A Wild Red Rose (10 page)

“These shoes, no good. You wear flat shoes or boots,” the woman scolded her. “You cover your belly.”

Renee had no sharp retort for a change. Clearly, she was still shaken by the assault, which Clint hadn’t figured on being so violent. He helped her up. Renee drew her dirty-kneed cropped pants down over her wounds and looked at Clint with tear-filled eyes.

“Sorry, babe. He got away. Probably has an accomplice hiding him.”

“All that I am was in that bag.”

“All that you are is here. You have a roof over your head, food to eat, and me,” Clint answered, tipping her head up for a consoling kiss. He stopped and peered closely at her face.

“Am I bleeding?” Renee frantically patted her face. “Will it scar?”

“No, not bleeding, but you kind of remind me of a Catahoula cur I once owned. Your eyes are two different colors.”

“My contacts! I lost a contact. Damn that little bastard! My spares were in that satchel.”

“Come on now. You told me once you didn’t need them to see. Right now, you got one emerald green eye and one kind of nice gray-green eye with a dark ring around it and full of little black flecks. I like this eye. Pop the other contact out, and you’ll be fine.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Not true.” Clint turned to the Navajo woman whom he knew would expect no payment for her act of kindness. He scanned her wares and picked out a thick silver cuff bracelet with inlaid chunks of irregularly-shaped turquoise. It was pricey, and he could have bargained, but he didn’t. He turned his back, fished more money out of his belt pouch, and handed it over all rolled up so Renee wouldn’t see the amount.

“My best piece,” the woman assured him. “You want a bag?”

“No, she’ll wear it. It’ll make her feel better. Thanks.” He clamped the bracelet over Renee’s wrist. Buying her something made him feel a little less guilty, too. She’d be on short rations from now on.

“Guess that was our lunch.” Clint scooped up the box and fallen tacos.

“Yes.”

“Come on, we’ll stand in line together, then go find a seat in the shade.” He helped Renee along with one hand on her elbow. They passed a small brown boy who wanted to pay for his cotton candy with a fifty-dollar bill. He wore an oversized blue shirt with an advertising logo on the front almost covering his shorts and a small, red cowboy hat. Clint gave him a subtle nod when Renee looked away, but the boy ignored him and continued to demand his change. He was a real pro.

****

Renee downed an entire bottle of water with her taco and felt a little better. Clint started on his second taco and said around a mouthful of fresh, chewy flat bread and lettuce, “Good, huh?”

“Yes, I feel better. Thank you for the bracelet. You didn’t have to do that. I know they won’t be paying you much here.”

“My pleasure. I got to go suit up soon. Will you be all right?” Clint glanced at the arena where they set up for the barrel races. After that, he’d do his demo, sign autographs while the bronc riding went on, then get in the ring with the local boys for the bull competition.

“Sure. I’m tough, remember?”

He looked into her eyes and wasn’t so sure. She’d taken out the green contact, and now she looked softer than before. “Say, how about we go back to the Nelle and get a sack of those stuffed toys while I put my gear on. You could give them out while I sign autographs. The little ones don’t care who I am and get restless. We can put some antibiotic cream on those scratches, too.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Back at The Tin Can, Clint smoothed antiseptic on Renee’s scratches. She helped him tape his ankles and thighs and pulled up his long dark socks over the bandages. She gave the padding covering his crotch an extra tug into place.

“Don’t forget to protect the jewels,” she said.

“No, I plan on using them tonight.” He drew her in for a kiss hard against his chest protector before he finished strapping on the knee and shin guards. As he pulled on a large shirt slathered with advertising, he looked around the trailer. Something was missing—the small, portable TV that got only one channel out here in the wilderness. That little vermin had come back and helped himself. Thank God, he hadn’t taken the bullfighting gear or Renee’s fancy boots half-hidden under the leopard throw on the unmade bed.

****

Clint’s demo went well despite his sore rear, almost as if the bull had been trained to accept his moves. He made the usual big hit. People lined up for autographs afterward. He moved the line along by sliding the glossy pictures of him walking a bull to Renee, who placed them in a big, white envelope. If she saw a restless child farther down the line, she’d pick out a toy and present it with a few words and a pat on the head. Most of the kids were shy. A few of the older ones thanked her.

She’d covered her scraped belly with the new and freshly washed emerald green top, hoping to reflect some its color up into her eyes, and put on her new jeans and boots. The straw hat had escaped any damage by flying off her head, but her Cassini sunglasses were history. And, she didn’t know what she’d do when the last of her makeup wore off. Then, Clint would see what she really looked like, the tiny flaws that squealed she was over thirty, the other imperfections she’d rather hide.

When the bull riding began, Renee took a seat in the bleachers and watched Clint work. He was so deft and fearless it made her heart beat harder. He often stepped aside to let the local boys show what they were made of, and she could see they appreciated that without saying a word. She rested her chin in her hands, never taking her eyes off of Clint in case something should happen to him, and then what would she do? Drive the Nelle back to Louisiana, she guessed, if she could figure out how to get there and scrounge enough money for gas.

All went well. Clint wasn’t even sore from his exertions. They strolled around after he’d striped down, taken a quick lukewarm shower, and changed into street clothes. In a tent, a church group sold beef brisket dinners with slaw and a chunk of cornbread for $6.95. They dined handsomely on local fare, as Clint would say.

“I’ll get dessert,” he said. “Stay right here.”

