That Cowboy's Kids

by Debra Salonen

  “But, no more,” she said, pounding her fist on the counter for emphasis. “I’ve made up my mind to stop being so…accommodating.”

  He fought a smile—she could see him trying—but eventually it burst through. “Abby, you don’t have a prayer. You’re the kindest person I know. Maybe you are too nice for your own good, but you don’t have it in you to be any different.”

  Before Abby could respond with an infuriated retort, the phone rang. She snatched up the receiver, glaring at Landon—to his obvious amusement. “Hello,” she snarled.

  The voice on the other end was not the one she’d been hoping for. She listened mutely, before saying, “I’ll be right there.”

  TOM CAREFULLY CLOSED the screen door of the bunkhouse behind him. Heather was napping—for how long was anybody’s guess. Every time she closed her eyes, her little body drooping like a wilted flower, Tom prayed she’d sleep for hours, but so far no luck. Sometimes, only minutes later, she’d wake up shrieking from dreams too terrible to remember.

  As far as Tom could see, their initial three meetings with the therapist had been as productive as milking a bull, but Dr. Jessup did have a special way with kids. Tom had sat in on Friday’s session. Angel had chatted easily like the self-absorbed teenager he remembered from last summer. She described in detail the outfit she wore to her mother’s funeral—Tom couldn’t even recall whether or not he wore clothes that day. Heather snuggled into a comfortable spot on Dr. Jessup’s lap and silently fingered the woman’s chunky wooden beads.

  On his way out, Dr. Jessup told Tom, “I think it might help if the girls felt more connected to their home. Maybe a little decorating, hang up their posters or pictures, rearrange the furniture.”

  Before Tom could explain about their living conditions, she added, “Angel told me things are a bit crowded at the moment. Why don’t you give Abby Davis a call? She can work bureaucratic magic when it comes to remodeling.”

  Like a seed from Eve’s apple, the temptation was planted. And grew.

  “Angel,” he called softly through the paint-splattered mesh, “come here.”

  It took her two minutes to cross the twenty-foot room, but she came.

  “It’s a beautiful day. Don’t you want to do something? I could saddle Jess. You haven’t ridden since you got here.”

  She shook her head. “I’m reading.” She held up a paperback novel, then turned away and plopped down on the lumpy couch before he could say anything.

  The frenetic chatter of cartoons erupted from the small, snowy screen of his television set. “Still only black and white?” Angel said that first night back at the ranch, after her mother’s funeral. “Daddy, those were around in like the Stone Age, for heaven’s sake.”

  Her complaint went no further…yet, but it was only a matter of time. Nothing about his humble abode, once the ranch’s bunkhouse, came close to matching Lesley and Val’s two-story, 2,800-square-foot home.

  “Did you finish your social-studies paper?” he called.

  The words “Of course” accompanied a deep sigh of disgust.

  Angel was a good student. Her accelerated class, which was part of a year-round school system, was due to go off-track two weeks after Lesley’s funeral, so her teachers were not concerned about her absence. They’d passed her without a second thought. The local principal suggested letting her make a fresh start in the junior-high program that fall, instead of putting her into a sixth-grade class where she would be bored. Tom agreed, but he adamantly opposed giving her an additional five months of vacation, so both girls were enrolled in an independent study program.

  So far, Angel’s only complaint was the lack of a laptop computer, apparently a tool she used to borrow from her stepfather. Last week, the young woman who brought the girls their lessons suggested the possibility of doing homework “on-line.” Tom, who’d heard horror stories about on-line predators, squashed the idea. His daughters could make do with pen and paper. Besides there was no extra money for expensive electronic equipment.

  Rosie and two of Tom’s cow dogs suddenly started barking. Tom squinted toward the road. The walnut trees that backed up all the way to the highway cut into his line of vision, but he spotted a dust devil whirling out of the gravel as a vehicle raced down the driveway.

