A Cowboy's Tears

by Anne McAllister

  She'd be glad when her dad heard her the first time she asked him a question, and when Felicity didn't fall asleep at the dinner table, and when she remembered to buy ponytail fasteners like she promised when she went to the store.

  But Becky didn't say any of that. Not to Susannah. Not even to Tuck.

  She just thought it—and felt guilty for thinking it. And went on long rides after school to try to sort things out.

  But she wasn't doing a very good job of it.

  It seemed to her as if she was the only thing out of sync in the whole world—until she rode up over the ridge and looked down on the cabin and saw Mace's truck there again today.

  It was parked exactly where it had been the day before, as if he hadn't gone home at all.

  Sometimes, she knew, cowboys and ranchers didn't get home at night if they couldn't find all the cattle or they had trouble moving them. Maybe that was what happened to Mace. Maybe he was so late getting down last night that, if he still had more to do, he wouldn't want to bother driving all the way home only to come back again today.

  She was surprised, though, that he hadn't bothered to take a cellular phone along to call Jenny. But, then, maybe he didn't have one. Mace didn't have a lot of money. A cellular phone might be a luxury. Becky's dad, Taggart, had thought it was for years.

  But now that Becky rode out alone and Felicity had to drive to Bozeman in the winter, he made sure they had one along.

  Mace obviously hadn't.

  It was a good thing Becky had seen his truck yesterday so she could tell her dad where he was. Then Jenny wouldn't worry.

  Unless she should have been worrying! Becky thought, pulling up her horse so sharply, that he tossed his head and almost bucked her off.

  "Sorry. Sorry," she soothed him, patting his neck.

  But really, what if Mace's truck was still there because he'd had an accident? What if he was up on the range hurt and alone?

  Becky put her spurs lightly to Blaze's sides.

  If Mace was hurt, she would have to find him! "Don't overlook the obvious," her father always told her. So she banged on the door and even opened it and called his name, but he wasn't there. There were some cattle behind the cabin in a field Mace was obviously using as a holding pen.

  She rode Blaze down there, studying the ground as she went. You had to look at the way the grass was flattened or twigs were bent to see which way they'd come from or gone, her father told her. She dismounted and knelt to scowl at the grass and the hoofprints. There were a dozen steers in the pasture already, and they hadn't exactly tiptoed in.

  "Playin' scout?"

  Becky's head jerked up.

  Mace was sitting on horseback grinning down at her.

  Some scout, she thought, disgruntled, cheeks flaming. She hadn't even heard him coming!

  Straightening up, she stuck her hands in her pockets and gave a little shrug, feeling self-conscious. "I was going to come rescue you. I thought you were hurt."

  "Hurt?" Mace's brows drew down beneath the cowboy hat that shaded his eyes. "Why would you think that?"

  "I saw your truck here yesterday. An' it was still here today."

  "You were here yesterday?" He sounded as if he was accusing her of something.

  Becky frowned. It was one thing if her dad and Felicity got mad and yelled at her sometimes. They were her parents, and even if she didn't think they were being reasonable, she figured it was their right to yell if they wanted.

  But Mace wasn't supposed to. He was her friend.

  More than her friend, actually.

  She dropped her gaze and dug the toe of her boot into the dirt. He was the cowboy she'd fallen in love with when she was five years old.

  Not that he knew.

  It'd embarrass him to death if he knew a thing like that. It would embarrass her! And anyhow, it wasn't like she'd ever had a chance with him. Mace had been married to Jenny since way before Becky was born. They had a good marriage, too.

  She remembered her dad saying that, years ago, when Becky had suggested kind of hopefully that maybe Jenny could divorce Mace and marry Taggart and become her stepmother.

  Becky thought Jenny would make a good stepmother. She didn't yell. Much. She tolerated mud better than most women. And she made really good apple pie.

  Besides, Becky had thought, if Jenny divorced Mace and married Taggart, when she finally grew up, Mace could marry her.

