That Cowboy's Kids

by Debra Salonen

  “So? He’s a nice man. He cares about his kids. He doesn’t kick dogs. What do you want from me?”

  With a gentleness she’d seen Melina employ with children who came to her broken and bruised, her friend said, “I want you to be careful. I know you’ll work yourself to the bone for this man—this family, but in the end, they will heal and move on with their lives. They always do.”

  The truth of her words sunk into Abby’s flesh like acid.

  “This is what we do, remember?” Melina said as she prepared to leave the office. “We help them get their lives together so they can go forward, then we disappear into the past, like old friends who moved away. You’re the one who told me you have to hold something back, otherwise this business eats you up inside.”

  For several minutes after Melina left, Abby gazed out the window. Her grandmother always said the truth was hard to swallow, but it was better than a bellyache from a lie. The truth was she was attracted to Tom Butler…and his daughters. But Melina was right about something else as well. Abby was a professional and she could do her job without breaking her heart in the process. She had to—three other hearts were at stake.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TOM HURRIED into Ed’s office, a small, cluttered room at the back of the ranch house. He caught a scent of stale coffee and looked at the coffeemaker sitting on the file cabinet—gray globs floated atop an inch of black goo.

  A glance at the Caterpillar clock above the room’s lone window told him he had forty-five minutes before Maria Fuentes returned with the girls. When she’d picked them up at eleven, he’d given her a grateful hug. “You have no idea what a lifesaver you are. Your husband and I are going to be up to our knees in mud all day.”

  In typical Maria fashion, she’d waved off his gratitude. “My niece’s school sponsors this festival every year. I’m hoping the girls will meet some kids their own ages. I grew up on a ranch, I know how hard it is to make friends, but I had eight brothers and sisters to keep me busy. Besides,” she said, ushering his daughters to her ‘87 Toyota wagon, “you’ve done so much for Miguel and me.”

  “Maria,” Tom said, uncomfortable with the praise. No matter how many times he told the young couple they were doing him a favor by renting his house on Plainsborough Road, they insisted on treating him like a hero.

  Tom had known Maria’s family most of his life. He’d played football with her older brothers in high school, and there wasn’t a man around he respected more than Ernesto Garza, Maria’s father.

  Maria, the second to youngest of nine, met Miguel Fuentes on the sorting line at a local cannery the summer after her high-school graduation. Although, at the time, he barely spoke English, Miguel had ambition and drive. When Maria introduced him to Tom, Tom felt an immediate bond. Ed agreed to give him a chance, and Miguel had proved his worth every day for the last four years.

  Maria scolded Tom with her eyes. “Miguel and I can never repay you, Tom. When other landlords were afraid to rent to us because of our…little problem, you handed us the key to your beautiful little house—no first and last months’ rent, no deposit.”

  Their problem was an arsonist who had never been caught. The police theorized that whoever set fire to their duplex was a hired torch courtesy of Boyd Johnston, who was in prison, serving a life sentence for murdering Maria’s cousin, Adelina.

  It was during the sentencing hearing that Maria’s family turned to Abby Davis for help. Thanks to her impassioned plea, Adelina’s baby daughter, Celeste, went home to her mother’s family instead of to Boyd’s parents. Two months later, Maria and Miguel returned home from work one day to find their house reduced to ashes.

  At first, Tom had worried that opening his and Lesley’s house to the Fuenteses would stir up old ghosts, but Maria had redecorated in her own style, and it filled Tom’s heart with pleasure to see horses grazing in the pasture behind his small white barn. Collaborating on a shared dream, Tom and Miguel pooled their resources to buy three broodmares. By trading horse training for stud fees, they were now into their second year.

  Tom yanked on the back of Ed’s oversize desk chair. He heaved himself into its tweed padding. When he shuffled aside a mound of unopened mail, Tom noticed an envelope from an insurance company. He’d promised to look into group policies for Miguel. Ed paid top dollar but didn’t offer benefit packages.

  The phone beside his elbow rang. Its partner attached to the fax machine across the room echoed in unison.

  “Tom Butler.”

