Along Came a Cowboy (8 page)

I don't know how I ended up by myself with Mom. I guess subconsciously, when faced with the choice of watching Jack climb onto the back of a bull up close and personal or this, I considered leaving Jennifer with Dad at the Lazy W and driving the half mile to my parents' house the lesser of two evils. Now that I'm here on the doorstep, staring into Mom's startled face, I'm not so sure this was the best decision.

“I thought I'd go ahead and get that box out of your way,” I say with a nervous shrug. “I'm sorry I didn't find it when I got everything else.” When I moved back from Georgia eight years ago, Victoria came out and helped me get my things. She'd been unfailingly polite to my parents while I'd packed without really speaking. But I thought I'd gotten everything.

“They weren't in our way, Rachel.” Mom stands back to let me in, but her voice is tight. “I just thought you might want them. Why not display them in your office?”

Right. Then people will say, “Oh, I remember you back then. Didn't you disappear from Shady Grove in the middle of your senior year? Where'd you go anyway?”

“Thanks.”

Mom leads the way down the hall to my old bedroom and
motions to a big cardboard box on the bed.

“Oh wow. There are a lot of them. I didn't remember.”

“Horses were your first love.”

I nod and pick up one of the trophies. She's right. I was crazy about horses above all else. Until the first night I saw Brett Meeks. Then the horses and horse shows quickly became a means to an end. In my daydreams, Brett would be desperate to know my name but too shy to ask. Then I'd win, my name would be announced, and he'd know.

I pick up a few snapshots lying loose in the box, and my mouth twists into a bittersweet smile. Other than a few lines in my face and a lot more wisdom, I haven't changed much. At sixteen, almost seventeen, even though I was far from the anorexic shape that was so in fashion back then, I wasn't at all overweight, and it's hard to believe I thought I was fat. But I did. I fixed my hair a hundred different ways that summer and even wore blush, hoping for the illusion of cheekbones.

My gaze falls on a faded navy blue bandanna in the corner of the box. When I see it, I know why this box was in the attic and not with the rest of my stuff. My mind flashes back to the day I packed all my barrel-racing stuff away and took it up to the attic. Where it had stayed until now.

B
ad memories?”

I stuff the bandanna deep under the mass of trophies and spin around. Mom is still standing in the door, her eyes suspiciously moist. I nod. “Mostly. It's never pleasant to remember how foolishly I acted.”
And how much you and Dad hated me for it.

“I wish. . .”

I want to hear what she wishes, but at the same time I'm afraid to. I turn back toward the box and slide the photos into it. “The past is the past. I'll keep the trophies and throw the rest away at home.”

“Yes. Looking forward is always best, I guess,” she says, and I hear her shoes clicking down the hallway.

I don't see her when I carry the stuff out to my car, but Jack's truck turns into the drive, and he, Dad, and Jenn climb out.

It hits me that Dad must have walked over to Jack's place. I feel bad he and Jenn had to ask Jack for a ride home. I open my mouth to apologize, although it wouldn't have hurt Dad to tell me that he was depending on me to bring them home. But before I can say anything, Jack rushes across the yard to take
the box from my arms. Unless I want to wrestle him to the ground for it, I have no choice but to let him have it.

“Aunt Rach,” Jenn yells. “You should have seen Jack ride the bull. He stayed on until the buzzer went off, and then he jumped off. Twister almost stepped on him.”

“Cool,” I call to her then glance at Jack. “Couldn't bear to ‘jump' off without qualifying, huh?” I ask softly, referring to the eight seconds that makes a successful bull ride.

He shrugs as well as he can with the box in his hands. “No sense in bruising my body
and
my pride.”

I lead the way out to my car and open the back door. “Thanks,” I say as he sets it on my backseat.

“No problem.” He nods toward the trophies. “Wow. I'd almost forgotten what a barrel-racing champion you were.”

“I guess. Back in the day.” I try to laugh.

He closes the car door and turns to face me. “Did you hear about Ron?”

Guilt clenches my gut as I shake my head. I meant to call and check on him, but when Jenn showed up, everything else took a backseat. “What's going on with him?”

“He's definitely looking at surgery.”

“Oh no!” I feel awful for him. And not so great for me, either. I was counting on him being back for the committee meeting next week and me bowing out gracefully. “When do you think they'll do it?”

“Early next week. Then six to eight weeks of recovery.”

I want to whine, but at least I'm not the one who's having surgery. I told Ron I'd take care of things, and I will. “Think your mom and I can handle it? With your help, of course?”

He grimaces. “Actually, Mom has gone to Batesville to stay with my sister.”

“Let me guess. Your sister's pregnant.”

He raises his eyebrows and draws them together at the same time. On him it's a cute look. Trust me. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“I just—” I wave my hand. “Never mind. Is it going to be a long visit?”

“I don't know. She's staying there to be close to Ron, since he has no other family nearby.”

Of course she is. I hope Ron appreciates it, but somehow I doubt it. “So I guess I'll be the committee for a while,” I say without thinking.

He frowns. “You sound like that's a death sentence.”

I give a half smile. “Sorry, but you have to admit our first ‘committee meeting' ”—I put air quotes around the words with my fingers—“didn't go so well.”