  She didn't say that part out loud, of course. But when she'd suggested that Jenny would make a good stepmother, Taggart had said, "Won't happen, Pard. Jenny and Mace have been a pair long as I can remember. I believe it'd take an atom bomb to split 'em apart."

  It was just as well. Becky didn't need another grouch in her life. Not even a drop-dead handsome one like Mace Nichols.

  She turned her back on him, put her boot in the stirrup and swung back onto Blaze's back. Giving him a nudge with her heels, she started to ride away.

  "Hey!"

  Becky hesitated at the sound of Mace's voice, then kept going.

  He caught up with her. "I didn't mean to growl at you." There was a sort of hesitancy in his voice that she'd never heard before. "I was surprised. That's all. I didn't see you up here yesterday. You didn't stop."

  Mollified, Becky said, "Me 'n' Tuck came up riding. I saw your truck. I told Dad last night when Jenny called looking for you."

  "Jenny called you?" There was no hesitancy now, only sharpness, and Becky wondered if he was mad because she'd told.

  "She was worried. You know moms worry," she explained.

  It was something she'd just begun to understand since her dad had married Felicity.

  It wasn't that her dad didn't care, just that Felicity was more obvious about it. It was kind of nice most of the time, but Becky was looking forward to the twins getting old enough so that Felicity could worry about them, too. "Jenny's not a mom."

  Becky blinked at his harsh tone, then shrugged. "Guess not. But you know what I mean."

  "Yeah." Chug sidestepped and Mace reined the horse in sharply.

  Becky cocked her head. "Are you mad at Jenny?" she ventured after a moment.

  Keeping his eye on his horse, Mace shook his head. "Of course not."

  "You sound mad."

  "I'm not mad, damn it!" His voice quieted. "I'm not mad." He pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and rubbed it over his face. "It's hot and I'm tired, that's all. You want some lemonade?"

  Becky brightened. "You got some?"

  He turned his horse and headed toward the cabin. "Come on."

  Becky followed on Blaze, dismounting and tying him next to Chug and loosening his cinch. Then she hurried to catch up.

  She thought he'd have an ice chest. Her dad always brought one when he was going to be up here for a day or two. But Mace went in and opened the small refrigerator, then took out a bottle of lemonade.

  Becky got the glasses out of the cupboard and set them on the table. Then she stepped back and looked around while he poured.

  Nobody had used the little cabin much since Tuck and Jed had lived there last year. All the things that had made it homey then were gone now. But there were dirty dishes soaking in a pan of soapy water in the sink, and through the open door to the small bedroom, she saw an open duffel bag on the soft pine floor.

  Mace cleared his throat.

  Becky turned quickly to see him holding out a glass to her. She grabbed it and gulped, coughing her head off when it went down the wrong way.

  Mace slapped her on the back. "You okay?"

  "F-fine," she croaked as soon as she could. "Must've just gone down the wrong pipe." Her gaze drifted back toward the open duffel.

  Mace stepped into her line of vision. "How come you're up here two days in a row?"

  Becky shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Oh, you know, just, um, sorta riding around."

  "Riding around?" She heard the doubt in his voice.

  She just looked at her boots and didn't answer.

  "Ridi
ng around," Mace mused after a moment. Then he said shrewdly, "Guess things must be pretty hectic at your house."

  Becky dug her toe in the rug underfoot. "Yeah."

  "Willy and Abby givin' you trouble, are they?"

  "Course not," she lied. She should have known better than to try any such thing in front of Mace Nichols. He knew her far too well.

  "How come you're livin' here?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

  "Who says I'm living here?" The sharpness of his tone rocked Becky back on the heels of her boots.

  "Nobody. I just … saw the duffel bag." She craned her neck to look toward the bedroom door as she spoke.

  Mace's gaze followed hers. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I had some fence work to do out this way after I moved the cattle. And I told Taggart I'd fix the roof on this place. Figured it'd take me a few days, so I brought some gear."

  "Oh."

  Mace tipped his glass and drained the lemonade, then set the glass down on the counter with a thump. "It's gettin' late. You better get a move on or you're gonna miss supper."

