Authors: Jo-Ann Mapson
Owen's Daughter (25 page)
“Would you be up for leading a group on trail rides?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t have it firmed up just yet, but it’s in the plans. Let me get back to you when I’ve figured it out. How’s that sound?”
It sounded like the first bit of luck to happen to her in so long that she was overcome for a minute. Just as she began to answer, there was a crashing sound outside, and both she and Joe Vigil jumped up to see what was happening.
Before she crossed the threshold of the office, Skye knew she’d pegged that Peter right—a rageaholic who didn’t mind punching senior citizens—because her father was on the ground, blood at the corner of his mouth. He looked puzzled, as if he had been standing there one minute and was on the ground the next. In the palm of his hand he held a molar.
“Stop it!” Skye said, trying to get between them. But Joe took her arm, holding her back. Considering the cane and his limp, she was surprised at his strength.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “Sometimes, with men, the only way to work things out is with fists. Clearly these two have some history.”
Owen stood back up. Peter threw punches every which way, while her dad blocked most of them. Then Peter got lucky and landed a blow on Owen’s cheek, and Skye was horrified to see her father stagger back a few steps while he absorbed it. For the first time, he looked old to her. He regained his footing, and she felt herself cringe for the blow that was coming, but he picked Peter up by the shoulders and unceremoniously dumped him into the lawn chair with a thud. The breath rushed out of Peter, and he sat there, gasping, trying to get it back.
“Now,” her dad said, “sit your behind down and we’ll talk like civilized people.”
Peter started to get up from the chair and Owen used one meaty hand to push him back down. “Breathe,” he said. “That’s right, nice and slow.”
Then Owen sat down, too. He pressed the bandanna he carried into the corner of his mouth. Already a bruise was forming on his jaw, and what looked like it would be an epic shiner. The three-legged heeler came barreling around the corner, standing between Peter and Owen. “Late to the party, Hope,” Owen said, “but I appreciate you showing up all the same.”
Joe Vigil was laughing. He elbowed Skye. “If only we had some popcorn,” he said. “This is better than a Hollywood movie.”
Skye looked at him, surprised. That was not the response she expected, given the man’s seemingly gentle nature. “Are you serious? He’s like forty years younger than my dad. This isn’t a fair fight.”
“All the fireworks are over,” Joe whispered. “Now they’ll talk things out. Watch and see.”
“That dog!” Peter said.
Owen studied his displaced molar. “Roots and everything,” he said. “I guess I don’t need to see a dentist after all.”
Joe Vigil said, “We all done with the fists? Yes? Time to get some ice on your eye or it’s going to swell shut.”
“I’m fine,” Owen said.
“I’m going to the convenience store and getting some ice anyway,” Joe said, leaning on his cane, heading to his car. “Anybody want chips? Nuts? McDonald’s? I’m buying.”
“We already have a couple of nuts,” Skye said. “I’d love a Coke. Maybe some red licorice.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks for taking such good care of Red,” her dad said in his gravelly voice. “Horse looks great.”
Peter stared at Owen. “Oh, sure. Show up after all this time, and expect to take the reins like nothing happened. Red is my horse. You abandoned him.”
“I seem to recall that I asked you to take care of him, not to be his owner. Believe me, I came as quickly as I could. Only reason I headed here first was to gain employment. That’s what I was doing until you jumped me. You were a punk when I left you, Peter. Breaks my heart to see that you haven’t changed in that respect.”
“I’m a punk? You’re ten times worse than that. You’re, you’re—,” he sputtered, searching for the term he wanted.
Owen cleared his throat. “I recall you once referring to me as a
Bonanza
extra. I have yet to hear an unkinder remark, so why don’t we leave it at that?”
“No way, dude. You’ve put on weight. You could pass for Hoss on
Bonanza
now. So where the hell were you?”
“Prison.”
Peter whistled. “Prison, whoa.”
“When did you get your ears fixed?”
“Recently. So, Hoss, did you ever intend to contact my mom?”
Owen slid the molar into his shirt pocket. “’Course I do. I had to get myself squared away first. Namely, a job, so I can buy the gas to drive to Blue Dog to find her.”
