by Amy Vastine
“I’m getting the hang of it!” Mary shouted, then laughed when her lasso fell. “Nope.”
“Release the rope as you feel its momentum swing forward. Throwing a lasso isn’t the same as throwing a baseball—it’s more a matter of releasing the lasso at the right time than of propelling it forward,” he continued, stretching out the tense moment, torturing a fidgeting Brent. The rain now fell in earnest, and Justin’s hands slipped on the rope as it slashed through the air.
“Let go of the lasso as you feel its weight swing forward—this isn’t necessarily when the loop’s in front of you. It’s most likely when the loop is to your side. Oh, and keep your hand pointed down for better control,” Justin added, spying Paul struggling to maintain a consistent swing.
“Are we going in yet?” Dana griped. “We’re likely to catch pneumonia out here, and I’ve got things to do.”
“More important than Fresh Start?” Miss Grover-Woodhouse demanded. “If so, then leave and give up your vote.”
“N-no,” Dana blustered then subsided.
“When you throw the lasso,” Justin forged on, ready to end this dog and pony show, “let go of the loop but keep control of the rope so that you can tighten your lasso. Like this.” After two more swings, Justin tossed his lasso. It zinged through the air then dropped neatly around Brent’s thick spare tire.
Applause broke out, as well as cheers. Brent’s fierce scowl pulled a grin out of Justin. “Tighten the lasso to grab your target. Once it’s around whatever you’re trying to lasso, pull hard on the rope. This will pull the slack in the loop through the honda knot, tightening the lasso around the object inside it.”
At Justin’s yank, Brent stumbled forward, his feet slipping on the wet, dead grass.
“Never use a lasso on people or animals unless you’re an experienced roper—unsafe lassoing can cause suffocation or damage to the throat.”
He tugged again, harder, causing Brent to skitter and slip to all fours. “It’s also difficult or impossible for someone to remove a lasso without help, so don’t run this risk unless you know what you’re doing.” Brent rolled on the ground, thrashing.
“He looks like a dog!” Pam exclaimed, cackling.
Brielle rushed to Brent’s side and helped him to his feet.
“You!” Brent stormed, his face as red and glistening as a washed tomato. “You did that on purpose!”
“It sure wasn’t no accident,” Justin drawled, easy.
“I’m owed an apology,” Brent sputtered, shaking with outrage. Justin’s hands fisted when Brent roughly brushed Brielle aside.
“Doug owes me a nonvote on the committee.” Justin forced himself to speak calmly.
“But—but that’s not fair,” Doug protested. “Justin’s a ringer. He set us up.”
“The deal stands,” Judge James weighed in. “You entered a verbal agreement, which was witnessed by others.”
Francis waved his hand. “I heard him!”
A chorus of yeahs rang out.
“Fine!” Brent fumed as he stomped toward the main house, the rest of the committee following. “But I’m not the only no vote!” he threatened, an ominous warning that sobered Justin quick.
Brielle paused beside Justin and laid a hand on his arm. Her light touch jump-started his heart. “That was wrong,” she said loudly, though her laughing eyes communicated something else entirely: fierce pride and unfiltered admiration.
“But it sure felt good,” he countered, covering her hand with his.
“I’d better get back,” she said, breathy. “I’ve got to see them off, then I’m running this week’s Al-Anon meeting for Craig.”
He laced his fingers in hers and squeezed. “Good. I’ll see you there.”
“You will?” She pulled her hand back slowly, and her large eyes searched his.
“I talked up the program so much to the fact-finders, I’d be a hypocrite not to follow through myself.”
She considered him for a long moment, then nodded. “You’re a lot of things, but a hypocrite isn’t one.”
“What am I, then?” he shouted after her, admiring her straight-backed, confident stride. It beckoned him to follow. Challenged him to chase.
“Come to the meeting and find out!”
CHAPTER NINE
BRIELLE SIPPED HER tart lemonade, eyed the clock above the converted living room’s entranceway, then set the wax cup on the table behind her. The musty-stale smells of wet wool, cigarettes and sweaty anticipation wove through the thick air. To cover the goose bumps rising on her skin, she shoved her arms through her sweater’s sleeves.
