That Cowboy's Kids

by Debra Salonen

  The other two occupants voiced their approval. The grandmother went so far as to volunteer for a date, if her husband of fifty-one years gave his okay. Tom let the knot in his stomach relax. What would Abby think?

  AS FAR AS Abby was concerned, Al Carroll was a god. Or the next thing to it. Fifty-five. Bald. Built like a bull terrier with suspenders, he made miracles happen. She’d seen his work dozens of times over the years, starting with the remodeling of her home. He’d transformed her dark, moody ranch-style house into an open, sunlit bungalow.

  She couldn’t wait to turn him loose on the Butler house.

  Originally Abby had planned to meet Tom to go over some remodeling ideas, but when Al had called and said he had a couple of hours free, she’d jumped at the chance to meet him on-site.

  “Not good,” Al said, kicking his booted toe at the crumbling foundation. “Why do people build without footings?”

  “How bad is it?” Bad meant money.

  “I’ve seen worse. We’ll just make sure not to involve the county suits in that part of the process. This newer stuff is acceptable.”

  Abby trotted along, trying to see what Al discerned in the weathered plank siding and moss-covered shingles. “I’d suggest putting gutters on the whole building when we do the addition. Saves some settling and might help shore up this area. Landscaping helps, too.”

  Abby scribbled notes while swatting flies. “He’s going to have to move the horse pen, right?” she asked, more prayer than question.

  “Makes sense. That area is already level and if you go the other direction you run into septic problems.”

  Good. She had a feeling that Tom had agreed to this addition out of both a sense of doing the right thing for his daughters and a dire need for privacy and space, but she knew he wasn’t crazy about the changes it would entail.

  She glanced at the slim watch on her wrist. The family should be back from Donna’s any minute.

  “What about this area?” Al called, catching Abby staring at the road.

  She hurried around the corner of the building, nearly stumbling over a pile of firewood debris. A huge ax protruded—Paul Bunyanish—from a circle of wood. An image of Tom chopping wood on a cold morning, muscles taut beneath his worn flannel shirt, caught her off guard.

  Al gave her a moment’s scrutiny. “You okay? You oughta get some boots if you’re gonna be out here in the country.”

  Abby looked down at the beige heels that accented her outfit: off-white Liz Claiborne silk and wool–blend suit with sculpted shell and nude hose. Not quite Eva Gabor in Green Acres, but close. She’d only been here twenty minutes and already there was a paw print on her skirt and some sort of vegetation on her sleeve.

  At that moment, the thunderous roar of a diesel engine combined with a cacophony of barking filled the air. The faded yellow pickup rolled to a stop around the corner from where Abby and Al were standing. Angel appeared at Abby’s side almost before the sound of the engine died.

  “Wait till you see Dad,” she whispered breathlessly. “You won’t believe it.”

  Abby caught her breath. Angel’s impish grin could be read as good or bad, you just never knew with girls this age. Abby leaned around the corner and nearly lost her balance again. Heedless of slivers, she anchored one hand on the rough siding.

  “Ohmygod.”

  The mustache was gone. He’d left his hat in the truck, and his hair—what was left of it—was short. And wavy. And gorgeous. The shorter locks were full of rambunctious waves, which glinted like tempered bronze. This new look, even with a strip of slightly lighter skin tone above his upper lip, was more mature, more polished. Except for the faded denim shirt and scuffed blue jeans, he could have been a GQ magazine model. He should have been. “Wow.”

  “Cool, huh?” Angel enthused. “Do I have the, like, most with-it dad in the whole world, or what?”

  “Absolutely. He gets my vote. Doesn’t your daddy look great, Heather?” Heather, who was in Tom’s arms, hadn’t taken her eyes off her father’s face, as if she expected him to turn into someone else while she watched.

  “Daddy lost his mistash,” Heather told Abby. “He went for a walk while we were at Dr. Donna’s and some genie stole it because it was so pretty the genie wanted it for his wife.”

  Abby laughed and couldn’t resist throwing her arms around the pair of them and giving them a hug. “Well, I’m glad I’m not married to that genie. Can you picture me with a mistash?”

  Heather giggled and wiggled to get down.

