Tamed by Her Cowboy

by Shanna Handel

  She closes her eyes. Her hand lifts, hovering once more. I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat as she guides her hand over the cards. She stops at the last one on the right. Pauses. Gives herself an emphatic nod. Opens her eyes. Flips the card, placing it next to the first. She shakes her head. “The Magician.”

  It’s a man in a red robe, holding one arm high up to the sky. His piercing gaze bares into mine, making me shudder. “What does that mean?”

  She whispers, “Unbelievable changes to come.”

  “That could be the storm?” I suggest.

  Her eyes lock on mine. “The cards only pertain to you.”

  “Okay. So what does that mean? What changes are coming?”

  “Maybe I’m overthinking. The Magician can also mean creativity. The opportunity to use your skills, ones that you’ve allowed to lay dormant.” She blinks hard, shaking her head. “Let’s move on. Third card.”

  Her reaction to the Magician leaves me in a state somewhere between disturbance and intrigue. But we press on. A third time, she closes her eyes, moves her hand until she’s sure she’s found the one that’s calling her, then opens her eyes, flips the card over, adding it to the lineup.

  It’s a beautiful woman with a blue cape running down her back. But she’s upside down next to the other two. “Ah. My personal favorite—the High Priestess. The High Priestess represents the feminine psyche, wisdom, and intuition. But when she’s upside down like she is now, the Priestess may symbolize talents or skills going to waste. Which lines up perfectly with the Magician.” She gives herself another nod, looking relieved.

  “So, what do you make of it all?”

  She points to the Fool. “You’re going on a journey. Proceed carefully.” Her finger moves to the Magician. “Changes are coming, and you have the chance to use your talents on this journey.” She points to the upside-down Priestess. “But right now, you are letting those skills go to waste.”

  I stare at the cards lying before me. “Hmm.”

  She sits back in her chair, her brow furrowing. “Hmm? What do you mean, hmm? Seems completely straightforward…and incredibly accurate. The cards never lie.”

  I narrow my eyes at my aunt. “Seriously? The cards never lie?”

  She gives a shrug, shuffling her deck of cards and sticking them back into her scarf. “Don’t blame me. I just read them.”

  There’s a knock on the front door. “That’ll be Buck.”

  Her eyes lock on mine. “He didn’t seem to show up in the deck. I guess this journey is solely about you.”

  “Well if it’s about me then it’s going to be a bumpy, wild ride.” I stand from my seat, thank my aunt for the visit and the treats. Give her a kiss on the cheek.

  And make my way to the door to face the next leg on this so-called odyssey I’ve been set on.

  My aunt’s tarot card reading gave me no clarity about Buck or my father, but it did get me thinking; if I’m going to be here, I should take this time to focus on others, find ways to help. Use my talents. Pitch in. Make a difference—okay I’m starting to sound like Jules. I reach the door, call goodbye to my aunt.

  Buck stands, waiting. He greets me with a smile, white teeth shining. He looks handsome. So comfortable in his own skin. He always was, unlike some of the other boys. Buck has a cool confidence; a natural air of leadership surrounds him. One word from him and others follow. He runs his hand through his longer hair. I like the way it falls around his face.

  He gives me a funny look. “You okay? You look spooked.”

  “Tarot card reading.”

  He shakes his head. “What have I told you about that stuff. Leave it alone. A man makes his own destiny.”

  I shrug. “It makes her happy. Plus, it got her off my case.”

  “What was she worrying about?” he asks.

  “Same thing on the rest of this town’s mind.”

  He gives me a glance. “Me and you?”

  “You got it.”

  He laughs. “We were the talk of the town, back then.” He opens the truck door for me.

  “Thanks.” I hop in. He hovers by my side, not closing the door. “Can I help you?”

  He raises a brow. “Forgetting something?”

  I give an exasperated sigh. “Now why on Earth do I need a seatbelt when we’re going exactly three blocks?”