Five minutes past three o’clock.
Time to start the Al-Anon meeting. She smoothed a trembling hand over her hair and listened to the steady rain tapping the roof overhead. Where was Justin? He’d vowed to attend, and he always kept his word.
Attendees chatted, fidgeted or zoned out in the folding chairs occupying the large space. A few watched her with expectant eyes. They stuck to her like tentacles, a dragging, pulling sensation. She hadn’t led a group since Kandahar, hadn’t felt the weight of their needs, their hopes, their fears in months. It shoved her shoulders forward and down, her chin to the floor, especially after a nail-biting afternoon with the town council’s fact-finding committee.
They’d peppered her with questions but given few clues to their thoughts…verbal cues, that was. Dana Stoughton, the local chamber of commerce president, seemed to have been sucking lemons all day. Brent Jarvis, the Home Owners’ Association president, had scribbled notes while shaking his head. And Doug Rowdy jumped every time he spotted a patient, as if he expected to be offered drugs, get mugged or both. Judge Charlotte James and Miss Grover-Woodhouse had seemed neutral, at least, but gave little away.
What if they voted to revoke Fresh Start’s charter? An ice pick of fear slammed into her brain. Thanks to Justin, she’d begun opening up, finding her footing…maybe even rediscovering the column of strength that’d crumbled in Kandahar. She didn’t want to be forced to abandon another post and leave Fresh Start.
Or Justin, she admitted to herself.
Speaking of whom…where was her dark rider?
He’d been in rare form today at the roping workshop, obstinate, defiant and defensive of Fresh Start, the memory calling up a smile. He cared about the facility.
Did he care about her, too?
Did she want him to care about her?
And would any of it matter if Fresh Start shut down?
“Did you want to get started, Ms. Thompson?” Doreen called from the doorway. She rolled out the pocket door to close off the archway.
“Um—I believe we’re still expecting one more person.”
“Justin!” Doreen’s face flamed red, and her skyscraper bangs stood at attention.
“No—I mean,” Brielle fumbled then blew out a frustrated breath. Come on. Snap to it, girl. “There might be—”
“He’s here!” Doreen swept a frosty pink wand over her lips then tucked it down her blouse just as Justin stalked by her. In two strides, he reached a chair in the back row, flipped it around then straddled it. His hazel eyes swept the room then stopped on Brielle. His tough expression changed just a fraction, his eyes softening as though about to smile, before he shuttered them again.
Doreen mouthed “hot” then fanned herself with her hand.
“Please close the door, Doreen,” Brielle requested, or imagined she did, since she couldn’t hear anything over the thrumming of her heart.
Justin pulled off his black hat and leather jacket then dropped them on the seat beside him. With his dark hair flattened around his skull and curled at his ears, his beard glistening with rain, his skin ruddy with his farmer’s tan, he’d never looked more ruggedly appealing.
And was she ever glad to see him.
Tonight was a breakthrough for them both. His fi
rst group meeting and her first time back at the helm.
How would they do?
“Hello, everyone,” Brielle called, quieting the group. Her lips cracked into a quarter smile to cover her jitters. “Welcome.” She waited for a few stragglers to grab treats before continuing.
“As some of you know, my name is Brielle Thompson, and I’m the director of Fresh Start. Dr. Sheldon is away tonight at a symposium, and he sends his best wishes for a great meeting.”
Please let this be a great meeting.
She stared out at the assembly, noting the curved shoulders, the crossed arms, the downcast eyes. They’d only had one Al-Anon meeting at Fresh Start so far, and, according to Craig, had been a quiet group.
“Tonight, we’re focusing on anger and the forms it takes when someone we love is an addict. We’re fortunate to have a guest speaker.”
Justin twisted around to eye Cole Loveland in the back of the room then half rose in his chair. For a moment, Brielle worried he’d bolt before Justin subsided, resting his chin on his chest, his lowered lids obscuring his eyes.