  Abby dropped her arms and backed up a step, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Daddy says I get to pick a kitty from the new ones that were born in the barn. Wanna help me pick one?” Heather looked up at Abby expectantly.

  Abby was grateful for the diversion. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Tom leaned down and planted a kiss atop the springy blond curls. “Mama cats sometimes hide their babies, punkin. Why don’t you go find them and Abby’ll catch up?”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  As Heather trotted off, Abby eyed Tom more circumspectly. “I do like it. But I have to admit I’m a little jealous. I go into the beauty parlor and come out the same, every time. You go in Tom Selleck and come out…” She searched for the right celebrity’s name. “Tom Cruise.”

  Angel shook her head. “Naw. Too smooth. How ’bout Nicholas Cage?”

  “Too extreme. Sean Connery?”

  “Too old.”

  Tom coughed. “Would you like to introduce me to your friend?”

  Abby’s cheeks heated up as she realized Al was watching this exchange with bemused puzzlement. “Oh, sorry. Tom, this is Al Carroll, the best remodeling contractor in the business. Al, Tom Butler, homeowner.”

  “And movie star,” Al said dryly.

  Tom shook his hand. “Not exactly. I knew there was a reason I always went to the same barber all these years.”

  “Me, too,” Al said, passing a freckled hand over his bald pate. Everyone laughed.

  All awkwardness behind them, Tom and Al set off around the building with Angel at their heels, discussing the project. Abby started toward the barn but gave herself a moment to compose her scattered sensibilities. It was only a haircut, for heaven’s sake.

  TOM LIKED Abby’s favorite contractor. The man knew his stuff and had some excellent ideas. In fact, talking to Al Carroll energized him. This project underscored the realization that the girls were here permanently and it was up to him to make a home for them.

  Abby will understand, he thought. When Al Carroll left, Tom headed toward the barn.

  As he walked, he thought about the look on Abby’s face when she saw his haircut. To be honest, Tom had to admit her reaction hadn’t hurt his ego. Donna had been reserved about his new look until she saw how the girls responded. Tom had been a little worried about what Heather might think, but she’d stroked his smooth cheeks and kissed him without reservation. “Where’d your mistash go, Daddy?”

  He invented a story that made her laugh and she was fine with the change. Donna told him, “I’m pleased. I see this as real progress. She’s comfortable that you’re here for her and nothing about that is going to change. This is very good.” Then, before he left, she winked and said, “Not to mention it looks great. Very debo-nair.”

  Tom entered the barn quietly. He didn’t want to disturb any important girl talk. He was also curious about why Heather had included Abby in the choosing of a kitten.

  He heard a quiet murmur of voices and stepped closer to the yellow glow of the light he’d suspended over a stacked pyramid of hay bales.

  “I used to have lots of kittens of my own when I came up here to visit Dad in the summers,” Tom heard Angel say.

  He peeked over the railing of the empty horse stall. Abby was perched on the edge of a bale beside the two kids, who were sprawled on their bellies trying to see inside a hollowed-out area between the stacks.

  “Those summers alone with your dad must have been very special,” Abby
said, trying to peer over their shoulders without losing her balance. “My brothers were ten and fifteen when I was born. My grammy told me they thought my being born was the worst thing that could have happened, that I’d ruin everything.”

  Tom smiled.

  “Did ya? Did ya ruin everything?” Heather asked, ignoring the nudge from her sister.

  “Just the opposite. Turns out I was a built-in babe magnet. The boys took me everywhere. All the girls would come around and ‘ooh’ and ‘aah.’ Nothing like a cute little toddler to break the ice.”

  “Didn’t you have any sisters?” Heather asked.

  Abby shook her head. “Not until later on when my brothers married. Robyn and Patrice are my sisters-in-law and I love them like sisters. Matt and Robyn have two kids, Megan and Patrick—you’re right between them in age, Angel. And Jarrod and Patrice just had a baby, Chloe, right before Christmas.”

  Angel sat up, cross-legged; she eyed Abby intently. “Dr. Jessup says you have great mothering instincts. How come you don’t have any kids?”