  The ranch, some 650 acres, was divided into irrigated pastures for grazing, and three sections of almonds. The advent of drip irrigation made it easier and less expensive to plant uneven terrain, and Tom knew it was only a matter of time before “cowboying” was a thing of the past. Ed loved his cows, but he was a practical businessman, too. Tom figured if he learned anything from the last four months it was: nothin’ stays the same. Tom kicked up a little dust as he walked out into the drive that separated his place from Ed and Janey’s newer ranch-style home. The Hastingses’ home sat on a slight knoll, offset by a nice green lawn and flanked by an almond orchard on three sides. Tom’s house was set in what amounted to a pie-shaped hunk of land between the driveway and the permanent pasture. His place faced the barn and corrals, but an ancient mulberry and semi-circle of straggly lawn kept it from being too austere.

  “What now?” Tom muttered, feeling an all-too-common burning in the pit of his stomach.

  The rumble of a truck engine gave Tom a face to put with the sound. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and waited to direct the driver away from the house before the dozen young horses in the paddock beside his bedroom window took it in their heads to get excited. He didn’t want anything to wake Heather.

  A bevy of barking dogs raced alongside the vehicle as Tom pointed toward the shade of the barn. The truck rolled to a stop. John Dexter Moore—Johnny Dee to his friends—killed the engine and climbed out of the ’94 Ford half-ton.

  “Hey, Tom. How’s it goin’?”

  Tom made a “so-so” gesture. Johnny motioned for him to follow him to the back of the truck. He lowered the tailgate and hopped up, dragging a small plastic cooler to his side. When Tom sat down beside him, Johnny reached inside the cooler for a beer and offered one to Tom.

  After their last get-together—the night Lesley was killed, when nobody could find him at home because he was passed out cold in his truck—Tom couldn’t bring himself to accept the offering. He shook his head.

  Johnny was a Hulk Hogan kind of guy with receding blond hair and a heart of gold. He and Tom had been friends since childhood. He knew Tom as well as anybody and apparently had no trouble guessing what he was thinking. “It wasn’t your fault, man,” Johnny told him. “You didn’t know. None of us did.”

  Tom would have liked to use his friend’s solace as it was intended: to let him off the hook, but guilt had its own plans for him—slow torture.

  “Hell, you didn’t even want to go with us. Chubs ’n me had to twist your arm.”

  When Tom bumped into his old friends that fateful night in January, he was on his way home from a week in the mountains. Ed leased a thousand acres of rangeland in the foothills. Since things were slow on the farm, Tom had combined a little fence repair with some fishing. Maybe he’d been hungry for social contact as well as real food, because it didn’t take much arm-twisting to get him to the bar.

  “You only stayed ’cause of what was happening with me and Beth,” Johnny said, kicking the gravel.

  Tom caught something different in his friend’s tone, and realized sheepishly it had been three weeks since they’d talked. “How’s that working out?”

  Johnny lifted his substantial shoulders and let them fall. “She moved home, but we’re not sleeping together. She’s calling it a cooling-down period. Like I was some overheated stud. Like we even had sex often enough before she left to get worked up about.”

  Tom understood exactly where Johnny was coming from. His own first reaction to Lesley’s departure had been nine-tenths bravado and one-tenth paralyzing fear. If he kept up the bravado long enough and made it real loud, he’d thought, maybe no one would see his pain.

  “That’s a start
. At least you can talk face-to-face instead of long distance.”

  “The kids hated Fresno. All their friends are here.” Johnny crushed the empty can and tossed it on top of a pile of greasy tools in the pickup bed. He cracked open another. “How’re you fixed here? Beth said to tell you she’s sorry she hasn’t made it over, but if you need a woman’s touch to give her a holler. I think she meant in the kitchen. She’d better’ve meant in the kitchen.”

  Tom grinned at his friend’s tone. “That’s Angel’s domain. We may eat quesadillas more often than I like, but I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. But, as to that other kind of touching…” His teasing ended when Johnny’s elbow connected with his side.

  “Need a TV? We got an extra. It’s a twenty-four incher.”

  Rubbing the tender spot on his rib cage, Tom shook his head. “Ed and Janey offered one, too, but things are a little crowded with all the girls’ stuff, and we don’t get enough stations using rabbit ears to make it worth it.”

  “That reminds me—how’s Janey doin’?”

  Tom looked away. Squinting, he could make out the snowcap on the distant mountains. It wouldn’t last long—last week had three days over ninety degrees.