  Becky blinked. It was bad enough that her dad and stepmother didn't seem to have any time for her—was Mace trying to get rid of her now, too? Hurt, she looked away.

  "I've had enough," she said, and put the glass down next to Mace's, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  Mace sighed, took off his hat and raked a hand through his short black hair, lifting it in spikes on his head. Then he jammed the hat back down. "I'm sorry, Beck. I'm not trying to throw you out. Go ahead and finish."

  "I'm done," Becky said stubbornly. "Really." And she headed for the door.

  Mace followed her out. He tightened the cinch for her and stood there while she mounted. Then, before she could go, he caught Blaze's bridle.

  "Thanks," he said, "for caring enough to come looking."

  Becky's eyes widened. Her heart flip-flopped in her chest. She swallowed hard and nodded her head.

  A faint grin touched Mace's mouth for the first time that day. "Hang in there, shadow," he said, calling her by the pet name he'd given her when she was five and had followed him everywhere.

  Then the grin faded and his eyes got inexplicably bleak. "Don't let the rug rats get you down."

  It was the second night of the rest of his life.

  The way he felt, Mace hoped his life was short.

  He lay on his back on the bed that, in the first days of his marriage, he had shared with Jenny. It was lumpier now. The mattress thinner. A spring poked him. If he rolled over to avoid it, he knew from experience that he'd keep right on rolling into the middle of the bed.

  If Jenny had been there to meet him, to wrap her arms and legs around him and take him home, he'd have rolled over in an instant.

  But Jenny wasn't there.

  And tonight she wouldn't come banging in the door to curse and yell at him.

  She'd done her yelling, spent her fury last night. She wouldn't be back.

  Good. The worst was over. He'd survived.

  He stretched and shifted his shoulders against the mattress, feeling the tension still in them, trying to ease it, telling himself it was just tired muscles, no more, no less. That they ached only proved he was getting lazy, that he'd needed a hard day's work.

  Well, he'd had one. He'd worked his horses and dogs—and himself—far harder than usual. Harder, maybe, than he'd ever worked in his life.

  It was good for him. He'd been getting lazy.

  He'd spent too many nights making love to Jenny, getting a later start on his chores than he ought to have. He'd spent too many afternoons coming in early so he could spend time with her before dinner, talking, laughing, making plans.

  Plans. He snorted now.

  Hell of a lot of good plans ever did anyone!

  He, of all people, ought to have known that.

  His old man was a great example. Reese Nichols had had more plans than any man alive.

  He planned to get rich ranching. He planned to make his fortune panning gold. He planned to catch a mustang herd and find a horse that could run faster than Secretariat. Plans, oh, Lord, the man had had plans!

  They'd as good as killed his wife. She'd known them for the pipe dreams that they were, but she'd stood by him, anyway—working, scraping, saving, hoping—when all reason for hope was gone.

  The way Jenny would stand by him—now that all their hope was gone.

  Unless he stopped her.

  He was right to have stopped her.

  He couldn't bear to see the sadness on her face day after day when she faced the room where they would never be able to put the child they would never conceive. He couldn't bear to have her put her arms around him and make love with him when he couldn't give her the fruits of what that love should bring.

  He thought about Becky with her twin troubles. He knew what she was going through. He'd seen Felicity, tired and frazzled. He'd heard Taggart, grumbling, his patience worn thin.

  If they only knew the alternative, he thought bitterly.

  He knew the alternative. He was going to live with it every day of his life.

  But Jenny wasn't. At least he could spare her that.

  He shut his eyes and tried to go to sleep. To dream. To forget. But he couldn't erase the memory of her face—radiant and hopeful as it had been on their wedding day, dazed and delighted at the passion of their lovemaking, warm and tender, as she kissed his shoulder, then curled against him in the night.

  No one curled against him this night.

  He wondered if anyone would ever curl in his arms again.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Jenny didn't tell a soul.

  What was she going to say, after all?