  “Tom? I tried the house, but Angel didn’t answer so I thought I’d leave a message on the machine.”

  Abby! Tom rocked back in the chair and kicked out his legs, hooking his boots on the corner of the desk.

  “Maria took the girls to a school function this afternoon. I didn’t even ask about it.” He frowned, stroking the coarse, comforting texture of his mustache. “Does that make me a bad father?”

  Her light, melodic laughter eased some weight inside him. If he closed his eyes he had no trouble picturing the smile that went with that laugh. “Yeah, right,” she said dryly. “Maria Fuentes could take those kids to a biker bar and they’d be safe.”

  “I forgot you know her. From her cousin’s case, right?”

  “Yep.” The lightness went out of her voice. “One of the hardest cases I’ve ever worked, but Maria was a rock, even when it looked like the judge was going to award custody to Boyd’s family. But the good news is—Celeste is doing great.”

  Tom stared at a cobweb arching from the file cabinet to the overhead fluorescent-light fixture. He needed to hire a housecleaner before Janey got back, but he was too tired to think about it. “It was an awful time for Maria. She and I have talked about the parallels of what happened to Adelina and Lesley. Two mothers. Both murdered. Maria even suggested I come see you, but I thought I could handle things myself.”

  “Tom, you need to remember that it’s okay to ask for help. You had nothing to do with the violence that created this situation. You’re a wonderful father, but even the best parent needs a break now and then. I think it’s terrific that Maria has the girls. It’ll be good for them, too.”

  Tom closed his eyes. The praise felt good, even though he didn’t want to admit it. “I’m a little worried about Heather,” he told her before he could stop himself. “She had a really bad dream last night—worse than usual. It took hours to get her back to sleep.”

  “Good,” Abby said, catching him off guard.

  “Good?”

  “Believe it or not, that may be a sign of progress with Donna. Be sure to mention it when you take the girls in tomorrow. Is that why you sound so tired?”

  She can tell? “That, and I was up at four. Miguel had some problems with one of our irrigation pumps. Out here, water is money.”

  “So you raced out to the field in the middle of the night with practically no sleep and fixed the pump. Sounds like a job for SuperCowboy.”

  The humor in her tone made him smile. “I didn’t fix it. That’s P.G.&E.’s problem—well, it will be once I get this fax off to them. That’s why I’m in the office. I hooked up a temporary unit and diverted the water to another field so it wouldn’t go to waste and we were back in business.”

  “Then you went home and took a nap, right?”

  Involuntarily, Tom hooted. “What planet do you live on?”

  “I was being facetious.” She paused, and Tom could picture a serious look settling on her face. He’d noticed her habit of taking a few seconds to compose her thoughts before delivering a serious message. “You know, Tom, sleep deprivation is a dangerous thing. For one thing, you could be too tired to cope with the girls.”

  Before he could protest, she asked, “You operate heavy machinery, right? Tractors? Farm implements? The kind where one slip could cost you life or limb?” When Tom didn’t answer, she continued, “At the very least, when you get run-down, you enhance your chances of getting sick. And that wouldn’t do any of you any good, either.” He could hear the co
ncern in her voice.

  He started to answer, but she beat him to the punch. “Tell you what—why don’t you let that fax wait until tomorrow? Just rock back in that big comfy chair of Ed’s and close your eyes for a few minutes. A catnap’s better than nothing at all.”

  The suggestion caught him off guard and he had to admit he felt as tired as he could ever remember. His eyelids drooped; his arms felt too heavy to hold the phone. “Wait a minute,” he said, surfacing above the waves of fatigue that were pulling him down. “How do you know Ed’s chair is comfy?”

  Her musical giggle made him smile. “Quit procrastinating. Angel and I used the fax to send my mother a rough sketch of the floor plan yesterday. That chair could house a family of five. I almost stole it. Just close your eyes and let go,” she coaxed. “I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait,” he feebly protested. “Why’d you call?”

  “It can wait till tomorrow. I’ll meet you at Donna’s when you take the girls to their session. Sweet dreams.” She hung up.