“Before Cole speaks, I want to thank you for coming tonight. This is a safe place, a place to go where you know you’re not alone. Where you can share what’s in your heart, your mind, your soul and you’re not going to be criticized for it or judged. Where it’s okay to love an addict, okay to learn how to love yourself and how to keep the focus on you because you’re worth it.”
Justin’s lids lifted, and the profound sadness she glimpsed in his eyes caught at her heart and squeezed. Despite his swagger and bristle, he didn’t believe himself worthy. How could he not know how incredible he was, see the difference he made with her patients? With her?
Somehow, she needed to convince him without revealing her growing feelings.
“Cole, please come on up.”
“Thank you, Ms. Thompson.” Cole’s blue eyes crinkled down at her, and he bowed his head slightly, a respectful, old-fashioned gesture. It reminded her of a bygone era when men held open doors and believed going Dutch meant a trip to the Netherlands. “I’m glad to be here again,” he said, turning to the crowd.
Brielle scooted down the aisle and sat beside Justin. This close, she could smell the rain on his clean male skin and the sweet hay and cornmeal he must have fed the horses. He moved his hand a fraction so that it rested on his thigh, right beside hers, and the urge to reach for it seized her hard.
“I was the son of an alcoholic,” Cole began, his hands laced behind his back. “I say was, because my ma killed herself on my sixteenth birthday.”
Someone gasped while another muttered, shaking his head.
A band tightened around Brielle’s chest, crushing the breath from her as she pictured the dog tags beside her spider plant, the soldier they’d once belonged to…
“It was supposed to be a big night. We’d planned a bonfire. Got a guitar player and a fiddler. Strung lights from trees and had a pig roasting in a pit. A real shindig. I’d even invited a pretty girl to the party, Katie-Lynn Brennon, and couldn’t believe she’d said yes. My pa taught me how to fasten a tie that night, and I’d shaved for the first time.”
He paused and stroked his chiseled jaw. Silence reigned as the patients listened closely, spellbound, while steady rainfall drummed on the tin roof. Justin leaned forward over the back of his seat. Every muscle in his body looked clenched, from the biceps curling from his shirtsleeves to his tight jaw.
“The band swung into something slow, and I asked Katie-Lynn to dance. I remember how scared and excited I was, how grown-up I felt, how normal…’cause normal wasn’t something I felt often—if ever—growing up with an alcoholic parent.”
Murmurs of agreement circled the room. Outside, the wind whispered, rustling leaves and flattening a few against the rain-slicked windows.
“I grew up stuffing down everything in my life, whether it was family secrets or my feelings. It was uncomfortable to be who I was. When I wasn’t in school, I rode the range, spending every minute outdoors, only coming home at night. As Ma’s alcoholism got worse, I stopped inviting friends over because I never knew what was going to happen, some chaos, drama, petty arguments or flat-out fighting. It was confusing and scary growing up in such an environment.”
Heads nodded and patients released their crossed arms, opening themselves up to hear this strong man become vulnerable. Did Brielle dare reveal herself so completely? The dog tags swung before her mind’s eye, and she shuddered.
No. Too dangerous.
She dug her nails into her palms to remind herself never to let her thoughts slip that way again.
“But Pa promised my party would be different. He’d raided Ma’s ‘secret’ stashes, hidden her car keys and gotten her to promise not to make trouble. I remember her saying how proud she was of me. It was the first time she’d ever told me that…and the last words she ever spoke to me.”
He cleared his throat, twice, while staring up at the ceiling. A few sniffles and a muffled sob erupted in the quiet pause.
Cole’s blue eyes glistened when he leveled them on the group again. “I’d never kissed a girl before and I hoped, badly, that I’d get to kiss Katie-Lynn when we strolled in the woods. We stopped in a clearing, and I remember the moon, how big it was, how pretty Katie-Lynn looked in her yellow sundress. When she put her arms around my neck, I thought, this is it. Then we heard the screams, and I knew…I knew it was my mother.”
