The Sweet Spot (15 page)

“Rosa, you’re allowed to get a phone call now and again. Don’t worry about it.” Char
knelt beside the rocker. “Daddy? Rosa’s leaving. Do you want to say good-bye?” As
she rubbed his forearm, he jerked awake.

“Wha?” He frowned down at her. “Peggy. Did you get the liniment from Junior’s?”

Her heart gave a painful pinch. He’d mistaken her for her mother. Would she ever get
used to this?

Rosa touched her shoulder. “This disease can be harder on the caregiver than the patient.
You should try to get away sometime, Charla. Take a vacation.”

Yeah, maybe the family villa in the South of France
…

“You are my vacation, Rosa. I’m so grateful that you ran into Rev. Mike that day.”

“Lot Number twenty-three: sold, to bidder number five forty-six.”

JB tuned out the auctioneer’s drone. He should load the calves he’d bought and hit
the road. It was an hour and a half ride from Austin back home. But it felt good to
relax in the anonymity of a crowd of strangers. No frowns aimed his way, no behind-the-hand
whispers.

As the stands cleared, he put a boot on the riser in
front of him, rested his arm on his knee, and watched the workers prep the ring for
the next lot.

When he’d shown up for work at the feedlot on Monday, Junior had seemed relieved.
And he must have at least partially forgiven JB, because buying calves beat shoveling
shit any day.

He had a job now. That was one problem off the plate.
As to the rest
—

“ ’Scuse me.”

A big man slid into the open seat next to JB. A light gray Stetson covered black hair,
cut short, and there was a bronze cast to his high cheekbones.

Some Indian blood there, I’ll warrant.
Whipcord tough, weather-beaten, and tired, he looked like the Marlboro Man, from
those cigarette commercials in the sixties. JB touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy.”

The man nodded, studying the auction catalog in front of him. “Is the Kobe lot next?”

“Not sure. I’m done buyin’.” He stuck out a hand. “JB Denny.”

The man’s grip was as hard as his face. “Max Jameson, High Heather Ranch.”

“Well, you sure aren’t from around here. Nothin’s ‘high’ in East Texas.”

“My ranch is outside Steamboat. Colorado.”

JB whistled softly through his teeth. “A long way to come, for a cattle auction.”

The man watched the activity in the ring, rolling the catalog in his hands. “I came
to check out the Kobe calves. I’m thinking about running them on my place. Price is
three times my steers, and they dress out heavier.”

JB snorted. “No offense, but you don’t look like the
type to be massaging cow flesh.” Kobe beef come from a genetic strain in Japan, where
ten head was considered a large herd, due to the labor involved in raising them. “Ranchers”
brushed their cattle and massaged sake into their coats. He’d heard a real Kobe steak
was worth every penny of the two-hundred-dollar price tag.

Not that he’d ever eaten any. He even couldn’t afford to pay attention, lately.

“I misspoke. I’m looking to run Kobe-
style
beef.” Max let out a dry cough that might have been a chuckle—except he didn’t look
happy. “Anything gets massaged on my spread, it’s gonna be me.”

“I hear that.”

He turned. “How’s the beef business in Texas?”

Seeing Max’s expression, JB realized he wouldn’t want to be the one who put that pissed
look there. “I manage a feedlot, part-time. The owner doesn’t look like he’s going
hungry.” The man would have no way of knowing what an understatement that was.

“Well, I’ll tell you, no ranchers are fat and happy where I come from.” Max swore
under his breath. “That’s reserved for the rich tourists and ski-resort owners, who
can afford it.”

“I read that y’all are having a time of it. Property taxes killing you?”

“Between that, the beef prices, and the BLM threatening to shut down grazing on Federal
land, my damn ranch is close to failing.”

JB grimaced. “Shoot I got you beat—my whole damn life is failing.”

“Tell me about it.” Max stared at the arena that JB was sure he didn’t see. “My girl
just left me for the rancher
down the road who’s in bed with the developers.” His lip curled, but it looked more
like a wolf’s leer than a smile.

“That’s going to make for a crowded honeymoon,” JB said, then immediately regretted,
as Max’s glare smoked a hole in him.

Wrong move.
JB straightened, lightly fisting his hands.