  "Oh, by the way, Mace walked out on me two weeks ago. After almost fifteen years of a wonderful marriage, we're getting a divorce."

  Not hardly.

  At first, of course, she didn't say anything because she didn't believe it was true. The whole thing seemed like a bad dream.

  Even when she went back to the cabin the next evening to apologize and he paid more attention to the tack he was mending than to her, and refused to discuss anything at all, she still couldn't believe that it was over between them.

  She told herself that Mace needed space. He needed time. But in the end, he would need her.

  She couldn't imagine that she'd go to bed alone every night for the rest of her life. She couldn't accept the fact that every dinnertime would pass without the sound of Mace's truck rumbling up the road or Mace's footfalls on the back porch steps. She couldn't believe she would never again brush his hair off his forehead or hear his voice calling her darlin' or feel the rough brush of his cheek against hers.

  It wasn't true, she told herself.

  But two weeks after he walked out, she came home from the last day of school to find a stiff ivory-colored envelope in the mailbox.

  Hollis and Son, Attorneys at Law, it said in the upper left-hand corner. Jenny looked at it curiously.

  Were they the lawyers who had handled the section of Otis Jamison's land that Mace had arranged to buy?

  If so, in the morning she could take the letter up to him. Tonight she had agreed to go to a movie with Felicity.

  "Girls' night out," Felicity had said. "I need it. Desperately. Don't say no."

  Jenny hadn't. She had told herself she could use a night out herself. She had been home alone too much. She had spent too long fretting about Mace.

  If this letter confirmed the results of the land survey, it would be something less volatile that they could discuss. An opening, a chance to show Mace that there was more to their life and their marriage than his inability to have children.

  She slit it open as she walked back to the car, wondering idly why they'd addressed it only to her.

  She unfolded it, then stared at it, disbelieving. Mace was filing for divorce.

  She stopped dead still. She tried to swallow and could not. She tried to breathe and couldn
't seem to do that, either. She looked at the paper again, but couldn't read it at all now; it was shaking too hard.

  At first just the paper shook. Then she realized it wasn't the paper. It was her hand, then her arm and finally her whole body.

  Her fingers clamped on the stark white sheet, steadying. But there was no steadying her mind. It reeled. He didn't mean it. It was wrong! A mistake. Please God, it was a mistake.

  But there it was in black-and-white legalese: Mason Joseph Nichols was advising Jennifer Anne Nichols that he was seeking a dissolution of their marriage.

  The sun beat down on Jenny's back but failed to warm her. From the inside out, she was ice. Frozen and shattered at the same time. A million tiny ice chips, held together only by nerves.

  And then she felt a trickle of heat on her cheek. The only warmth in the universe. A tear.

  She didn't know how she made it back up the road to the house. She didn't remember parking her car by the back porch. She didn't remember bringing in the groceries or throwing the rest of the mail on the table. She didn't remember crawling under the covers of their bed.

  She never remembered the phone ringing.

  But it rang.

  And rang.

  And rang again.

  And then there was nothing. Silence. Pain. Tears.

  And finally a hand on her shoulder, tentative, yet firm, jarred her back into awareness.

  Hours had passed. She didn't know how many. Didn't care.

  "Jenny? Are you all right?" The hand shook her again. The voice, at first soft and concerned, became urgent now. "Jenny?"

  She rolled over, blinked. Felicity stood over her, a desperately worried look on her face.

  "Are you sick? I've been calling and calling! I thought we'd agreed to go to the movie in Bozeman tonight. What's wrong? Where's Mace?"

  Where's Mace? Jenny took a ragged breath, tried to find the words.

  Failing, she shook her head. Her face was stiff, masklike, and, scrubbing at it, she realized it was from dried tears she didn't even remember having shed.

  Felicity crouched beside the bed. "Jenny, tell me what's wrong. Why didn't you answer the phone? I called to tell you when the movie started, but you didn't answer. So I called again. And again. I thought you'd gone somewhere with Mace, but Becky said she didn't think so. And then I thought the worst. I still think the worst! What's going on?"