Montana Cowgirl

by Debra Salonen

  “Wow. This is really something,” she said when Paul vaulted over the back porch in a pair of board shorts and a black tank. “Four seasons of swimming, huh?”

  He tried to look modest but she could tell he was proud. “Thanks to the power of solar energy. You recognized the place, right? I couldn’t believe my luck when it came on the market. I made an offer without consulting Jen.”

  He winced elaborately. “You can imagine how well that went over. She’d been working with an architect—an over-priced ninny from Bozeman—to design a new home on one of the lots south-west of the river.”

  Bailey knew about the development but she hadn’t seen it. To her taste, downtown Marietta was the only place to live, if you couldn’t afford a ranch.

  “The house was in pretty rough shape, so I got it for a song. Jen remodeled the inside, and I designed the pool. What do you think?”

  “It’s amazing.”

  He looked proud and pleased. “Like I told Jen, if you’re going to have a pool in Montana, you better build a cover or those couple of summer months will go by much too fast.”

  Jen.

  Bailey couldn’t help but wonder about the woman Paul loved enough to marry and give two beautiful children. She hoped to learn more from the house Jen decorated and made her own.

  “I knew you’d done well for yourself. Mom said the Chamber of Commerce voted you Businessman of the Year a while back.”

  “Big Z’s was neck and neck with the Wolf Den. Voting was this close.” He held up his thumb and index finger about two inches apart.

  She laughed with a joy she’d forgotten she knew existed. Yes, life sucked at the moment, but she made her shoulders relax. Maureen insisted down time was key to recovery. “It’s okay to let go once in awhile, Bailey. Have fun. Your body will thank you for it.”

  “Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine? Iced tea?”

  “Tea sounds good.”

  He took the carryall from her and led the way to the rear porch. “Any news on your folks?”

  “Mom left a note on the table. And once my phone was charged I listened to her voice mails. She’s adamant that Dad didn’t drink. I don’t know if she’s trying to convince me or herself.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Not a clue.”

  She stepped carefully on the flagstone path. She felt silly wearing boots with a swimming suit, but her ankle wasn’t strong enough to handle flip-flops. Luckily, her ivory cover-up wasn’t wrinkled too badly from being stuffed in a suitcase.

  “Wow,” Chloe said sliding to a stop opposite a few feet away. “You look different. Where’d you get that awesome belt?”

  Bailey’s gaze dropped. The belt had been a last minute addition to off-set the boots.

  “And look at the bling on your boots. O.M.G. That is the coolest ankle bracelet evva. I love it.” When she looked at Bailey, her blue eyes sparkled with honest excitement.

  “Thank you. I made them. Both.”

  Chloe dashed closer. “Wow. That buckle is so awesome. It looks like Skipper. What kind of stone is the eye?”

  Paul bent over for a look, too.

  “Montana sapphire. I met a woman at a rodeo whose family has been digging them for years. My late husband bought the stone for a ring, but after he died, I decided to make it part of a tribute to my horse, Daz.”

  “Does he have blue eyes?”

  “No. Dark brown. He died a little over a year ago.” Bailey’s heart thudded hard against her chest, but she got the words out with barely a stumble.

  Chloe’s bottom lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. “That is so sad. I don’t know what I’d do if Skipper passed away. Was he old?”

  Paul wormed his way between them with a plate of nachos he must have had on the nearby grill to keep warm. “Take this to the table, please, sweetheart. There’s pop in the outside fridge if you want one. Just one before supper, though.”

  A moment later, he popped the top on a can and poured the contents into a frozen mug. “Here,” he said holding its handle out to Bailey. “To heck with tea. Root beer used to be your favorite.”

  The fact he remembered made her ridiculously happy. Her fingers closed around the icy handle and she took a huge gulp. Ignoring the foam mustache she knew clung to her upper lip, she burped loudly and said, “Ahh. I needed that.”

  Paul watched four hours slip by as if they were minutes. A part of him couldn’t believe Bailey Jenkins—his Bailey Jenkins—was playing Marco Polo in his pool with his children. What she lacked in speed and maneuverability she more than made up for with ruthless competitiveness. Both kids were laughing and breathing hard by the time they all took a break.

