That Cowboy's Kids

by Debra Salonen

  “I can’t just kick those poor kids outa there. Maria’s got a baby comin’,” he said. “So I guess we’ll give remodeling a try. Maybe give Abby Davis a call.”

  ABBY SLIPPED through VOCAP’s back door, locking it behind her. Her mind was reeling as she headed to her office.

  At Daniel’s unexpected call, she’d raced over to the district attorney’s office, anticipating a change of heart—but not this kind. Her illusions of a pay raise and a promotion came to a screeching halt the minute Daniel told her about his imminent divorce.

  Knees weak, Abby sank into her chair, replaying their conversation in her head.

  “Hi, Abby, thanks for coming. Have a seat.”

  She selected a butter-soft leather armchair she secretly coveted. “No problem. What’s up?”

  His handsome, squarish face showed signs of stress. He heaved a long, portentous sigh. “This is a bit awkward for me, and I want you to know you’re the first person within the office I’ve told. I didn’t want to say anything during business hours. You know how the taxpayers are about public servants conducting personal business on their time.” His laugh sounded fake, his tone held an edginess that made her uneasy.

  “This isn’t business business, then?” Abby asked, oddly unnerved to be alone with Daniel in his office on a bright, cheerful Saturday morning. To calm her nerves she focused on the Kimura family portrait, which hung prominently to the left of his desk. In it, Daniel stood behind his wife, Marilyn, who was seated between their children, Robert and Rebecca.

  “No, it’s not. But what I have to tell you will, inevitably, affect our business relationship,” Daniel said, pausing dramatically. “But it’s my hope that the news will have a positive effect on our…friendship.”

  Friendship? Daniel was her boss, not her friend. They’d had shouting matches over budgets; they constantly argued about protocol; they vied for turf where judicial interests overrode the interests of her clients, but the bottom line always came down to power. Daniel had it; Abby didn’t. Did that constitute grounds for friendship? She didn’t think so. She held her tongue and waited. What he told her next nearly blew her out of the leather armchair. “Marilyn and I are getting a divorce.”

  Since Abby’s mouth dropped open, Daniel probably thought she was going to speak, but any words she might have wanted to say were lost in utter shock. After a minute, he went on. “This has been a long time coming, but we kept things quiet until after the election and Becky’s wedding. Robert’s back at Stanford. Becky and Troy are still on their honeymoon. Marilyn thought this was as good a time as any. She filed yesterday. It’s public record now.”

  Still not sure why she was being made privy to this, Abby’s grip on the soft leather arms tightened when Daniel rose and walked toward her. He paused before her, his expensive cologne following like a well-trained dog. He rested his hip on the edge of the desk and gave her a long, meaningful look. “Abby, you and I have always had a strong working relationship. I didn’t realize how much you meant to me—personally—until you started talking about leaving,” he told her.

  Since her mind couldn’t process this totally unexpected turn of events, she stalled. “Daniel, if I’d known you were going through such a rough time, I wouldn’t have mentioned anything. It’s not like I’m turning in my resignation tomorrow. Even if I do decide to leave VOCAP, it won’t be right away.”

  The intensity of his stare made her squirm.

  “Besides,” she said, her voice catching in her dry throat, “a new case fell into my lap last week. A man whose ex-wife was killed and a judge decided his daughters needed…”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “You always go for the hard-luck cases, don’t you?” he said, interrupting her.

  “It’s my job,” Abby said, hating the defensive tone in her voice.

  Daniel leveled an inscrutable look at her. “But you do it with all your heart, Abby. That’s what makes men fall in love with you.”

  The strangled sound that came from her throat was part laugh, part cry. “You make me sound like a real femme fatale.” His ridiculous assertion was made all the more ludicrous by her outfit: faded gray leggings, scuffed deck shoes and one of Landon’s discarded J.Crew sweatshirts.

  Even in jeans and a polo shirt, Daniel looked professional. And attractive. She and Melina had always joked about Daniel’s political sex quotient, but that was when he was safely married and off the market.