  Tom’s pulse jumped. He almost interceded to admonish Angel. He was stopped by a curious flash of pain that crossed Abby’s face before she camouflaged it by poking at a piece of moss on the sleeve of her prissy off-white suit.

  Her tone seemed artificially bright when she said, “I have a cat. His name is Tabby, but I call him Tubby. He thinks he’s in charge of my house.”

  Tom cleared his throat to announce his presence and joined the little conference by squatting beside Angel. “Hello, ladies. Have you picked out a kitten?”

  Heather shook her head. “The mama hided them way back there, Daddy.” To Abby, she said, “Mama cat hides the babies so the papa won’t eat them.”

  “Oh, gross,” Angel exclaimed, shooting to her feet. “I’m outta here.”

  Tom caught her hand, not wanting her to leave this warm, friendly closeness. “Where’re you goin’?”

  She flashed him a dark look that made him flinch. “Nowhere. Of course. I just want to be alone. Is that all right?”

  Tom felt his cheeks heat up. What did he know about the needs of a girl on the brink of womanhood? He could understand the need for private time, but ever since he’d run across a pamphlet on teen suicide at Donna’s office, he’d become very cautious. Maybe overly cautious. He let her small tense fingers slip from his hold. “Sure.”

  She raced toward the rear of the barn.

  As if sensing his worries, Heather held out her arms to him. “Is the daddy cat mean, Daddy?”

  Tom scooped his younger daughter into his arms and settled back against the stack of bales opposite Abby. “Not exactly, honey. Just forgetful. He forgets those are his babies and thinks some other cat planted kittens in his territory. The mama keeps the babies safe until they’re big enough to look after themselves.”

  Abby made a small sound.

  He caught a puzzling flash of some dark emotion cross Abby’s face before she glanced at her watch. “I should be going.”

  She stood up quickly, brushing off her skirt. “It’s my night to help at the women’s shelter. Tell Angel I said goodbye. I’ll call as soon as Al’s got the plans ready.”

  Tom looked at Heather, who seemed oblivious to the sudden shift of mood. “Wait a sec,” he said, rising to one knee. “We’ll walk you to your car.”

  Abby paused by the gate. “No. Stay. You have a kitten to choose. These are important moments in a girl’s life.”

  Puzzled by both her cryptic words and sudden somberness, he sat back down. She flicked her hand like a wounded butterfly and hurried away.

  Heather reached up and laid her small, soft hands on either side of his face and directed his attention to her. “Can we pick the kitty later? My tummy says it’s time to eat.”

  ANGEL SETTLED BACK against the makeshift couch she’d created from hay bales. The soft fleece lining of the old sleeping bag she’d found in the storage room below the loft helped protect her from the scratchy building material.

  Just last week she’d remembered the hideaway her father had created for her a couple of summers ago. He’d called it a fort, but she and her friends, Brandi, Laura and Trudy Gills, called it the Hidey Spot. Her dad hadn’t been so busy then and had time to cart her friends out to the ranch to play. Angel didn’t know if any of the girls still lived around here. Last summer, Angel only spent a few days with her dad because her mother enrolled her in a computer camp, a gymnastics camp and a stupid, three-week leadership camp.

  Shortly after the funeral, her father had suggested they try calling some of Angel’s old friends, but, so far, she hadn’t wanted to. Sometimes it just seemed too hard to explain to people about her mom.

  Angel tilted back her head and studied the dust particles floating in the shaft of sunlight coming through a hole in the roof of the barn. It was quiet up here, peaceful. She knew her dad worried about her. He didn’t understand why sometimes she wanted the television on as loud as possible and other times she’d want absolute silence, like now. She didn’t understand it, either. Maybe she’d ask Dr. Donna. Maybe she’ll tell me I’m going crazy.

  Sighing, she reached for her new purple clipboard. “Imperial plum,” Abby called it. The clipboard, complete with drafting paper and mechanical pencil, was a gift from Abby. Angel ran her finger along the surface of the blue-lined paper. It had a clean, professional feel.

  “Measure your furniture,” Abby told her. “Your end tables, dressers and beds, and then figure out what that comes to in scale—one foot equals one square. Then cut out the shapes so you can come up with designs.”