  “Hold that thought, I gotta pee,” Johnny said, hopping down to scurry toward the back of the barn.

  Resting against the side of the truck, Tom closed his eyes and thought about Janey. It broke his heart to see her ill. More than anyone else, throughout this whole ordeal, she’d remained a rock, always positive and frank. She was the one person he could trust with his despair, his self-doubts, his fears.

  Janey’s illness brought back memories of his mother—fit and spry one week, hospitalized the next. Gone before he knew it. The doctors never did figure out what took her; a viral infection was their best guess.

  Tom read all the breast cancer pamphlets the doctors gave Janey. The disease sounded treatable if caught early. He sure as hell hoped she could beat it. Not only did he love her, but the girls thought of her as a surrogate grandmother. He wasn’t sure any of them could handle another loss so soon.

  “Janey’s gonna make it,” Ed told Tom yesterday when he returned home for some of Janey’s personal belongings. “They did a lumpectomy, and now they want her to take chemo and radiation to make sure they kill everything.”

  The late-afternoon sun had cast harsh shadows across Ed’s face, emphasizing the lines of worry and fear. Tom saw a vulnerability he’d never seen before. “Janey says she can beat it and I believe her,” Ed continued. “But I also know we’re going to make some changes around here. Big changes.”

  Tom’s heart lurched. He’d seen more changes in the past four months than he thought he could handle. He craved stability but knew he had to respect Ed’s wishes. Tom owed him more than he could ever repay. A all, Ed had backed him when Tom broke his arm and couldn’t rope, and Ed and Janeyfter had been there to pick up the pieces of his heart after Lesley left, too.

  Ed’s face twisted in pain, as if picturing his wife in the hospital room. “Janey never complains, but I know she had it in her mind to do some traveling when we retired. Go visit her sisters. See the boys.” Ed’s voice faltered over the last.

  Tom knew how disappointed Ed had been that neither of his sons wanted anything to do with the ranch he’d spent his entire life building. Edward, an architect in New Jersey, rarely called or visited. Peter, an advertising executive in Denver, kept in touch and visited at least once a year, but his relationship with his father was always tempered by disappointment and hurt feelings.

  “I’ll only say this once, Tom. You know you’re like a son to me. You ’n me think alike when it comes to the land. I’d feel real good about selling this place to you on a contract to deed.” When Tom started to say something, Ed placated him. “Don’t get your back up about the money, boy. That’ll work out in the wash.”

  Tom’s heart swelled from the compliment Ed was paying him, but he wasn’t sure he could accept. “Ed, we’ve both got a lot on our plates right now. You took care of the whole show when I needed you, helping out now’s the least I can do. Let’s focus on getting Janey well before we worry about anything else, okay?”

  They’d left it at that, but Ed was adamant about making some changes, starting with remodeling Tom’s place to give the girls more room. “Janey’s been harping about that for months. If that lady at the victims’ place can help, then give her a call and start the ball rolling. I’ll pay for everything. Just get it done.”

  When Johnny returned, Tom told him, “Janey’s doin’ up pretty good. Next week she starts chemo or radiation, I can’t remember which, but she told Ed to get me started on remodeling. We’re supposed to add another bedroom and bath to the bunkhouse before she gets back.”

  Johnny nodded enthusiastically. “Good idea. Believe me, you can’t have enough bathrooms when there are women around. And any girl over the age of four constitutes a woman when it comes to bathrooms.”

  Tom cleared his throat and spat onto the dusty ground. Another bad habit to break. “You ever hear of a place called VOCAP?”

  Johnny thought a moment then snapped his fingers. “Sure. The victims’ place. They helped out after Maria’s cousin got killed, right?”

  Tom nodded. “I talked to one of the advocates last week,” Tom said, picturing Abby Davis’s reassuring smile. For some reason, he’d found himself drawing upon that smile more than once this week for a little comfort and reassurance. “She set the girls up with a grief therapist, and she said she could help us out with other things, like remodeling.”

  “Great. How are the girls doing?” Johnny asked.

  “Heather’s still having nightmares, but Angel’s doing okay.” At least, she didn’t bite my head off when I asked about her homework. “But they miss their mom.”