  Confused and unnerved, Abby beat a hasty retreat, sprinting across the parking lot to the safety of her office. As she rocked back and forth in her chair, one part of her wanted to laugh—could a woman whose sexual history included just two men be considered a heartbreaker? Another part wanted to weep—how did she always manage to attract the wrong type? First a depressive, then a womanizer. And now, her boss—and the ink wasn’t even dry on the check to his divorce lawyer.

  The blinking light of her answering machine caught her eye. Out of habit, she pressed the play button and received another shock.

  A masculine clearing of the throat preceded, “Um…Ms. Davis. This is Tom Butler. I was in last week to see you. With my daughters.” There was a pause. Abby could picture the man, his discomfort wearing hard on his soul. “You mentioned something about helping out with home improvements. I think maybe I might like to take you up on the offer. The sooner the better, I guess. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  Abby sighed. Damn. What was it about that man’s voice that made her want to do the two-step? She didn’t even like country-western music.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ABBY TOOK her eyes off the road to glance at the basket of goodies on the passenger seat. She felt like Little Red Riding Hood. Home visits were an integral part of her work, but a first visit was always awkward.

  For reasons she couldn’t quite discern, she was more nervous than usual. She’d worked with hundreds of families and usually managed to maintain a certain level of detachment—you needed it to keep from going crazy—but something about this family touched her more deeply than she cared to admit.

  Maybe it stemmed from witnessing poor little Heather’s anguish. Maybe it was because she could identify all too easily with twelve-year-old Angela’s loss. Abby had been eleven when her grandmother died. Grammy had lived with them since the day Abby came home from the hospital, and her death rocked the foundation of Abby’s life.

  Abby’s mother had returned to work when Abby’s older brothers were eight and thirteen. Two years later, when Abby came along, Grace Davis’s decorating career, which she’d put on hold to stay home with her sons, was just taking off. The boys didn’t need a full-time mother at home, but a new baby did. Fortunately, Grace’s recently widowed, impoverished mother-in-law, Agnes, agreed to move into their home and care for Abby.

  Abby had adored her grandmother with all her heart. She’d been utterly devastated when Agnes died, suddenly, after exploratory surgery. No, Abby had no trouble empathizing with Angela Butler’s pain.

  That, Abby told herself, was why she wanted this to go smoothly. Which was why she’d called her sister-in-law, Robyn, that morning. When Abby asked Robyn for the scoop on her kids’ likes and dislikes, Robyn laughed out loud. “You want to know what’s in with preteens? Why? Are you in the market for a couple? I’m taking offers.”

  Abby explained about Tom Butler and his daughters, trying to downplay the depth of her own interest.

  “What kind of bribes are you looking for?” Robyn asked, her tone teasing. Robyn and Matt constantly razzed Abby about letting her work take the place of a real life.

  “Not bribes—gifts.”

  “Whatever. Well, listen, candy never fails, but you have a single father who may not remind them to brush every night, which might lead to cavities. Stay away from healthy stuff, they’ll think you’re a real tweek.”

  “Is that anything like a geek?”

  “You got it.” She paused. “How ’bout videos? You may not have noticed, but my two are so evolved they can watch a
video and do homework at the same time. Charles Darwin would have been impressed.”

  Abby chuckled, adding the word to her list. “Like what? Disney?”

  “Good for the little one. Kiss of death for the teen. How ’bout Little Women? Winona Ryder’s hot.”

  “What if they don’t have a VCR?”

  “Good grief, where do they live? The backwoods of Tennessee?”

  “On a ranch.”

  “If they have electricity, they have a VCR. Trust me. No parent can function without one.”

  Abby made a note to take along the TV from her bedroom. It had a built-in VCR. She’d tell Tom, who probably wouldn’t accept it as a personal loan, that it was a standard VOCAP practice.

  Abby was about to make her goodbyes when Robyn said, “I talked to Grace this morning.”

  Abby’s breakfast flip-flopped in her belly. She loved her mother—in the abstract, Hallmark kind of way, but the two couldn’t be in the same room for a minute without Grace saying something or doing something that left Abby feeling “lacking.”