“Too late, asshole.”
Owen’s face fell. “What do you mean? Oh, Lord. She didn’t pass away, did she? Or worse—did she move back to California?”
Skye wanted to slap the smirk off Peter’s face.
“Nope. She’s right across town. But last night I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and messed around on her computer. She bookmarked all these sites on MS. Then I found the pamphlets. I confronted her. She’s sick. Show up now and it’ll look like a pity fuck.”
“Don’t use profanity in front of my daughter,” he said.
Peter forced a laugh. “She swears worse than I do! Pack your shit and hit the road, Hoss. Last thing my mom needs is another round with you.”
“You shut your pie hole or I’ll shut it for you,” Skye said. “My dad works here, you don’t.”
In the quiet that followed, Skye noticed that the construction workers had stopped hammering and sawing to watch the fight. All but one had bet on Peter to win from the looks of things, because everyone was handing one guy their ten-dollar bills. The guy who’d bet on Owen, a tall blond fellow rocking a sleeveless T-shirt, was raking in the dough. He saw her looking and wolf-whistled at her. “If you value your nuts, you won’t do that again,” she said, loud enough for them all to hear. His buddies all laughed and turned to go back to work.
From the barn came a whinny. Both her dad and Peter turned to look at the same time, nearly cracking heads. “He’s got more muscle on him than I’ve ever seen,” Owen said. “What were you feeding him?”
“Alfalfa pellets,” Peter said. “He lost a couple teeth and that was it for hay. I put him on senior feed and vitamin supplements. He really likes a hot bran mash and massage.”
“Well, who doesn’t?” Owen said, and laughed. “I guess I owe you a pretty penny for all that. I hope I can reimburse you over time. Five hundred dollars a month work for you?”
Peter’s frown returned. “I’ll say it again, Hoss. You don’t owe me a dime because Red is
my
horse. I’ve been caring for him for ten years, and I’m not giving him back.”
Owen stood up. “In the Bible, King Solomon suggested that two women claiming to be the mother of the same baby should settle their problem by cutting the baby in half. The true mother backed out of that deal. So I guess that means you can keep Red,” Owen said. “Since I’d hate for anything to harm my horse.”
Peter laughed. “Don’t try to pull that Jedi shit on me.”
Owen chuckled, and Skye listened to his laugh: He sounded like Wilford Brimley, who did the diabetes commercials.
“Are we done fighting?” he asked Peter. “How about we revisit this issue at a later date? May I please have your mother’s telephone number? And her address?”
“No.”
The yellow Land Cruiser pulled up. Joe reached his hand out the window, handing a bag of ice and a six-pack of Coke to Skye. “They only had black licorice, so I didn’t get any. No more punches?”
“Not a one,” she said. “I think they’re both tired out.”
“Then I’ll be heading home. Owen, glad to have you on board. Fill out those papers I left on the desk. Skye, there’s a waiver for you, too. I’ve left two keys and the gate code. Owen, see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Owen said. “Peter? Her address, phone number?”
Peter shook his head, then seemed to think better of it. “You know what? Whatever reception you get you deserve. We might as well get this over with so we can get on with life. Follow me.”
Owen turned to Skye. “Honey? You mind driving? I can’t see much out of this eye.”
“Daddy, put some ice on it, for crying out loud. You should go to the ER and get an X-ray.”
“I’ve been in enough fights to tell when I need medical help. I’m fine.”
Peter walked toward
another
Land Cruiser, Skye noticed. Santa Fe was lousy with these cars. Up came the wind again, blowing grit around. She wanted to take a bath in lotion.
“Please reconsider, Daddy.”
“No way. This here is my bargaining chip. I fully intend to let it bloom. That way Margaret can see there’s not a mark on her son.”
Peter turned around. “You’re senile. My mom is going to take one look at your mangy old ass and shut the door in your face.”
“We’ll see about that. Accept the consequences for your actions, Peter. Same lesson you were learning ten years ago. Haven’t gotten too far, have you?”