  Cue the brow raise. “You put it on, or I’ll do it for you.”

  I give in, pulling the strap over my chest and locking the buckle. He gives me a satisfied nod and closes the door.

  “Control freak,” I mutter under my breath as he makes his way around the front of the truck to the driver’s side. Despite my snide remark, I’m smiling. Deep down, it feels good to have someone care so much about my safety. Look out for me. Protect me, even if it’s from myself.

  Buck gets in the truck, revs the engine, and gives a goodbye honk to my aunt’s house. As we drive to the Senior Center, I sneak a glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

  Buck always was my protector. Even when we were just friends, he kept me out of trouble many nights. Saved me from a few jerks. Kept me smiling when my mother died. He pulled me from the depths of despair, taking me on horseback rides. Driving me out of town in his truck. Just talking while I listened. Trying to keep me sane.

  I’ve never met anyone like him. Someone so set on caring for others.

  He’s a good man.

  A really good man.

  And I don’t deserve him.

  We pull up to the Senior Center. A second home to me.

  A big part of our citizenship in Cedar Creek is volunteerism. Every teen volunteers somewhere in the community three nights a week, as well as a shift over the weekend. I’ve always suspected it was my grandfather’s way of keeping hormone-filled teenagers out of trouble.

  My fondest memories of my times volunteering were at the Senior Center. I was there Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, as well as Saturday mornings from the time I was thirteen till my mother died. Then, I was moved onto the ranch to help with grooming the horses. The elders figured I’d seen enough death and didn’t want to risk me getting attached to the elderly, only to see them pass away.

  I found working with the horses therapeutic. And seeing as Buck oversaw the ranch, I think the elders placed me there so he could keep an eye on me in my days of melancholy. Or, maybe the arrangement was made by him. Either way, working with the horses, with Buck, turned out to be the best thing for me, healing me and keeping me out of trouble at the same time.

  No matter how I feel about Cedar Creek, one thing I know—the leaders of the community truly care about each and every one of their residents.

  We get out of the truck and walk up the stone path to the front door, but Buck hesitates, turning to me. “You know they’re going to ask, right?”

  I smile. “I know. It’s okay.”

  He studies my face a moment, “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He grabs the handle of the door, swinging it open for me.

  They’re all in the common room, waiting for me. Some in wheelchairs, others behind walkers or leaning on canes. They greet me as lively as a group of kids. “Ava’s home!” rings out through the crowd. I make my rounds, hugging and speaking to each person in turn. When I’ve said my hellos, it starts.

  “Ava it’s been so long. Please, play for us.”

  “Oh, yes! Ava, play for us.”

  “Please? It would make our day?”

  “You sing as beautifully as your mother.”

  Without waiting for my response, they begin shuffling me over to the grand piano, circling around it, guiding me to sit on the bench.

  Buck stands by my side. He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You alright?”

  I look up at him and smile. “I’m fine. I promise.”

  As my aunt said, the cards never lie. I’ve hidden away my talents. It’s time to share them with the people I love. I used to come here and sing, playing old son
gs on the piano for hours. Countless afternoons of piano lessons, voice lessons, all taught to me by my talented mother. When she died, my music died with her.

  Today is the day I bring it back to life.

  I sit down at the piano, stretching my fingers over the cool white keys. I smile brightly to my audience, asking, “Any requests?”

  The only thing that warms my heart more than the smiles radiating from my dear friend’s faces? The look of pride beaming from the man that stands by my side.

  8

  Buck Jones

  She sings like an angel. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as her voice flows through me. Waking me.

  No matter what lies I tell myself, I’m never getting over this girl.

  A strand of golden hair hangs over her face as she leans over the piano keys. I reach out, tucking it behind her ear. She looks up, surprised, then smiles, her gaze holding mine as she sings the chorus to her favorite song. It’s an old one. One her mother taught her.

  The Long Days Light. The familiar words wash over me. I’ve not heard them since she stopped singing.

