his heart, yet some part of his brain nagged that she should’ve known better than to marry Tate Walker. That started a war inside his head. Like a damned fool, he’d taken off to do his thing with the rodeo, and as Willow had accused the other day, he’d abandoned her. A touch of his old pride surfaced, dictating that he not ask her why she hadn’t cared enough to wait until he got riding broncs out of his system. But was that fair of him? Damn, he wished he could let go of the past.
“Are you finished eating?” she asked, breaking into his moody thoughts.
“Uh, yeah, sure. Can I help carry this stuff in? Lend a hand with dishes?”
“Heavens, no.” Leaping up, Willow collected her plate and his. “You’ve done enough today. Anyway, didn’t you say something about playing some tunes? I can hear you from the kitchen. It’ll make my job go faster, and I’ll bring out a pitcher of sweet tea when I’m done. Unless you’d prefer coffee? I saw you bought a big can. I still can’t drink the stuff.”
“I developed a taste for it on the road. You wouldn’t believe the number of miles I drove getting from rodeo A to B to C. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“Driving from rodeo to rodeo? Or guzzling coffee?” she asked, pausing at the screen.
He rose and opened it for her. “The coffee,” he answered.
Willow entered the house, and peered back over one shoulder, a smile teasing the corners of her lips. “Thanks for getting the door. I’m not used to having a gentleman around.”
“Don’t ever compare me to Tate, Willow.” The words came out like a growl.
“I…I…I’d never do that, Coop. You two are as different as night and day. But if yo
u tracked me down expecting an apology for old mistakes, hell will freeze over first.”
“I didn’t track you down, Willow. Didn’t you see how shocked I was that first day? All this time, have you been thinking I looked you up for—why would I?”
She shook her head. “For revenge? Men are such sore losers. So, yes, it’s crossed my mind that your shock was an act. You see, I stopped believing in serendipity, Santa Claus and the tooth fairy a long time ago.”
“Huh?” Coop scratched his head.
“Never mind,” she snapped, hating that she’d almost told him how often she’d gazed up at the stars at night, foolishly wishing he’d show up out of the blue and sweep her away from her sorry life. She wanted him to have tracked her down, darn it. “If you’re going to play your guitar, then play,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll lock up, put the dishes to soak overnight and go to bed.”
He gave up trying to sort between the lines of what she’d said. “I’ll play for a while, as long as you don’t expect Keith Urban. I’ve only played a few times since I left Jud Rayburn’s ranch. It takes regular practice, so I’m not sure how good I’ll be.”
“What were you doing at Rayburn’s? Doesn’t his land abut the Triple D?”
“It does. I wanted to get back in the swing of everything that needs doing on a large working cattle ranch. In a way I thought it might help me decide whether to present myself to Sully at the Triple D. Like I told you, we fell out. After our last big row, I quit on Jud and rode south. I couldn’t find steady work, but I kept hearing about a woman, a widow out of Carrizo Springs, with a spot for an all-around cowhand. Funny, nobody told me your name.”
“Ah. Would you have come by here if someone had?”
Coop rubbed a thumb back and forth over his jaw, then paused, realizing he badly needed a shave. “To tell you the truth,” he said slowly, after several moments had passed. “I don’t know that I would have, Willow.”
She bit her lip. “I appreciate your honesty, Coop.” Then she disappeared, jerking the screen door out of his loose grasp.
Coop wished he’d lied and told her he would’ve come, anyway. But he really wasn’t sure. Especially after taking into account the roller-coaster ride his feelings had been on since he’d first seen her. And the question he probably ought to be asking himself wasn’t whether or not he would’ve come, but why he felt so damned compelled to stay.
Sinking back down on the porch steps, Coop unsnapped his case, took out the guitar and rippled a thumb over the strings, stopping to tune the ones that had jiggled loose on the drive. A big pickup with enough power to pull a two-horse trailer wasn’t the smoothest ride for a sensitive guitar.
Jimmy Buffett’s songs were still on his mind, so he started with “Margaritaville,” then moved into “Son of a Son of a Sailorman.” Coop liked honky-tonk best; some tunes just freed a guitar picker’s mind. That was the case tonight, and he’d almost forgotten where he was when the screen door opened and Willow backed out carrying a tray with a pitcher of icy tea and a pair of frosty glasses.
Coop hit a loud, flat chord. Willow had changed into a pair of worn-looking jean shorts and a loose, flowing blouse. Once again he noticed that her slender feet were bare. For a minute that seemed to stretch on forever, he stared at her.
She bent and carefully set the tray on the orange crate, then filled both glasses—giving Coop a leisurely time to study her long, nicely suntanned legs and narrow ankles. Old desires churned inside him.
“Why did you stop playing?” she asked, turning to face him as she passed him a glass.
“I, ah, can’t drink and play at the same time,” he said, tripping over the words; to his chagrin, he nearly let the cold glass slip through his clammy fingers.
Willow picked up her own glass and reclaimed her seat two steps down. “Drink up,” she said. “I really enjoyed the serenade. I hope you don’t mind that I took the time to change into something cooler.”
Coop couldn’t speak so he just shook his head while he gulped his drink.