“Do you need to stop at Denny’s for the early bird special, now that you’re a senior citizen?”
Owen smiled.
“Daddy, are you going to let him get away with that?” Skye said.
“It’s all right, Skye,” he said, patting her icy hand. “One day he’ll learn that no one escapes Father Time. Black eyes fade. Teeth, however, can’t be put back in.” He hollered out, “Your mom will make you pay for my dental visit.”
Peter yelled back, “Doubtful! I’ll bet you ten dollars she’s madder at you than me.”
“Ten dollars? Be serious. How about we bet Red? Whoever wins keeps the horse.”
“No way!” Peter hollered. He pointed at the heeler, wagging the stub of his tail. “I still don’t believe that’s the same dog.”
Owen yelled back, “What are the odds of me having two heelers with three legs in one lifetime?”
“With your lifestyle? I’d think pretty good.”
“I think I liked you better when your ears were busted. What kind of flowers does she like?”
“Flowers? Seriously? As in, ‘Sorry it’s been ten years, here’s some daisies’?”
“Roses,” Skye said. “White or pink ones. Red is tacky.”
Peter looked at her dad with a smirk. “If I lose you, take Cerrillos toward the Railyard. Make a left on Guadalupe. Turn right on Paseo de Peralta, and head up Canyon Road. Then look for Ave de Colibri. It’s number 105.”
Skye looked at her father. “Number 105? We were standing there yesterday. Right next door. Where you had the hallucination.”
“It wasn’t a hallucination, Skye. I saw that Indian girl as clear as I’m seeing you now.”
“Well, you also just got punched in the head, so that’s not a real strong argument.”
“Can we just go, please?”
Peter slammed his car door and started his engine.
It had been quite some time since Skye had driven a column shifter. She stalled the truck twice but got it on the third try.
“If I ever needed a drink, today would be the day,” he said.
Skye shifted into third. “If you get one, then I do, too.”
“Am I an idiot to bring her flowers?”
“You’d be an idiot if you didn’t. We’ll stop at Trader Joe’s before we see this mysterious Margaret. When I lived here, they had the best flowers.”
Owen said, “Her son isn’t worth two shits, but she is really something.”
“So why didn’t you write to her from prison, you jackass?”
“Haven’t we been through all that?”
“Daddy? Let me ask you something. How often do you want a drink?”
“Every day of my life.”
That was extremely disappointing news. Skye sighed and drove toward Cordova, where Trader Joe’s was located. The wind was blowing trash across the road, empty McDonald’s wrappers and plastic bags. There really wasn’t anything else to say.
While Peter and Owen were reacquainting themselves, Margaret was clearing out the casita for Peter. She raised her arms above her head and leaned forward to stretch her back. She blew out a breath, surprised at how tired she was after opening only one box. She’d been there since breakfast, trying to make sense of the space while Peter was out riding RedBow. Ellie had put these boxes in storage before she got sick. When she died, Margaret had cleaned out her rental space, canceled the contract, and moved the boxes out to the casita, since the house had no garage, only a carport. They were stacked three deep, and no matter how many Margaret moved, it seemed there was always another one behind the last. She had the overwhelming urge to get rid of them without opening a single one. Professional organizers say that if you haven’t used something in a year, you don’t need it. But what if she missed something special? Something that could change one’s mind about life? Ellie had lived into her eighties. She’d been through the Second World War and had traveled the globe long enough to pick up some treasures. Margaret decided to keep looking.
“I promise I’ll spend the day helping you clean out the casita,” Peter had told her that morning, after he blew up over her diagnosis. He was unloading all his stress, especially the divorce stress, on a handy target. “I want to ride Red,” he’d finally said, “and then I have a few errands to run.”
A good idea, Margaret thought, time to cool down. But these errands must have taken him to Timbuktu, because hours had passed and he still wasn’t back. Worse, she’d found another wine bottle in the trash this morning, so his drinking wasn’t just a onetime thing. Wine wasn’t water except in the Bible, and the concept of “hers” seemed to be lost on him. At some point, they’d have to talk about it, but she wasn’t sure he could handle any more bad news in one day.