  Abby didn’t go into big long explanations. She seemed to know Angel was smart enough to figure things out on her own.

  Too bad Dad doesn’t understand that, Angel thought bitterly.

  Angel knew he was trying, but lately he’d been trying too hard. She felt like one of the colts he was training. He’d play out so much leader, letting the colt think he was free, then snap the line to show him who was boss.

  This morning, Angel woke up early and started making oatmeal. The instant kind. Boil water—add the stupid oatmeal. Any idiot could do it. But she’d gotten sidetracked by Heather, and when she turned back to the pathetic hot plate that was supposed to pass for a stove, the oatmeal was bubbling like one of those volcanic pits she saw on the Discovery Channel. A big old glob spurted out and landed on her arm.

  It had burned like hell, and she’d shouted a few swearwords, which made her dad jump off the couch, where he slept, and race to the kitchen. By then, Angel had everything under control and she’d smeared butter on the nickel-size blister the way her mother taught her.

  “Oh, no, Angel-babe, that’s an old wives’ tale. Using butter on a burn can actually lead to infection,” he’d said. “Go rinse that off and we’ll put some antiseptic ointment on it.”

  Like he was a mother. How did he know?

  Twelve was a sucky age, Angel decided. People expect you to be “responsible” but they don’t give you any responsibility.

  On the way home from Dr. Donna’s that afternoon, she’d asked her dad to drop her off at the mall to do some shopping. “The mall?” he’d croaked in this frog-like voice.

  “Yeah, that big place north of town with shops in it. Remember?”

  “Alone?” His voice turned dark and serious. Not a good sign.

  “Well, it’s not like I have a whole lot of friends to hang out with.”

  He pretended to be too busy driving to look her in the eye. “Dr. Donna told us Abby and her contractor friend are at the house, remember?”

  Angel knew an excuse when she heard one. She sulked in the corner, sucking on a hunk of hair.

  “Maybe Maria could take you shopping next week,” he suggested, a few miles later.

  Like Maria wanted to hang out with a twelve-year-old at the mall. Angel liked Maria a lot, but she had a baby on the way. Angel didn’t think she’d be up for any serious shopping in the near future.

  “Forget it,” sh
e snarled with enough volume to make Heather squirm even closer to their dad. Out of sheer spite, Angel pinched her sister on the meaty part of her thigh. The little twit howled like a puppy caught in barbed wire.

  For a second, Angel thought her father might raise his hand to her, something he’d never done before. Her heart pounded so loud she couldn’t hear the damn country-western music on the radio. But he didn’t. His knuckles were white against the cracked black steering wheel, but they relaxed after a minute. He ruffled Heather’s hair and told her, “Grumpy people aren’t much fun, are they? Sorry you got caught in the middle of our disagreement, punkin. Your sister will apologize, too, right after she gets done mucking out the foaling stall in the barn.”

  Remembering, Angel grimaced as she nibbled on the grainy eraser of the mechanical pencil. So far, her dad hadn’t mentioned the chore again, but that was probably because Abby was here.

  I wish Janey were home, Angel thought. Dad listens to Janey. A twinge of guilt made Angel frown. Janey was in the hospital fighting breast cancer. Angel’s mother would have scolded her for worrying about her own problems when Janey was fighting for her life. Lesley took breast cancer very seriously. Every October, Angel and her mother ran in the annual Breast Cancer Awareness marathon at Pismo Beach. They did the short run, but still, they made lots of money for a good cause.

  Angel thought about this coming October. Who would take her this year? Dad? Not likely. He hated jogging and seemed to get embarrassed if a woman in a bra ad showed up on television. Val? He always told her mother his idea of helping was writing a check. Janey? Angel knew two women from her mother’s aerobics class who were breast cancer survivors, but they told her it took them a full year to get back on their feet.

  An image of Abby crossed her mind, but Angel brushed it away. Abby was temporary—here for the short term, like Dr. Donna. Once Angel and Heather were better, Abby would move on to the next family in need. That’s what Abby herself said when Angel asked about her work.

  “I help people get back to the business of living, then I slip into the background so they can get on with their lives,” she’d said, frankly.