A Cowboy To Keep: A Contemporary Western Romance Collection

by Hebby Roman

  “Oh, hell. I totally forgot. Well…. Never mind now, here it comes.”

  Tension oozed from Chay as they sat at opposite ends of the back seat. K.C. could feel it, like an electric current running from him to her. His arm was up on the backrest, one finger tapping out a tattoo of strain. She knew he hated all of this, hated the pretense of liking her parents for an evening when he didn’t, never could, never would. And she, in turn, hated having to make him go, despaired at putting him through this, dictating the terms by which they now lived. She stuttered in a breath and sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” His voice came out almost disinterested, not polite, but as if it was an automatic question.

  “I hate making you do this. But Chay—”

  He sat up and edged over closer to her. “You’re not making me. I have free will.” He offered her a smile. “I wouldn’t want to spend Thanksgiving on my own. Without you.”

  She glanced at him to check his sincerity and accepted his peace treaty with a nod. “If…if you really hate it, if it gets too much, if they get nasty, just let me know. I’ll leave with you.”

  Chay snorted. “Okay,” he said in a more upbeat voice. “What’s our signal?”

  K.C. took in a deep breath and smiled at last. “Our signal? Our signal is…K.C., are you ready to go home now? Because I am. How’s that?”

  “Perfect. Shall I practice that?” He laughed, just as the car pulled up at the apartment building. A doorman stepped to the curb and opened the car door.

  She got out and swung to meet him as he emerged from the vehicle and faced her. “No.” She giggled. “If you say it, it needs to sound fresh and original.”

  Chay had never encountered this sort of wealth, or at least not this type of display of wealth. Back in Wyoming, if anyone had money like that murderous Jamie’s family did, it might come out in the size of the house, the cars they drove, the type of horses and stock they had. The wives might wear jewels, sure, and for all he knew their clothes might be expensive, but he’d never been invited into a home where recognizable artists’ work hung on the walls, chandeliers hung from the ceiling, silver and crystal, and objects of vertu adorned room after room. He felt like he was in a museum.

  Carol had her help in for the evening. The woman kept busy drying glasses as they sauntered past, a person who no doubt needed the pay so much, she was willing to give up holiday time with her own family. Chay felt like spending the evening talking to her, but that wouldn’t happen. As K.C. led him into the living room, Alan and Carol both stood to greet them. Carol’s face was an older version of K.C.’s, but it was Alan’s brown hair and blue eyes K.C. had inherited. Carol was dressed in a white, high collared blouse and navy skirt belted in gold, elegant to the bone.

  Another couple completed the party; the man rose to greet them while the woman stayed seated. Chay felt her glare run over him, dismay evident as she crossed her legs and grimaced.

  “Good to see you, Charles.” Alan extended his hand.

  Chay looked at it for a moment before deciphering the ‘Charles.’ Then he shook hands with as much warmth as he could muster and said, “Uh, Chay actually. No one ever calls me Charles.”

  “Fine, fine.” Alan patted him on the back. “These are our dear friends, Alice and John Schofield.”

  Chay shook hands with John Schofield and started toward Alice, still seated in her chair, but as he received a rather false smile as encouragement, he nodded at her and put his arm around K.C., who had finished kissing her parents and their friends to say hello. He looked for a place to settle when Alan motioned him to sit, and saw one remaining armchair into which he drooped with K.C. perched on the corner.

  “Sooooo.” Alan sounded as if he were more at sea with the situation than Chay. He poured them glasses of champagne to match the others, smiled encouragingly, and offered, “How are things in Wyoming? Or maybe I should say, how were things? Before you left….”

  “Oh, you live in Wyoming! That explains it,” Alice drooled. She leaned forward, taking in Chay’s boots for the second time. “I wondered why you were dressed like that!”

  For a moment, Chay thought he might say it was the best costume he could come up with, but K.C.’s pat on the knee calmed him down. “Yes,” he responded, his voice quiet. "I’m afraid I’m a bit short of proper New York gear.”