He reached behind him for his glass of lemonade, drained it, then continued. “We hightailed it back to the party and found everyone crowded around our pool. My dad had filled it with these floating candles in plastic globes, and I remember thinking…I remember thinking that Ma looked like a fairy drifting among them…her white nightgown and her long blond hair fanned out around her… I’d never seen her look so peaceful. It wasn’t until my father jumped in that I realized she’d drowned—drowned herself, according to the police. They determined this after I turned over the suicide note she’d left in my birthday card.”
When Cole fished a folded paper from his pocket, Brielle’s heart seized. The sight of it yanked her back home, a week after her discharge when she’d opened a similar letter from a soldier in Kandahar that’d also contained his dog tags…
“‘Happy birthday, son,’” Cole read without looking up, his voice full of gravel. “‘I know I’ve hurt you. Disappointed you and let you down. I wish I had something better to say on your special day, but I don’t. Truth is, I’ve never felt like a mother, never felt like I belonged anywhere, least not on this earth. I thought hard about what I wanted to give you, my eldest boy, and then I realized I had nothing to give—never have, never will. I’m sorry that I did this. I don’t want to die, but my heart can’t take the pain anymore. You’ve always been a loving son, a good boy and I know you’ll grow up to be a better man without me. I’m going to miss you so much, and I can’t wait till the day when I see you again at the pearly gates. Until then, I love you, always. Ma.’”
Cole carefully refolded the note, smoothing each worn edge, before tucking it back into his jeans pocket. The rain pounded the windows, and the wind scraped a branch on the glass.
“She killed herself on your birthday?” blurted Maya. She’d shoved both hands in her black hair, making the uneven strands sprout between her fingers. “That witch!”
A surprised titter erupted at Maya’s impolite comment, and tears stung Brielle’s eyes.
A bitter laugh escaped Cole, dark and full of pain. “This is a meeting about anger.”
Was Cole’s mother a witch? Surely not; she’d needed help, just like…
Brielle’s brain flipped the breaker on that dangerous thought, closing it off completely before she shut down, too.
Justin laced his fingers in hers, his touch gentle and reverent, although his expression remained as hard and unreadable as stone. “You all right?” he asked. He w
as so close his breath caressed her ear.
“Fine,” she assured him, her voice a hoarse whisper that hardly reached her own ears. She didn’t lift her eyes to look at him because the tears hadn’t gone away yet.
Justin’s bulletproof exterior hid a sensitive man. He was the last person you’d want on your bad side, but she couldn’t think of anyone she’d want by her side more…at least right now, at this moment, she hastily amended.
Cole ran a hand over his thick, clipped brown hair. “Ma’s death created a publicity storm. Her father was a prominent senator at the time. He called press conference after press conference, was sure the sheriff back then—my uncle—was covering up a homicide, since his daughter would never kill herself. He even accused my father of drowning her for her inheritance and said so in all the papers and broadcasts. My father…who’d devoted his life to running a ranch, building a family and taking care of his struggling wife all on his own… The injustice of it nearly broke him.”
Justin’s fingers tightened around Brielle’s. He hated the Lovelands, especially Boyd, who now wooed Justin’s mother. Did any of Cole’s story soften Justin’s opposition?
“Our lives got turned upside down.” A deep line appeared between Cole’s brows. “I went from hiding everything to being photographed and hounded by reporters every minute. They wanted me to answer questions about my ma, but I couldn’t. I was numb. Then I was angry. Then furious. I hated what she did. Hated her…something I believed was wrong to think or feel, let alone say. You’re not supposed to hate your family, your mother, or God would strike you down for it.”
As if on cue, a flash-pop of thunder and lightning brightened the world outside the windows with a rolling boom. The group laughed, tentatively at first, then louder when Cole spread his hands and said, “See? And with the anger came guilt. She was dead, and if I hadn’t had that party, she might have still been alive.”
“That was her fault!” cried Maya.
Justin shifted in his seat beside Brielle, restless, Cole’s words unsettling him it seemed. Was Justin relating Cole’s admission to his feelings about Jesse’s self-destructive behavior, at his anger over his twin’s death, a resentment he had yet to admit?