  Tom put down the receiver with a deep sigh. As fatigue carried him into a black, dreamless state, his last thought was of Abby, a sweet-voiced siren who cared about tired, lonesome cowboys.

  NO MAROON HONDA.

  Tom scanned the parking lot one more time, but clearly Abby wasn’t waiting for him at Donna’s as planned. He swallowed his disappointment and parked the truck, letting his children’s chatter wash over him without hearing a single word.

  He’d gotten a fairly decent night’s sleep—only one mild nightmare for Heather—and he’d been looking forward to telling Abby how much the nap she’d suggested had helped him. Twenty short minutes had been enough to put a smile on his face when Maria brought the girls home. They’d actually played Chutes and Ladders after dinner until bedtime and he’d still had enough energy to tackle paperwork. All in all, it was a nice evening and he wanted to thank her. He wanted to see her.

  Donna met them at the door. As usual, she had her hands behind her back and a grin on her face. “Hello, my young friends. Which hand today?”

  Tom didn’t know if this was part of their therapy or just a ploy to get in their good graces, but she always had some small treasure or goodie waiting when the children arrived. As usual, Angel let her little sister pick first, a generosity that both amazed Tom and made him very proud. As always, Heather chose the left hand.

  Donna produced two perfect Bosc pears.

  “Thank you,” the girls chimed in unison.

  “You’re most welcome. Now settle down at the table and I’ll be right there.” She waited until they were seated, then partially closed the door. “Tom, Abby called a minute ago. She tried to reach you at home but you’d already left. Something came up and she couldn’t meet you here.”

  “No problem.”

  Donna studied him a second. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

  He smiled. “Almost enough. Abby helped.”

  Donna’s eyes showed surprise. “She did?”

  “She told me it’s okay to take a nap when you need it and to let other people help with the kids.”

  Donna’s smile looked less reserved. “She’s right, of course. And it is important that you look after your health during this difficult period. Your daughters need you to stay healthy. If you were a woman, I’d tell you to treat yourself to a trip to the beauty parlor for a little pampering.” She let out a small sound of impatience. “What a sexist remark! Tom, go find a beauty parlor and treat yourself to a little pampering. That’s an order from your health-care professional.”

  Chuckling, Tom left the building at a loss as to how to fill his time. He was childless and off duty for the next hour and a half. He usually spent the time running ranch errands, but since he’d planned to meet Abby, he’d left his paperwork on Ed’s desk.

  Idly choosing the path of least resistance, he wandered along the sidewalk of the small, shady strip mall. A striped barber pole at the far end of the complex caught his eye and he headed toward it.

  Angel had been threatening for weeks to trim his hair in his sleep. His eagerness slowed as he neared the doorway. The original barbershop had metamorphosed into a beauty parlor. Outlined in brightly painted flowers, the rose and gold printing on the front window promised Glitzing, Acrylic Nails, Perms, Facials and Aromatherapy. Tom lowered his chin and started to pass it by when he noticed a hand-scribbled sign that read “Walk-Ins Welcome.”

  The scents that assailed his senses were far more caustic than anything his barnyard produced. His nostrils twitched and he almost turned around but braved the threshold. If this was aromatherapy, those New Age people needed their noses examined.

  “Hey, sugar, come on in. My name’s Jackie. We don’t bite unless you ask us real nice.” The person attached to the throaty drawl was a caricature composite of Mae West and Lucille Ball. A good two hundred pounds, the red-haired woman wore shiny pink bicycle pants and a baggy top sporting two dancing purple poodles with pink polka-dot bow ties. “What can we do you for, honey?”

  “Haircut,” Tom croaked, glancing around the room in case he needed a weapon or quick escape. The shop’s other two occupants consisted of a matronly-looking woman with a helmet of skinny blue plastic rollers who was receiving a manicure by an elfin Asian woman of incalculable age.

  “Well, hand over your hat and park your butt in that royal-blue throne, cowboy, and we’ll give it a go.”