“My kitchen is so tiny. Using the oven in the summer makes the whole room feel like a sauna. Same with washing dishes in hot water. Even if Tate had been inclined to buy me a dishwasher—or a microwave, for that matter—there’s no room to put one.”
Coop found that listening to Willow talk about Tate while he’d grown hard with desire for her had the immediate effect of being doused in ice water. He drained his glass and, with some difficulty, climbed to his feet. He plopped the empty glass on the tray with force enough to draw Willow’s attention.
She clambered up with less grace as she tried to avoid Coop, who banged around returning his guitar to its case, and struggled to keep her almost full glass upright.
“Coop?” She sounded hesitant, and in the dim light cast by the lone porchlight, he could see confusion mixed with inquisitiveness.
His voice was tight as he said, “Supper was great, and I’m glad we discussed Lilybelle’s condition, but I draw the line at ruining an otherwise nice evening by listening to you complain about Tate. If you need a pal for that kind of heart-to-heart, I’m not your man, Willow.” Taking the steps in two bounds, he stalked across the yard and disappeared into the gloom of night.
She stood without moving as the crickets renewed their chirping. The hand that held her glass shook. What had she said about Tate? She couldn’t remember. Earlier, Coop had sounded as if he knew all about her and Tate. She so rarely got to talk to anyone that having this opportunity to kick back and relax with Coop had been a treat. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. Now she’d have to go back to weighing every word, like she’d done with her husband. And that was supposing Cooper wasn’t angry enough to leave. But, darn it, what right did he have to lecture her? Hadn’t she told him not to stick around?
Willow clung to that thought as she picked up the tray to take it inside. Realistically, no possible good could come of Cooper’s staying here. But for a while tonight she’d felt more lighthearted than she had in years. Was it so wrong of her to revel in a few moments of normalcy?
Perhaps she didn’t deserve to have Coop back in her life… .
She went inside and, after depositing the tray in the kitchen, made her way to bed without turning on the light. She lay watching the play of moonlight flickering between her bedroom curtains far into the night, her mind a jumble of too many might-have-beens. Her head was clear about not wanting to get involved with Cooper Drummond. It was her heart that was unwilling to let go.
Chapter Five
The morning after he’d stormed off Willow’s porch in a huff, Coop’s thoughts were still scattered. He felt bad for lashing out at her, but he couldn’t abide hearing her talk about Tate. He didn’t even want to hear her complain about the man. Part of him couldn’t understand why she hadn’t found a way to leave the SOB. She said he’d run her off the road once and then dragged her back to the house. That was one time. However, if Tate spent as many hours in town drinking and gambling as Willow indicated, couldn’t she have asked for someone’s help in getting away?
Willow wasn’t weak-willed. She was a smart, savvy woman. And she wasn’t a novice at navigating her way through government bureaucracies. Her mother, Belle, wasn’t the one who’d researched and found a senior-care center to look after Marvin so Willow could attend college. Willow herself had done that.
Rolling out of bed, Coop got dressed. He skipped breakfast, heading straight out to the far corner of the property instead. He decided to tackle replacing mangled metal fence stakes that held up the wire sections and kept the cattle contained. It was a job that fit his mood today. The ground was half caliche, and Willow said she wanted the stakes to go deeper, so he drove them in with brute force, swinging a fifty-pound sledgehammer. Coop put his whole back into the job, and each strike of hammer on metal sent a ripple of pain along his straining muscles. But somehow it was satisfying to imagine that he was driving Tate Walker’s spirit farther into perdition.
After a while Coop
developed a rhythm and was able to blank his mind to the pain, and to idle thoughts of Tate or Willow. Noon came, then marched past like one of the four-foot wire sections snaking along the perimeter of her ranch.
All at once she appeared in Coop’s line of vision. Seeing her so suddenly caught him off guard. It broke his stride, forcing him to recognize that he was very near to dropping in his tracks. Sweat from the sun high overhead pasted his last clean chambray shirt to his aching back.
“What’s up? I’m busy here.” Coop whipped off his hat, wiped his brow with one hand and realized a row of blisters had sprouted along the base of his fingers. He tried to will them away, but it even hurt to fan his face with his hat, so he let the summer Stetson fall into the dirt. A few steers stood in a huddle nearby, their ropy tails swishing at flies. Coop waited impatiently for her to speak.
“I brought lunch,” Willow said. “You skipped breakfast. Whatever demons are behind your assault on this fence, Coop, I can’t stand by and watch you kill yourself.”
“You said fixing this fence is my number-one priority.” Afraid that he might pass out, Coop dropped to his haunches and leaned his wrists heavily on the three-foot sledge handle, silently praying for earth, sky and Willow to stop revolving in front of his eyes.
“Here, drink some water. You’re white around your lips. Are you trying for sunstroke?” Willow removed a thermos from the basket she’d set at her feet and filled the lid with water.
Taking the cup with a shaking hand, Coop bent his head and dumped the cool water over his sweat-matted hair. The move put him on a level with Lilybelle, who had accompanied Willow and now peered solemnly at Coop from behind her mother’s thigh. He imagined an old soul staring at him out of the girl’s unblinking green-flecked eyes. Eyes that chastised him, or at least that was how it appeared to him. How could he gripe at Willow in front of her kid?
The Maverick Returns Page 5