  At first glance, she looked the same as she had at eighteen, but a closer study showed the truth. Her body had matured. Her breasts filled out the demure, navy blue and white stripe two-piece—even if her ribs were a bit too pronounced and her hip bones could have used a bit more padding, in his opinion.

  But the biggest change wasn’t physical. This Bailey enjoyed playing with his kids. The old Bailey never had time for children. The teenage Bailey wouldn’t have asked Chloe and Mark clever, revealing questions over dinner...then listened, truly listened, when they answered.

  Later, when they gathered around the stone fire pit for dessert, Mark asked the question he and Chloe had probably discussed privately at length. “What happened to your foot?”

  The children had been skeptical when Bailey produced marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey bars for dessert. It wasn’t that they’d never eaten s’mores, they simply couldn’t conceive of roasting marshmallows over glowing embers of broken glass.

  “Car wreck. My foot got pinned under the front end of our truck. I was lucky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They had to use those big hydraulic Jaws of Life to get me out. But I only had a concussion and a broken ankle.”

  Only. Paul had to work to keep from cringing.

  “Were you driving?”

  “Were you wearing a seatbelt?”

  “No...and yes. I was in the passenger side. One of the Highway Patrol officers told me my seat belt saved my life.”

  The tremor in her voice told him the memory still brought her pain. So, Paul cut off Mark before his morbid curiosity—typical of eight-year-old boys—asked for details about blood and missing body parts. “Where are the rest of the candy bars?”

  “Mark,” Chloe cried. “You didn’t? Oh, my God, you are such a pig.”

  His son’s lips were ringed by a suspicious brown outline, but he fervently denied the charge until Bailey hauled him onto her lap and ticked him until he confessed.

  “Okay. Okay. I did it. I ate the last of the chocolate. So sue me.”

  Bailey put him down. “Not necessary. A perfectly roasted marshy doesn’t need chocolate.”

  She pushed a white square onto a skewer and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her loose off-white cover-up slipped from one shoulder.

  Paul had forgotten how lovely her natural skin tone was. But he remembered viscerally how smooth and silky her skin felt when he rubbed her with baby oil doctored with Mercurochrome—an old wives’ tale recipe for a deep brown tan.

  A minute later, she lifted the golden brown treat to her lips and blew.

  His groin reacted.

  “Nothing beats a sticky, gooey marshmallow straight off the fire.” She pinched a hunk and pulled the bite toward her lips, strings of glistening white sugar trailing behind. With a flourish, she spun the filaments onto the bite and lowered it into her open mouth.

  Chloe clapped and grabbed another marshmallow to try for herself.

  Mark squinted at Paul. “What’s wrong, Dad? You look like you swallowed a marshmallow whole.”

  Outed by an eight-year-old. Damn.

  Paul jumped to his feet, gathering the empty wrappers and used napkins. He carried the mess to a nearby trash can then said, “Bath time, kiddos. Your mother gave me hel—heck last wee
k for not making you wash your hair after swimming. She says it’s going to turn green.”

  He made a mad scientist gesture that brought a grin to Bailey’s lips. Her sticky sweet lips.

  “Scoot, you two. I left bottles of anti-chlorine shampoo in each of your showers.”

  Mark and Chloe took off with a minimal amount of grumbling. He could see they were worn out. The best part of owning a pool, in his opinion.

  Bailey waited until both kids were gone before getting to her feet. She didn’t want to intrude on their nightly family rituals. She picked up the children’s half-empty water glasses and followed Paul into the kitchen. The place had all the bells and whistles any TV chef might expect: granite countertops, polished chrome appliances, hardwood flooring and dark golden oak cabinets. The recessed lights in the ceiling turned the butterscotch walls a warm, inviting color.

  “Your home is beautiful, Paul. Could be right off the pages of a decorating magazine, and yet it seems perfectly functional at the same time.” She pulled out one of the chrome stools tucked under the island and sat.