Max studied him for a long few seconds. Then he chuckled, and held out his fist for
a knuckle-bump. “I like you.”

Glad not to be feeling those hard knuckles anywhere else on his body, JB bumped. “Once
this lot is done, you want to grab a cup of coffee? I’d like to hear more about your
spread.”

Dinner over and the kitchen cleaned, Char and her dad sat on the couch before a crackling
fire. She closed the McMurtry novel she’d been reading aloud. Usually the solitary,
windswept descriptions of the Old West transported her, but tonight they left her
restless and melancholy. “How about some hot chocolate, Daddy?” Uncurling her legs
from beneath her, she looked over at her father.

He stared into the fire, silent tears glistening down the long furrows bracketing
his mouth to his chin.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” The ravaged desolation in his eyes sent alarm racing down her
nerves.

“I miss them, Little Bit.”

“Who, Daddy?” She took his hand, running her thumb over the parchment-thin skin.

“Your mother. Benje. JB.”

A startled sob burst from her. They hadn’t talked about it, any of it. Ever. Her dad
was a private man about his
emotions. She didn’t know if his silence was due to reticence, or if he’d lost those
memories. For his sake, she’d wished the latter.

The naked pain on his face tore something open in her, something hot and festering.

Of course she’d cried when they’d lost Benje. Isolated in a bell jar of agony, she’d
done nothing else for weeks afterward. But when the raging emotions finally ebbed,
they left behind a desiccated husk. On the day Jimmy left, there wasn’t enough moisture
left for tears.

“Why did everyone leave, Charla Rae?”

Hot, acid tears flooded her as she choked out, “I don’t know, Daddy. I wish I did.”

Her father’s arms came around her, and she fell into his chest, sobbing. The trauma
from the last maelstrom of grief left scars. At the deepest part of her, Char lived
in dread that another bout would shatter her so completely that the pieces would scatter,
impossible to gather. Instead of a tornado, this felt like a soaking spring rain.
Cradled in the safety of her daddy’s arms, his chin on her head, they rocked together
and let the tears have their way.

T
he office chair creaked when Char stretched, yawning. This morning she felt lighter,
as if last night had washed something poisonous out of her system. She’d fallen into
bed and slept like a child, sweet dreams and all.

Staring through the office window at the sun-baked yard, she longed to saddle Pork
Chop and ride out to check on the calves in the nursery pasture. Instead, she swiveled
toward the desk, whistling softly. The last office chore lay before her: the bull
trainer’s resume. Once Bella had given her the idea, she did a thorough online search.
Every trainer she’d called was contracted elsewhere. The one who agreed to talk to
her quoted a rate twice the one Bella had given her.

Reaching for the phone, she hesitated.
Maybe I’ll
check email first.
Her fingers flew as she signed on to the Internet. No mail.
Maybe one game of solitaire.

Dang it, why the procrastination? The answer popped to the front of her brain. The
past months had been brutal. Life was just now feeing safe again, as if she’d spun
a soft cocoon around the ranch and snuggled in. Bringing an outsider here would change
that.

You sure you don’t feel a little bit bad about cutting Jimmy out, Charla Rae?

She sighed.
Yeah, Mom, maybe just a little.

Her old life now seemed a happy dream. She hadn’t realized how much easier Jimmy had
made her life. She’d taken it for granted. And lately he had been awfully sweet to
her. He was trying, that much was plain. But then she remembered Jess and bitter poured
over the sweet, smothering it. Jimmy sure hadn’t looked back. Darned if she would.
Reading the phone number at the top of the sheet in front of her, she dialed.

“Yeah.” The smoke-rough voice at the other end of the phone sounded annoyed.

“Red Gandy?”

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Gandy, my name is Charla Denny, of Denny Bucking Bulls. You sent me your resume?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, well, I was reviewing it. You’re obviously experienced. Seven ranches over the
past ten years. I recognize several breeders’ names. I was wondering if you could
send me a list of references?”

“Yeah. I’ll email ’em to you.”

“Providing they are in order, would you be willing to come out for an interview?”

“Sure. But if your husband likes me, will he make a decision that day? Laredo to Fredericksburg
is a long way to drive for an interview.”