  “Well, one thing,” John pointed out to the others, “You’re all gun totin’ Republicans in Wyoming, that’s for sure.”

  Chay caught the look on K.C.’s face, the panic, if not horror that exuded dread. He tapped her shoulder in reassurance. “Uh, guns, yes,” he explained. “If you have stock or live somewhere wildlife is plentiful. But not all Republicans, I’m afraid. Or at least, I mean to say, I’m…not…always.”

  The four older adults looked at one another. “Well, of course, we may be misinformed,” Carol responded. “No matter. We don’t live in Wyoming anyway!” And she seemed to think this was hysterically funny and laughed.

  Chay realized at that point, sometime, during the evening, he was either going to get very angry or puke on their no-doubt-expensive carpets, and the best idea might be to just get as drunk as possible. He looked up at K.C. who, in that moment, he sensed almost read his mind. She lifted another two glasses of champagne from the tray the serving woman brought around and handed him one.

  “Enjoy!” she said. “And I do mean, enjoy.”

  As the evening progressed, Chay neither vomited nor got angry with his hosts or their other guests. He suffered through, thinking of replies that somehow side-stepped their actual questions and his real answers. He understood this was K.C.’s family, this was her world, and he could not bring it down around her ears. He maintained a stolid and sensible outlook for her sake, explained what being a rancher meant—or tried to—what the differences were between life in the city and life in the country. He knew they weren’t so ignorant as to not know where their food came from, but he found them disinterested in any other lifestyle but their own. Their vacations would be Europe or the Caribbean, he believed, with little interest in their own country other than, perhaps, New Orleans or Charleston. Cities, not countryside, unless it was to ski or escape summer heat by the beach.

  As they said their good-nights he apologized to Carol for not having brought her wine or flowers and just got a smile with the tilt of her head. It told him any flowers he could have brought would not have been good enough, any wine not what they drank. Chay watched as K.C. kissed her parents good-night and said her farewells to their guests, wondering how he had fallen in love with a girl of this background.

  And then he remembered her in Wyoming, recalling how they had both been while there, enjoyed themselves together, loved each other, and she had seemed so right.

  In Wyoming.

  * * *

  Daphne’s flick of her hand ‘good-bye’ resembled being given the bird, and K.C.’s quick peck on the cheek as she headed out to classes left Chay feeling deserted and useless. What was his purpose in being here? To study for a high school diploma he had no intention of ever using to get into college? He looked again at the books: ‘A basketball team has won 60 games out of 90….’ Oh, geesh. I can’t do this.

  Pushing the books away, he leaned back in his chair, rocking it on two legs, trying to clear his head. He missed the company of men—men who knew him, worked cattle, competed in rodeo, were part of his world. Being dependent on K.C., as a proverbial square peg in a round hole—or was it the other way around?—did not suit him. He wanted his own life. And yet, he knew it was a temporary situation, the best answer for them both, and he could sweat it out. But that dumb test? Did he need that?

  The phone jerked him away from his reveries and it took him a moment to focus on the name: Adnan. That’s a surprise.

  “Hey, Adnan. I was just thinking of you,” he lied.

  “Chay, this is very good to know, but I have bad news.”

  “Bad news, Adnan? What sort of bad news?” Chay’s mind whirled trying to thi
nk of something Adnan could tell him that would be bad news for him to hear. He rubbed his forehead.

  “Ah, my friend Chay. Can we meet now at the Starbucks on Ninth?”

  Chay arrived first, pushing the door open into the steam and noise of the busy venue. He got a quick wink from the barista he knew fancied him, observing her as she finished with another patron, her smile creeping up. In the line, he dithered over what to order, attempting to remember Adnan’s complicated mix, and decided on a treat of some nature to fill him up until lunchtime. This was one thing about New York he could tolerate—while it was normal for him to go out mornings on the range with a thick cup of black java, living here had made him a bit more adventurous and ready to try different flavors.

  “What’ll it be?” The girl’s come-hither smile distracted him. “Have you tried the pumpkin spice yet? Good this time of year.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it. Grande please. And one half decaf, half mint mocha cappuccino grande with…something or other.”