  The days may be long.

  The workload heavy.

  But we know as we gather beneath the setting sun—

  We are one.

  One people here to make the burdens lighter.

  The long days light.

  It’s a song her grandmother wrote about our Saturday evening gatherings.

  We have a big hall on the property. It’s a rustic building, just a big indoor area with pine wood floors, a commercial kitchen, and a couple of bathrooms. Attached to it is an enormous covered porch—one that can fit almost the whole town. It overlooks the rolling hills of the ranch.

  It’s a special place, where the entire town gathers to share food. Play music. Sing songs. Dance. Or just hang out and chat. Some of the older women knit, or quilt, forming circles of rocking chairs the younger men pull out for them. The little boys run through the grass below, intense games of soccer or races forming amongst themselves, their parents leaning over the railing, chatting with one another as they overlook their children. The little girls tend to gather beneath trees, braiding friendship bracelets from colorful strands of cotton. Except for Ava when she was small—she was always competing with the boys.

  The young singles tend to congregate indoors, flirting with one another as they fulfill their responsibilities, setting out the potluck dishes everyone brings. They serve drinks, clean up. Flirt some more.

  When the weather gets cold, we move the festivities indoors. Light a fire in the big stone fireplace. Pull out sets of checkers for the kids. Make hot cocoa and cider for everyone.

  When Ava and I were dating, we were the ones that kept the kids entertained. She’d sing silly songs with them, teach them hand-clapping games. I was the one keeping an eye out on the rowdier ones. Giving them stern looks. Telling them to behave. Then I’d give up and take them outside to burn some energy off, their breath puffing in the icy air as they laughed and chased one another. Hopefully wearing them out before sending them home with their tired parents.

  Today is Tuesday.

  Our relationship seems vastly different than it was just this time yesterday, when she arrived at the gates. Could it be that by Saturday, if the blizzard holds off and we are able to hold our weekly gathering, that things would go back to the way they were before she left? Us two, working together?

  The hope builds within me until it’s so strong, I have to tear my gaze from her lovely face as she sings. When I speak, my voice comes out constricted, gruff. “I think we’d best get going.”

  She glances up, reading my face. She gives me a nod. Protests surround her as she stands from the piano bench.

  “Don’t go.”

  “One more song.”

  “Come back tomorrow?”

  They pat her arm, pull her in for hugs.

  She says goodbye to each one in turn. As we leave, I catch the happy gazes that follow her.

  Their small-town sweetheart is finally home.

  I arrive at dinner, freshly showered with a clean-shaven face. I’ve combed back my damp hair, but one strand keeps finding its way over my eye.

  Pierre lets me in and I make my way to the dinner table. Redmond is seated at the head of the table, Ava Marie to his right where she belongs. Tonight, the scowl from last night is gone. Her eyes lock on mine and a smile spreads across her face.

  She’s beaming.

  She looks stunning in a deep blue dress, her light hair cascading over her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes, bright. She looks happy. Excited to see me.

  That familiar thrumming starts in my chest.

  Redmond waves to the open chair to the left of him, the same one I sit at every time I come. He looks well this evening, healthy and relaxed. “Take a seat. We’re having your favorite.”

  “Is that so?” I send Ava Marie a curious glance.

  She smiles. “Chicken and dumplings.”

  It’s too good to be true. For her to go from dismissing me to serving my favorite dish in a matter of twenty-four short hours? I eye her warily. “You sure this isn’t a trick? Do you have sushi hiding back there?” It’d be just like her to get my hopes up then dash them with some foreign dish for a quick laugh at my expense.

  When the maid brings out the meal, I know by the scent before I see the plates. It’s her late mama’s very own recipe. My mouth starts to water as I spread my napkin in my lap.

  Did she order this tonight? For me?