She should have anticipated that. But she hadn’t. “
I’ll
be doing the hiring.”

Silence. “Yes, ma’am. Is room and board included? I don’t need much, just a stall
and a cot.”

“Oh no, that wouldn’t be—”
Whoa.
No need to tell her circumstances to a stranger, not when she lived so far out of
town. “I’m sorry, we don’t have the room. I can recommend an inexpensive place downtown.”

After scheduling a date and time, they hung up. She put a hand to her stomach to calm
the butterflies. “Like Daddy says, worrying is as useless as setting a milk bucket
under a bull.”

JB leaned on the paddock fence of the feedlot’s outside corral. Junior had been a
member of the high school rodeo team back in the day. When he bought the business,
he’d built a covered arena for the team to practice and for competitions. Grateful
for the shade of the pole barn’s roof, JB took off his Resistol and rubbed his forehead
in the crook of his elbow. A breeze cooled his sweaty head.

Off work for the day, on his way to the truck, he’d stopped to watch. Besides, he
was in no hurry. His next stop was the ranch, but he knew that Little Bit would be
a harder sell than Junior had been. But he had to try one more time. Hopefully it
would be harder for her to say no to a hat-in-hand, broken-down cowboy. Wouldn’t take
much acting on his part either.

“Now, focus this time. Loosen up and keep shifting your feet for the entire eight
seconds!” The coach of the
high school rodeo team yelled from the other side of the ring.

JB leaned his forearms on the fence as the gate swung open. The practice bull crow-hopped
out of it, landing with jarring thumps. From the rear of the chute, kids shouted encouragement.
The rider stuck through the first few jumps, but when the bull twisted and kicked
out to the side, the rider overbalanced. He hung suspended at an impossible angle
off the side of the bull until his hand popped out of the rope and he landed in a
heap in the middle of the paddock. A young boy on a stocky chestnut hazed the bull
to the gate as the rider picked himself out of the dirt and dusted himself off.

“That was better. Anyone can get caught out by a wicked belly roll like that.” The
coach walked to the center of the ring. “Do you see how you had more control when
you shifted your feet? I know it seems counterintuitive, but the minute you clamp
down, you’re as good as off.” He gave the boy a pat on the back, sending him limping
off to retrieve his hat, ten feet away.

“Bubba Wanksta gorillas.”

JB hadn’t realized he had company. He did a double take. The lanky teen slouched on
the fence beside him seemed to have dropped from some alternate universe. Skater shorts,
crotch to the knees, black T-shirt, and backward-facing baseball cap. The nose and
lip studs hurt to look at. As the boy turned his head to watch the next rider, JB
eyed the tattoo on the back of his neck—a fish skeleton with a smile bristling wicked-sharp
teeth.

“Say what?” JB asked.

The boy turned to him. “Very large assholes.”

JB snorted. “Big words from someone riding a fence.”
He pointed to the young cowboys. “It takes stones to get on an animal that wants to
rip your guts out and stomp them full of dirt.”

The kid puffed out his skinny chest. “I got the stones. Just don’t have the interest.”

JB glimpsed peroxide-white hair under the cap, a quick memory flashed. He’d seen this
kid. Last week, when he’d been leaving the feedlot, splashing through puddles and
sheeting rain on the way to his truck. The teen stood against the fence watching the
bull riders, his back soaked by the rain the wind pushed under the roof.

No interest. Right.
“I’ve seen you around, haven’t I?”

“Probably. I work in the feed store. Name’s Travis.”

JB stuck out his hand. “JB Denny.”

The kid looked him down, then back up. “I know who you are. I deliver feed out to
your wife’s ranch.”

JB covered a wince with what he hoped passed for a rueful smile. “Well, you may have
some stones after all.”

The kid finally shook his hand.

“Where are you from?” JB asked.

The kid just looked at him.

“Come on. You’re obviously not from around here.”

“Hardly.” His haughty tone made it obvious he thought that was a good thing. “Ohio.
But my mom needed a job, and my Uncle Junior had one, so I got dragged to this—” He
looked around. “—John Wayne movie set.”

“You’re wrong about them, you know.” JB tipped his chin at the bucking chutes. “Bull
riders have more in common with gymnasts or ballet dancers than gorillas.”