  “Whipped cream?”

  “Probably.” He reached into his back pocket, hoping his wallet would cough up enough money for these outrageous brews, pulled out a twenty and laid it down just as Adnan appeared.

  “I will pay, I will pay.” Adnan grabbed the bill and put a ten down, stuffing the twenty back in Chay’s hand.

  “No….”

  But the barista gave Adnan his change. The two men moved over to wait for their coffees.

  “Why did you do that? I’m the one who’s working, Adnan.”

  “But I am the one who is leaving. So I may spend my dollars with impunity.”

  “Leaving? Shoot, when?” Chay felt even worse than he had this morning. A line from a song drifted through his head, something about ‘you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone’. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to like Adnan and count on his company.

  They slipped their cups into cardboard sleeves and settled at a table in the corner.

  “This is not working for me, Chay.” Adnan stared at the plastic lid of his drink as if an answer might be written there. “I am missing my fiancée and she is having trouble getting a visa to come. She has never traveled out of Pakistan—out of her city, in fact—and the consulate is suspicious of her. Suspicious! My beautiful Afifa, thought to be some sort of criminal! Can you imagine?”

  “Well, I’ve never….” Chay started to say he had never considered her at all, in fact had never even known her name, but he thought better of it. “I don’t understand. Why won’t they let her in?”

  “It is as I have told you: she has never traveled. Therefore, her sudden desire to join me in these United States puts her under suspicion. They must think she is some sort of terrorist. Nothing could be further from the truth. We have been so pro-American, you would think we are more American than you!”

  Chay kept his thoughts on that to himself. At a loss for words to comfort his friend, it was difficult not to think of his own situation. He had been the one to give up his life to be with K.C., and the difficulties of having done so were, he felt at times, nearly killing him. On top of that, the loss of Adnan as a friend left him with a bunch of predominantly gay actors posing as waiters for short periods of time between theatre jobs. He had nothing against either gay men or actors, but he didn’t have much in common with them either, other than how awful it was to be a waiter.

  Late that night, with the bedroom door locked against whatever demons might lurk outside, exhausted from another bad night of serving to taxing patrons, Chay pulled the covers up and mustered K.C. into his arms.

  “Adnan’s leaving. Going back to Pakistan at the end of this semester.”

  “I know.” K.C. peered up into Chay’s face, assessing him.

  “You knew? How long? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shuffled to sit up, releasing herself from his embrace to face him. “I thought you knew, of course. When you didn’t say anything I just assumed….”

  “What? What did you assume?” Anger rose like bile in Chay as he whipped around to face her.

  “Why are you so angry? I assumed you knew, is all. You seem to see more of him than I do. I sometimes pass him on the street on campus and stuff, but you run with him and see him more socially than I.”

  “When did he tell you?”

  “Geesh, Chay, don’t bust a gut over it. Yesterday, I think. Am I supposed to tell you everything the minute I hear? You were still steaming over the meal with my parents and I was just trying to sidestep anything that would further upset you. You came home from work in a mood—”

  “I didn’t come home from work in a mood.”

  “Well, you’re certainly in one now.”

  They stared at each other, Chay trying to feel less like his blood was boiling, but it wasn’t working. Without prompting, he blurted out, “And I’m not taking that damn high school test. It’s idiotic, a waste of my time—”

  “A waste of your time? Why? Because you prefer going to the gym and running and heading to museums and reading?”

  “What the hell is the matter with that? It’s more educational than those stupid questions.” He jumped out of bed and grabbed one of the books in a pile in the corner. Flicking through the pages, he found a sample to give her. “Here, look at this. Look at this crap, K.C. Do you think this is the sort of thing that can hold my interest? That I’m happy doing?”

  She flicked a quick glance over the question about basketball players. “It wasn’t supposed to make you happy, Chay. The idea was to give you a high school diploma so you could—”

  “Yeah, yeah, so I could go on to college. I’m not going to college, K.C. Once and for all, now hear this….” He put his hands to his mouth as if it were a megaphone. “I, Chay Ridgway, am not going to college.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Chay; at some point you’ll want this and you’ll be sorry if you don’t finish.”