  She’s got a funny look on her face as she watches me take my first bite. The gravy is hot, creamy, and perfectly seasoned. The chicken tender. The biscuit top buttery and crunchy just like I like it. I’d never say it out loud, but this dish tastes even better than Marie Redmond’s—a feat I’d not thought possible. “Delicious. Thank you. But don’t think you ordering my favorite meal is going to get you out of doing dishes.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve already told them I’m washing up.” She gives me a satisfied smirk that I barely catch because I’m so obsessed with enjoying the meal in front of me.

  The chat at dinner is pleasant, light. Redmond is in good spirts. We talk long into the evening. Until I sense it’s time to go. I tell Ava Marie to be ready at seven sharp in the morning, and she doesn’t give me any sass.

  Tells me she’ll be ready.

  She’s so agreeable. Beautiful. Kind. It makes me wonder if there’s something brewing between us again. Knowing she’ll be gone in a week, I know I can’t afford to think this way. But when she offers to walk me to the door, her eyes shining when she looks up at me, just like they used to, my wondering becomes down right contemplative.

  She’s standing in the frame of the door, one hand on the wood, the other by her side. I’m standing out in the open air on the stone stoop. I run a hand through my hair. Clear my throat. “Thank you for dinner. Tell your cook they got it just right. Just like your mama used to make.”

  She gets shy, looking down, shuffling her foot. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” Her eyes rise slowly to meet mine.

  They say the way to a man’s heart is his stomach. I think it might just be true. “You cooked that? For me?”

  She gives a modest shrug. “It always was your favorite. And you said for me to help out while I’m here—to pull my weight. I thought I’d cook.”

  “Your mama would be proud of you, babygirl.” I can’t help it; my old tender name for her comes rising to the surface.

  There’s a quiver trembling through her bottom lip that just tugs on my heart. Without thinking, I lean in, closing the distance between us. My hands go to either side of her face, holding her gently. The curve of her jaw sits in my palm, delicate, fragile. I lock my gaze on hers for just a moment, making my intentions clear. Then I bring my mouth to hers.

  It’s a heady experience, kissing her after all this time. It feels familiar, yet exciting. Enticing, yet something much more than the simple pleasure of touching lips. A reminder of our bond
—one that runs deeper than the ocean. Older than time.

  Sealing my fate. With one, kiss.

  Because I know now that I’ve unleashed this thing between us, I’m just a few days away from having my heart broken again. I pull away. Say goodbye. Leave her standing on the stoop, alone. Her open palm held up in goodbye.

  In the morning, I arrive, wearing my heavier, tan canvas coat. It’s lined with flannel and, with the temperatures dropping, I’ll need it.

  True to her word, when I open the door, she’s waiting there in the foyer.

  “Good morning,” she says. In one hand she’s holding a travel coffee mug. The other, a homemade blueberry muffin. One she’s gotten up early to bake. “You made me breakfast yesterday, so I thought I’d return the favor.

  “Good morning yourself. Thank you,” I say, taking the gifts from her. Last week, if you had told me Ava Marie Redmond would be back in town and cooking for me, I’d have said there’s about a snowball’s chance in hell.

  I send her back for warmer gear, a hat, gloves—it’s only going to get colder and we’ll be delivering wood door to door—and she complies.

  I happily eat my muffin while I wait. It’s delicious. Light and sweet. Almost too sweet, then you get a pop of zingy, wild berry in your mouth.

  Just like her.

  9

  Ava Marie

  The past few days have been the best I’ve had in years.

  Wednesday, we delivered wood to all the town’s people, stacking it neatly on their porches. By the end of the day, my muscles were sore from use, having been extremely neglected in the city. I never exercised other than dancing in the clubs. I’d forgotten how satisfying feels to put in a hard day’s work. To serve people and make them smile with your muscles aching from heavy lifting.

  I was exhausted, but after a shower and dressing in a cute little black number, I got a second wind for dinner. We dined by candlelight on pasta and bread and salad. I thought I was starving but sitting across from Buck, I found myself pecking at my meal.