  He wiped a spill on the gorgeous marble countertop before her elbow connected with it then tossed the rag into a big, white, apron-front sink.

  Was it possible to have sink envy, she wondered?

  She’d wasted so much time designing a dream kitchen to fit in Ross’s log cabin. A kitchen not unlike this one, with windows behind the sink overlooking the backyard.

  “Jen spent more money on this room than the rest of the remodeling combined. I told her we wouldn’t be able to afford food to cook by the time she was done.” He carried the bag of leftover marshmallows to a walk-in pantry about the size of her mother’s guest room.

  He returned a moment later, a liter-size green bottle of imported water in hand. She recognized the label but rarely splurged on the pricey brand.

  “Although compared to the cost of our divorce, the kitchen was a real bargain,” Paul told her, grabbing a couple of glasses from a cabinet with beveled glass panels.

  His cynicism made her uncomfortable. Was she ready to talk exes?

  Given the fact hers was dead...not really.

  He unscrewed the cap with a powerful twist and poured two glasses of the fizzy water. “My new go-to drink, instead of beer. Chloe’s class stared a recycling campaign. When I loaded all the bags of crushed cans into the truck, it looked like a flaming alcoholic lived here.” He held out his glass. “Cheers.”

  She touched the lip of her glass to his and looked into his eyes. Friendly, yes. Interested, too. The kind of interest a part of her desperately wanted to explore. Too bad the thinking part of her brain knew better than to start something she couldn’t finish. She hadn’t talked to OC yet. Could she trust him or not? Was she staying or going? At the moment, she honestly couldn’t say—and the subtle tug on her heartstrings she felt when she was around Paul wasn’t helping.

  She slipped off the stool. “Excuse me. I’m going to try Mom’s phone again.”

  Coward. She walked to the dining table where she’d left her purse hanging over the back of her chair.

  She carried her phone outdoors and took a seat by the fire pit. The flame had been shut off but the night was warm enough without a fire.

  She could understand the attraction of these click-to-start units, but they didn’t compare to the romance of a wood campfire like the one she and Paul made love beside that last summer. They’d lied to their parents and spent an entire weekend hiking, fishing and camping alone. They’d shared a single sleeping bag. She’d never experienced sex as pure and delicious—lust combined with the stamina and abandon of youth.

  Her breasts tightened and her nipples puckered inside the cups of her mostly dry swimsuit. The still damp crotch of her bottoms felt unnaturally warm and moist.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had sex—aside from the occasional self-pleasure that usually left her a sobbing wreck.

  “You need to get laid,” Maureen told Bailey at their last physical therapy session. “Sex is a great healer. So is forgiveness. Once you dump that heavy burden you’re carrying around, you’ll be able to run and ride again.”

  Run? Maybe. She’d been walking a lot the past few days and her ankle felt much stronger. But, ride? She couldn’t picture it. She’d told herself her riding days were over. But she had to admit, she’d enjoyed helping Chloe bond with her horse this afternoon. She’d missed the smells, the feel, the connection more than she’d thought possible.

  Before she could call up her mother’s cell phone number, Bailey’s phone rang. Mom’s image appeared on the screen.

  Bailey sat on the chaise and crossed her legs. “Hi. Are you home?”

  An awkward pause—as if someone fumbled the phone—made her sit up. “Mom?”

  “No. It’s me,” OC said. “She’s asleep. They gave her something.”

  They? Bailey’s pulse jumped.

  “Luly has a lump on her side. I made her call the doctor. He saw her right away and sent us to Bozeman.”

  “T...to the hospital?”

  “Yeah. Took six hours to get a room. Can you believe that? The surgeon’s going to do something in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine. But you know how that goes.”

  “Wh...what do they think it is? Cancer?” Her voice cracked in a broken whisper.

  “Not sure. One of the doctors thought it might be some kind of infection. Endimidercondriac or something.”

  “Endometriosis?”

  “That sounds like it. Could be leftover from her gallbladder surgery.”

  “Her gallbladder? But that was last year.” Bailey’s last trip home before Ross and Daz died.