  “The only thing I’m going to be sorry about….”

  But he left the sentence unfinished, slipped back into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  K.C. rested on one elbow staring at him for a time before she, too, lay down.

  Then he rolled to his side to face her and gathered her back into his arms. They had enough to deal with, and he didn’t want the tensions escalating.

  If he could help it.

  Chapter Six

  “Let’s go see the lights. Let’s have a day out in New York holiday season, see the tree at Rockefeller Center and all the shop windows, maybe even go ice skating. It’s Saturday, you have the evening off, it’s a few days to Christmas….” K.C. grabbed Chay by his jacket lapels and gave him a sound smacker on the lips.

  “Wow, what the heck’s got into you today? I put out the garbage and come back to a different woman.” He slouched out of his coat.

  “Ohhhh, don’t take it off. Come on, let’s go, can’t we? Get out of the house for a change, no studying, no moaning about exams or restaurant guests or parents or…or housemates—”

  “Where is she, by the way?”

  “I don’t know.” K.C.’s shoulders slumped in expectation of Chay making an excuse to stay in. He always seemed to want to avoid going out these days, was always reluctant to do anything but stay at home on his days off. “What difference does it make anyway? I think she’s gone home for the weekend.” She bided her time before starting her attack once more. “If you can use that darn skateboard, I’m sure you can ice skate.”

  He picked up the mail on the kitchen table and glanced through it.

  Bills. Nothing but bills, she knew.

  “I can skate,” he said half to himself.

  “Great! A skating cowboy!”

  “Hardly a cowboy anymore,” he muttered, throwing the letters back down. His glance met hers and she tilted her head in expectation.

  “City boy. Just for a short while, Chay. I know how you feel. Really I do!”

  “Do you?”

  K.C.’s lungs filled with air she s
lowly let out while her heart was in her throat. “No. I don’t know, do I? I don’t know, Chay. But it’s only a short time. We will move back. I promise you. I promise, Chay. But while we’re here in New York, don’t you think we should be making the best of things?”

  He hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets. “Honest? I thought I was. Aren’t I making the best of things?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Okay, look. Do you want me to change?”

  “Change?”

  “Change clothes, dumb-dumb. Change clothes. What did you think I meant?”

  “I thought…it doesn’t matter. Never mind. No, of course you don’t have to change clothes. Wear what you’ve got on, we’re only going window shopping and maybe ice skating. You’re fine. Absolutely fine. Oh, gosh, this is going to be so much fun! I can’t wait for you to see all the lights and the tree and everything.”

  That got a small smile from Chay, but K.C. could see he wasn’t all that enthusiastic. She was just going to have to make him enjoy it, give him a day to remember, a real New York holiday season day.

  * * *

  They emerged from the subway, arms linked, at Bryant Park, and walked straight into more people than Chay thought were in the entire state of Wyoming. He could feel his stomach muscles tighten, his throat contract, his breathing become difficult. Crowds. He hated crowds. And this was solid people. Millions and millions of people.

  In order to remain together, he grabbed K.C.’s hand and held on tight. Chay could feel her swing her handbag around to the front on her shoulder so she was sure it was there and no pickpocket could get into it. He glanced at her and grimaced.

  “Is all of New York out today?”

  “I didn’t think…well, I thought it wouldn’t be as bad as Black Friday and all those days after Thanksgiving. I thought it would have loosened up a bit.”

  “Obviously not.”

  She tried to pull him closer. “I’m sorry. I really thought—”

  “It’s fine. It’s not your fault.” He was trying not to panic. The pushing and pulling of the crowd, people trying to go across him, into him, this way, that, was not like anything he had ever experienced. All he could do was move forward. Hang on to K.C. and move forward, not think about the other people, take his time. Police whistles blew and Chay watched as traffic cops stepped out to wave cars on. Barriers were up, and at one point, they had to cross the street and cross back once more. It was a nightmare. A living, breathing nightmare.