  “That’s nice,” Abby said noncommittally. “I guess that means they’re back from their cruise. Did Dad hate it? He was sure he’d die from golf-withdrawal.”

  “I talked to him, too. He said it was fun, but he was glad to get home. Grace said she tried calling you on your birthday, but no answer. Hot date, perhaps?”

  Abby had listened to her mother’s message—a slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday”—on her answering machine when she returned home from her celebration with Melina, but hadn’t gotten around to calling back. “Melina and I went out. We had key lime pie margaritas. Can you imagine such a thing?” Abby asked with forced cheer.

  Robyn made a gagging sound. “I can imagine barfing them up. Yech! Your mother’s right, girl. You don’t have a social life.” Before Abby could mount a defense, Robyn said, “Grace is worried about you, kiddo, and so am I. I keep picturing you home alone with only that obese cat for company.”

  “Tubby is not just any cat. He’s a thirty-pound feline sumo wrestler.” Robyn’s snort did not sound amused. “Besides, Landon drops by off and on.” Whoops. Tactical error.

  “Jesus, Abby, does he bring his new girlfriend along, too? Are you a masochist or what?”

  Abby toyed with the plate of stale birthday cake she intended to feed to the birds. Robyn was right; Abby needed to get on with her life in more ways than one.

  “Listen, Abby, I know you hate it when I try to fix you up, but there’s a guy I want you to meet.”

  Abby groaned, wetting her finger to pick up German-chocolate crumbs.

  “Don’t do that,” Robyn scolded. “He’s really neat.”

  “That’s what you said about Garvin.”

  “Gavin. Forget about Gavin. He was a mistake.”

  “Yeah, a genetic mistake.”

  “Hush. You’re going to like Adam. He’s not a computer droid, he’s a headhunter.”

  “Oh, there’s a lovely image. Is he four foot six with a bone in his nose?”

  Robyn laughed. “He’s over six foot and very cute. Just wait. You’ll see. I’ve invited him to the Memorial Day barbecue.” Abby groaned. She’d have tried to come up with some creative excuse, like sudden-onset leprosy, but right now she was anxious to get on the road. “Well, pal, I’d love to hear about your little matchmaking business, but I gotta run. Duty calls.”

  “That’s another thing your mother said,” Robyn told her, not taking the hint. “You’re letting that job take the place of a real life. This is Sunday. You should be doing something fun—bike riding, in-line skating, sharing the comics with some handsome hunk.” Robyn paused, then giggled. “Dang, I’m starting to make my own life look like hell. I was on my way to clean the toilets when you called.”

  Abby laughed, grateful she didn’t have to muster her usual defense. She wouldn’t admit it to Robyn, or any other member of the family, but lately her life did feel empty, devoid of passion. If it weren’t for the Butler case, she might have spent the whole afternoon weeding her garden and watching videos. Alone.

  CALL IT WORK, Abby thought fifteen minutes later as she turned off the main highway onto a traffic-free side road, but at least this way I’m driving down a country road on a beautiful late-spring day to spend time with a family that needs my help.

  She pushed a button on her armrest to lower the window. Warm, fragrant air filled the car. Alfalfa, she thought, confirming her guess when she spotted a recently cut field of green. Although Abby grew up in Fresno and attended a parochial high school, she had friends involved in 4-H and Future Farmers of America. Her best friend, Kate Petersen, lived on a ranch that bordered the San Joaquin River. Some of Abby’s fondest memories were of riding horses along its tree-lined banks and flirting with the cowboys who worked for her dad.

  As the road turned southeast, toward the foothills, Abby tried to work out what was bothering her most: her family’s interest in her affairs, or the knowledge they might be right. Again. Her sweaty hands slipped on the steering wheel. She wiped them on her jeans and pushed up her sunglasses. She fought the urge to speed up since she wasn’t familiar with this part of the county and didn’t want to end up in an irrigation ditch.