His brown eyes gaze at me intently, and for once he doesn't smile. “Rachel, don't write us off just because we had a rocky start.”

I know he's talking about our working relationship as committee member and rodeo producer. Surely. But the way he says “us” sends a shiver down my spine.

“Okay, okay.” I force a smile. “I guess it's too late to get new bids now. I'll give it a shot.”

He swipes his hand across his forehead. “What a relief.”

I swat toward the brim of his hat. “Yeah, I know you were worried.”

He ducks and feints away, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Worried might be an overstatement, but it's nice to know my future is financially assured now that I'm going to
get
to produce the Shady Grove Centennial Rodeo.”

“Oh yeah.” I return his grin as I remember my hotheaded comment at Coffee Central. “Sorry about the whole nepotism crack. I know the town appreciates you giving us a deal.”

We're joking. And it's fun. The realization makes me stiffen. As if in direct response, Jack stiffens, too, and his smile fades.

“I wanted to ask you. . .” He looks toward the house then back at me. I can't believe my eyes. Jack Westwood is nervous. I brace myself for a really personal question.

When he doesn't speak, I snap, “Ask me what?”

“If you'd like to go out with me this Saturday night.”

“Out?”

He motions with his hand but doesn't really look in my eyes. “Out to eat. To a show. Bowling. Whatever people do on dates around here.”

I stare at him. This cannot be happening. Jennifer's here full of questions, I'm thrust back into regular contact with my parents, and now, the drop-dead-gorgeous cowboy I have been trying desperately to avoid asks me out. And here's the worst thing. I'd like to say yes. And that's all the more reason to say no. “I'm sorry. But I can't.”

“Oh.” He looks down at the ground. “You are in a relationship?”

Because obviously that's the only reason he's ever been turned down.

“More relationships than I can handle.”

He winces.

I relent. “But not a romantic one. I just don't have time”—
or trust
—“to spare right now. Thanks for asking though.”

“I understand. Probably just as well.”

I don't say anything because I'm afraid I'll scream, “Wait! I changed my mind.”

“Tell your folks I had to get home.” He turns and walks slowly toward his truck.

“I will.” I stand and watch him pull out of the driveway. “It would have been fun,” I say to the air.

“Maybe you should have said yes. I think it would have been fun.” Allie tosses me the Frisbee and reaches over to get a bottled water out of the cooler.

I throw the neon green disc to Lark, who promptly pitches it over her shoulder toward the kids. Cocoa and Shadow both run for it, but Allie's youngest daughter, Katie, grabs it as she and Dylan, Victoria's son, take off to the open area next to the fountain, with the dogs at their side.

Katie motions for her older sister to come play, but Miranda is engrossed in conversation with Jennifer. Even though there's more than two years difference in their ages, they hit it off immediately, and they're walking along the paths talking. “I've tried ‘fun.' It didn't work out.”

“You were a kid. Besides, all cowboys aren't created equal, Rach,” Lark adds. “He seems nice.”

“He seems it. But we all know I've dated men who
are
really nice, and it never amounts to anything.”

“Wonder why?” Allie asks, as she spreads out a tablecloth on the picnic table.

I give her an appraising look. Is she being sarcastic? Or serious?

“You tell me,” I say, not caring if I'm a little flippant.

Allie concentrates on smoothing a wrinkle out of the red and white plastic.

“Because you never date anyone you're really attracted to,” Lark says. Allie kind of gasps, and Lark shoots her a defensive look. “You know it's true.”

“Well. . . ,” Allie starts, with a worried look at me.

Okay, I know Lark's nerves are on edge while she's waiting for the adoption agency to call, but I have to protest.
“That is
not
true.”

Lark puts her hand on her hip and waves her Diet Coke bottle at me. “Name one man you've dated in the past fifteen years that you had the slightest desire to get to know better.”

“There was—” I stop, running through the short list of names in my mind. All nice guys. But none of them rang my bell, as Lark's granny used to say. Still, I'm not about to admit it. “How did we get started on this?” I ignore Lark's smirk and turn to Allie. “Have you picked out our dresses yet?”

Allie gives me a dreamy bride smile. “I was hoping we might do that together a week from Saturday.”

The opening notes of Martina McBride's “This One's for the Girls” blast out from the other side of the table. Lark almost knocks Allie over as she sprints to grab her purse. She fumbles frantically with the Velcro clasp and yanks her phone out. “Hello?”

I shoot Allie a worried look. “The waiting is getting to her, isn't it?” I whisper.

She nods.

Lark's shoulders fall. “Oh. Hi, Marsha.”

“Craig's sister,” Allie mouths.

Lark walks up to the top of the hill to get a better cell signal, and Allie and I start putting the food out. “We should do a spa day when we go to buy dresses,” Allie says. “I think we're all pretty stressed.”

I realize how much I've been consumed with Jennifer since she's been here. “Is Vic okay?” Victoria Worthington is one of the most “together” women I know. But sometimes I'm sure we take that for granted.

“Actually, yeah, she seems to be doing great. But she'd never turn down a spa day.”

Lark yells, and we look up. She's running over toward Craig,
motioning him to meet her. He hurries to her and she talks, waving her arms, talking with her hands in true Lark fashion.