  “I know. I don’t get it. But, she says it doesn’t hurt.”

  Oh, Mom. Do you ever complain? “Do you need me to come pick you up?”

  “No. The nurse made a bed for me on the couch. I got my pills. I’ll be fine. But I know your mother wants to see you before she goes in.”

  “Of course. I’ll be there first thing. Text me if you need anything from home.”

  “I...” He paused. “I’m sorry about today. You were right to think the worst. They say you have to hit rock bottom before you can start to climb out of the pit. I’m climbing, Queen Bee. And this time I’m gonna make it. You’ll see.”

  He ended the call before she could get her emotions under control to reply. Did she dare hope? He’d made promises before. Did OC’s problems even matter now? Her mother—the glue that had been holding them all together—was sick, dealing with a potentially serious disease.

  Dad isn’t the only one who has to step up.

  She got to her feet and walked inside. Her expression must have conveyed her distress. Before she could say a word, Paul cleared the distance between them. “What’s wrong? Your dad?”

  “Mom. She’s in the hospital in Bozeman. They’ve scheduled her for surgery in the morning. Some kind of l...lump.” She shared what little OC told her. “If it’s cancer, they’ll discuss a protocol. If it’s not—please, God—they’ll remove it and release her.”

  “How big a lump?”

  “I...I don’t know. She never told me. All this time. I can’t believe it. I don’t know whether to cry or scream.”

  He took her in arms. “Whichever makes you feel better.”

  She closed her eyes and for a moment she felt...home. Was this what it was like to know somebody had your back?

  I could have had this. But she chose to leave. And she knew why. Because, bottom line, she was Bailey Jenkins, and Paul Zabrinski always deserved better.

  That hadn’t changed.

  She started to pull away, but Paul tightened his hold. “Don’t run away, cowgirl. Not tonight.”

  “I have to leave early in the morning.”

  “I know. I wish I could drive you, but...”

  “You have the kids. And a business to run. A life. I appreciate all the help you’ve given me. In fact, I feel a little guilty about it. I
...I feel like I need to give a little back. What would you think about me driving Chloe to the ranch every day to spend an hour or two with Skipper? I can’t do it tomorrow, of course, but maybe the next day. If Mom’s okay.”

  “Are you serious? That would be fabulous. Chloe has talked about nothing else all day. She’s determined to get him in good enough shape to participate in the fair. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out a way to make that happen.” He frowned. “But what about B. Dazzled Bling? You haven’t changed your mind about setting up shop here, have you?”

  She moved back a step. She could barely think when he was holding her. “I changed my mind so many times today I was starting to feel like a politician.”

  “Like Austen,” Paul put in. “He’s a pretty unhappy politician at the moment and probably wouldn’t recommend it as a career choice.”

  She vaguely remembered Paul’s older brother and wasn’t curious enough to ask for details. Instead, she admitted, “I’ll admit, I considered throwing my suitcases in the back of Dad’s truck and leaving. The thought of watching OC implode again...” Her throat tightened. She forced a swallow and straightened her shoulders. “But then I decided, no. I’m done letting OC’s issues determine my future. I don’t know if Marietta is the right place for me—business-wise, but if I leave, it won’t be because my father fell off the wagon.”

  “Good for you.”

  “But before I commit to a lease and a full-fledged store, I need to figure out whether or not there’s a retail market here for my product. And I need to find artisans to work with my designs. I can use the back rooms at the Fish and Game for now, but until we hear from Sheri Fast, we don’t know if the bank will work with us to get back on our feet. And how fast that happens will depend in part on Mom.”

  “Are you sure you want to take on coaching Chloe, too?”

  “If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said no, but I really liked working with her today. She’s a quick study, bright and passionate about her horse. She reminds me of myself at that age.”

  “Me, too.” He rolled his eyes and made a face. “I mean, she reminds me of you. Did I ever tell you the first time I saw you? You were Chloe’s age, riding in a fair parade with your dad. You had a big smile on your face and you waved right at me. I told Austen, ‘That’s the girl I’m going to marry some day.’”