  The directions she’d scribbled on the sticky note had seemed pretty straightforward when Tom dictated them to her last night. She’d deliberated about returning his call on a Saturday night, but, in the end, curiosity won out. He didn’t seem at all surprised that she didn’t have anything better to do than return phone messages on a Saturday night. She would have been annoyed if not for the honest pleasure she heard in his voice. Her heart had done the funniest little back flip.

  Nervously chewing on her bottom lip, Abby consulted her sketchy map. “This has to be more than four miles,” she muttered.

  The flat, agricultural land, leveled to allow flood irrigation of tomatoes, corn and peppers, had given way to undulating land that sported green shafts of bunch grass and scattered groups of black and brown cattle. Interspersed in the mixture were orchards of almonds, walnuts and pistachios.

  “Oh, here we go,” she said, spotting the names on two large, steel-gray mailboxes. The bigger of the two bore the word “Hastings” stenciled on the side; the smaller wore the tag “Butler.”

  She turned off the paved road and slowed down to accommodate a washboard of ripples. On either side of the hard-packed road ran a strip of natural grass, already turned its summer gold. Parallel to the road were two irrigated pastures, home to several dozen head of cattle. Beyond the pastures, Abby spotted silvery-leafed almond trees and, in the distance, a newly planted orchard laid out in precise rows with white, milk carton–like boxes protecting the young saplings.

  The driveway curved to the right and appeared to circle back at the top of a slight rise. A grove of mature walnut trees on the left obscured her view. A scouting party of four or five dogs raced between the stout, mottled trunks to meet her. She hastily rolled up her window, muting the raucous furor that might have scared her off if Tom hadn’t declared the dogs friendly but barky.

  As the driveway completed its S pattern, she looked for Tom’s yellow pickup truck but couldn’t spot it. An expensive-looking silver-and-blue truck was parked cockeyed in the driveway of a long, low California-style ranch house to her right. An artsy steel sign set amid the riotous glory of red, white and blue petunias defined the owners as “Hastings,” with an arrow making up the left-hand upright of the H.

  With her foot barely touching the gas, Abby scanned the area. Her impression was of neatly organized obsolescence. No high-tech vehicles or fancy implements in sight, just well cared for tools of the trade. A tractor, its huge tires caked with mud, stood to one side of a massive, weathered red barn. A small group of horses vied for a front-row view in a corral attached to the narrow, faded redwood shed to her left.

  “Well,” Abby said, trying to decide where to go.

  A movement at the door of the shed caught her eye. A wave. She hoped.
Either that or the glint of the sun off a gun barrel, she thought sardonically. After all, the building would have been right at home in an Old West movie where tired ranch hands bunked down for the night after a long day of fighting off rustlers.

  The door opened all the way and Abby saw Angela Butler step out. No gun in hand. Abby pulled into the graveled, semicircular driveway, parking beneath a brutally trimmed mulberry tree. As she turned off the engine, she saw Angela motion the dogs away. Abby opened the door and got out, taking a deep breath of pure, country air. The distinctive smell of horses and recently irrigated soil made her smile.

  “Hi, Angela,” Abby said, not bothering to close the car door. She left the basket of goodies, including her pan of hastily prepared Rice Krispie treats, on the seat. Donna had warned Abby to proceed with cautious diplomacy on Angela’s turf. “I wasn’t sure this was the right place. Where’s your dad’s truck?”

  Angela, barefoot, in baggy jeans and a cropped T-shirt, didn’t budge from her spot on the crumbling concrete stoop. Her thin shoulders lifted and fell. “A neighbor called. Some cows got out. He tried calling you, but you’d already left.”

  “No problem. It’s a gorgeous day and I’m happy to be out of the house. Is Heather here?”

  “She pitched a fit when he started to leave so he took her with him.”

  Abby understood the disgust she heard in Angela’s voice. On one level Angela probably would have liked to be able to pitch a fit of her own, but as an almost-teenager she had a certain image to maintain.

  “Five is pretty young to have to face something like this, but in some ways it’s even harder when you’re twelve. People don’t expect a five-year-old to cope, but when you’re older…” She didn’t fill in the rest. Angela’s quick, probably involuntary nod showed the girl agreed.