  The two were silent a moment, then Johnny said, “I still can’t believe she’s gone, Tom. So young ’n pretty.”

  Tom’s throat began tightening up, the way it did whenever he pictured Lesley’s funeral. “Funny thing about death—you know it’s real. You say all the words and watch ’em lower the coffin into a hole, but she’s still alive in your mind. Laughing, arguing, being pissed off.” He forced a chuckle. “And nobody could be more pissed off than Les.”

  Johnny nodded so emphatically he spilt beer in his lap. “Remember the time you an’ me was coming back from that roping in Elko and she thought we stopped off to gamble? Hell’s bells, man, I thought she was gonna take off your head before you showed her the check for your winnings.”

  “She was mad a lot back then,” Tom said evenly.

  “She was a beautiful woman, Tom, and I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I remember thinking it was awful cold of a person to move out on a guy when she was carrying his kid. Although in all honesty, I never pictured Lesley Pimental settling for anything in or around this valley.”

  Tom’s thoughts went back to the summer after his mother died. He’d had three successful years on the roping circuit and had managed to make a name for himself. He took time off to help his father settle her estate. He’d met Lesley, who was working as a receptionist in the lawyer’s office handling the probate. Although Tom had known Lesley in high school, she was three years his junior and he hadn’t seen her in years. His knees almost buckled when the tall, slim beauty got up from behind her desk and walked over to him, telling him how sorry she was for his loss. A quick hug cinched it—he was in love.

  They were married in late September. That winter Tom’s father gave him money from the proceeds of the estate to buy Hall’s Golden Boy—Goldy—a quarter horse Tom had had his eye on for several years. It had baffled both husband and son that the quiet, demure woman they thought they knew so well had somehow hoarded a modest sum and invested it in gold. Tom knew his mother would have appreciated the poetic irony of using the money to buy a roping horse named Goldy.

  “When I heard you two was getting hitched, I figured it was because you were a big-name roper.
” Johnny wiped a spot of condensation on his beer can. “You were doin’ pretty good till you busted your arm.”

  Johnny was right about some of it, Tom thought. Their first couple of years of marriage were great, cuddling together each night in a single sleeping bag on the sweet hay in the horse trailer. Then, the year after Angel was born Tom fell off the tailgate of his truck and landed wrong—a silly misstep that fractured his arm in three places.

  The doctor told him there was a good chance he’d never rope professionally again. When his sponsors found out about his arm, they pulled out. Tom would’ve lost his truck if not for the kindness of his old boss, Ed Hastings, who made him foreman of the Standing Arrow H.

  The arm healed, but by then Tom had lost his taste for the constant travel, competition and pressure. Lesley hadn’t; she kept after him to start roping again. “You haven’t even tried, honey,” she’d say. “How do you know you won’t be good again? You don’t lose a skill like that.”

  Tom watched a shiny blue fly march up his sleeve and sighed. “Life’s funny, Dee. If I’d kept on roping, I might still be married, and Lesley would still be alive. I sure as hell would have more to my name than a fourteen-year-old truck and a few head of breeding stock.”

  “You got the house on Plainsborough Road. The one Miguel’s rentin’ from you.”

  “You know I bought that house for Les. I bought it with the money from Golden Boy.”

  Both men sighed.

  “Man, that was a horse,” Johnny said. “Musta killed you to sell him.”

  Tom shrugged. “I figured just because I didn’t want to rope no more didn’t mean he had to quit. When that guy from Calgary offered cash, I snapped it up.” Tom started to spit but changed his mind and swallowed instead, almost choking. Johnny pounded on Tom’s back until Tom held a fist up between them.

  “So, why don’t you move over there instead of fixing up this place? It’s three-bedroom, ain’t it?”

  Tom hesitated, recalling with photographic clarity the look on Lesley’s face when she realized the little farmhouse, with its covered porch, white picket fence and row of primroses—his midnight effort—wasn’t a rental like all the others. She looked at him with tears in her eyes and whispered, almost like a prayer, “Not Goldy?” Tom’s heart felt as if it had been squished by a truck tire. But she made an effort and put on a good face. For a couple of years, anyway. Long enough for him to fall in love with one daughter and make a second.