  Tom cringed when she tossed his good, white felt hat carelessly on a magazine-strewn coffee table, but he obediently walked to the indicated chair. He eyed its reclined back wedged up tightly to a sink with an indentation about the right size for a neck, and said, “Just a haircut, ma’am. I washed it this morning.”

  Grinning, the woman chomped on a wad of chewing gum with enough snap to mimic gunfire. “Indulge me. It’s all part of the price—sixteen bucks.”

  Tom lowered himself into the chair and leaned back. With a speediness that amazed him, Jackie secured a plastic bib around his neck and aimed a tingly spray of warm water at his head. Tom closed his eyes, relaxing to the feel of her fingers massaging his scalp. The apple-scented lather smelled good.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Jackie said. “Men don’t know what they’re missing at barbershops and I can tell this is your first time in a beauty parlor, right?”

  Tom was too lethargic to answer. He grunted.

  As she worked some apple-scented lather into his hair, she asked, “So what brings you to these parts, stranger?”

  “My daughters see a…doctor in the building across the way.”

  “Oh, really? I know one of the doctors over there. Her name is Donna Jessup. She’s cool. She helped out my son when he was nineteen. Had a little drug problem.”

  “Is he better now?”

  “Yep. Goes to Narcotics Anonymous faithfully and finished college. He and his girlfriend just had a baby. I told him if he didn’t get off his duff and marry that girl, I was sending him back to therapy, but he said people don’t get married for the same reasons these days. A kid isn’t a reason enough? Who knows? Maybe he’s right. I married his father for that reason and look where it got me—bruised, battered and divorced.”

  She squeezed the excess water from his hair and dried it briskly with a big fragrant towel. Her touch held a mothering quality he liked.

  “You married?” she asked, pushing a lever that sat the back of the chair upright.

  It took Tom a minute to get his bearings. “Not anymore.”

  “Over here, doll.” She led him to a silver-flecked padded plastic chair on a hydraulic lift.

  He sat down warily and eyed his wet image in the mirror. Surrounded by an oval of round white bulbs like in the movies, the image of a wet-dog cowboy in the silver-flecked chair looked ridiculously out of place, yet something about its air of glamour made him relax, as if he were preparing for some unannounced play.

  “You share custody with the mom, huh?” Jackie asked.

  Tom looked at her in the mirror. Kind eyes wer
e hidden beneath an outrageous layer of mascara and black eyeliner. She was real, he decided, even if the color of her spiky locks wasn’t.

  “No. She died. The girls are getting some counseling to help them deal with it.”

  “Well, good for you,” she said, grasping his shoulder in a supportive way. “What a smart dad you are! I lost my mama when I was nine, and my daddy sent me to live with my aunt. She was a good woman but she had four kids of her own and I didn’t make it easy for her. I was mad at my mama for getting sick and dying, mad at my dad for sending me away, just mad at the world, I guess. I think my life would have been a lot different if I’d had someone to help me see it wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

  She straightened up, suddenly all business, and spun Tom around to face her. “Now, what are we doing here, son? Way I see it is we have two choices—same ol’ same ol’ or something a little radical. Which is it gonna be?”

  “I could probably stand a little change.” Even as he said the words, Tom had a feeling he was going to regret his choice.

  She rewarded him with a big smile. “Then close your eyes, honey, and let Jackie go to work.”

  Tom lost track of time. When Jackie suggested losing the mustache he’d groomed and pampered since the early days of his marriage, he shrugged with cavalier ease but drew the line at glitzing, whatever that was.

  “Okay, honey,” Jackie said with a flourish, spinning his chair to face the mirror. “Open your eyes.”

  Tom did. He searched the mirror for a familiar visage but found a stranger sitting in the chair with silver stars. He blinked. So did the man across from him. Oh my God.

  “Well, what do you think? Am I a genius or what?”

  Jackie’s infectious triumph helped take the edge off the severity of the change. This person didn’t look like him, but he didn’t look bad. In fact, he looked younger and more…current.

  “I think my twelve-year-old will love it.”

  Jackie winked. “So will your twenty-five-year-old and your fifty-year-old. Trust me, Tom, you’re a hunk.”