He came back with a choice of temptations—a red candy apple and a piece of fry bread, still warm and dripping with honey.

Renee considered the offerings. “Hmmm, I can break a cap on that candy apple and get some fruit today. Or say the hell with cavities and calories and eat the bread.”

Clint took a Swiss army knife from his pocket and cut the fry bread in two, then quartered the candy apple and removed the core. “Now you can do both.”

They shared the treats as the sun dipped, the air grew cooler, and people began to depart for wherever they came from. They walked back, hand in hand, to The Tin Can and ended the evening as they were accustomed, this time careful of Renee’s injuries and bruised places. Neither missed the television at all.

****

Clint made toast for her as Renee showered in the morning. She usually washed off the make-up she’d worn to bed and reapplied it, despite the poor lighting and bad mirror, before going out to the kitchen for breakfast. Today, she patted her face with the cloth, hoping to preserve some of her coverage. It didn’t work. A bit of her eyeliner stayed on, and that was about all. She burrowed into a thick terry robe fairly sure it had come from Bodey Landrum’s pool house and brushed her hair down around her face. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she went out to accept the plate of toast with strawberry jelly and a cup of black coffee.

“Soon as we get a signal today, you can use my cell phone to cancel your credit cards and report your driver’s license stolen if that’s what’s bothering you,” Clint offered. Guilt crept up on him. He turned his attention to his glass of milk.

“The joke is on them. I maxed my cards out in Phoenix, and my driver’s license expired several months ago. I liked the picture and wanted to keep it for a while longer. I was five years younger then. I’ll call my father when we get to a town. He’s paying my utility bills while I’m gone and collecting the mail. With luck, he’ll pay down my cards, too.” Renee took a lethargic bite from her toast and chewed it very slowly.

“Is something else the matter, Tiger?” Clint asked. “You feel okay?”

“I’m fine. I need to get to a drugstore, though.”

“Hey, I told you last night I got plenty of condoms. Don’t worry about losing your diaphragm with that bag.”

“I need to get some make-up. You’ll have to loan me the money.”

“Sure, but do you really need it?” Clint raised her chin. She shut her eyes. “What do I see here? Freckles. Looks like someone sprinkled cinnamon across your nose. And luscious pink lips. You look good enough to eat.”

No way would he mention the small lines in the corners of her eyes. He wasn’t an idiot. “Finish your breakfast, and I’ll eat you right up before we get on the road.”

Clinton O. Beck was always as good as his word.

****

Still, when they arrived at the first small town having a pharmacy, Renee begged him to pull into the lot. He shelled out a twenty and told her to “go to town.” He’d wait in the truck. Renee’s mouth hung open. The concealer she ordered from Neiman Marcus in Dallas cost three times this amount. She hadn’t used drugstore cosmetics in more than ten years, but she got out of the cab to see what she could gather.

A half hour later, she came back asking for another ten, please. He doled it out. When she slid back into the Nelle, Clint looked at the size of the bag and shook his head.

“You know, you don’t need all that gunk. I think you look all fresh-faced and dewy without it.”

“Moisturizer. I forgot moisturizer. Without it in this climate, I’ll crack like a rotten board.” Renee snatched the change, ran into the store again, and came back clutching a large bottle of lotion.

“Renee, you have plenty of good years left. Take it easy.”

“That’s what men always say. They get distinguished. Women get old.”

She’d purchased two lipsticks and rolled one over her lips, making them darker with a bronze sheen. Next, she attempted to smear some potion across her freckles using the mirror on the visor. Not working. The little cinnamon dots still showed, just slightly lightened.

“I can’t go out in public like this.”

“Sure you can, Tiger. I’m proud to be seen with you.” Clint put the Nelle into gear and rolled forward to the next rodeo.

Chapter Nine

The Fourth of July caught them in a small Utah town so tinder dry all fireworks had been banned. Wandering among fair-haired families with enough children to compete with any Cajun Catholic brood, they ate watermelon slices and watched the veterans, trailed by children on decorated bicycles, parade down the main street. Clint lost the seed-spitting contest to the local champ and good-naturedly accepted a second place ribbon. Renee claimed watching the hot dog eating contest made her queasy.

The next day, they were on the road again ending up at a small rodeo each weekend. Clint promised they would hit the big time in Wyoming at the end of July for the Daddy of ’em All, Cheyenne Frontier Days, where he had a big contract to fulfill. He had to say Renee was being a good sport about the situation. In fact, her docility worried him. Casually as they bumped along the back roads, he asked her, “How come you decided to stay with me.”

“Oh, that evening you returned to The Tin Can all bruised up it came to me that I’d been acting like a bitch. I mean, I’m always a bitch, but bitchier than usual, and you didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. You asked for some respect and to live within your budget. I threw that in your face. I did plan to leave, but I kept hearing these insistent little voices in my head all night long saying I’d regret it if I didn’t stay.”

“You still hearing those voices, honey, because the heat can get pretty bad this time of year and the Nelle’s AC hardly works?”

“No, they went away once I made up my mind to keep traveling with you. Maybe it was my conscience talking. I didn’t know I had one.”

“Of course, you do. You just haven’t put it to good use for a while. Well, I’m sort of glad you stayed and that comes as a surprise to me, too.”

Dependent upon him for cash, she earned her keep by making their lunch, mostly salads and sandwiches since her cooking skills were limited, doing the dishes and laundry, and helping out when he signed autographs. She gave a great massage, too, which really counted for something far from whirlpool baths and professional services.

Clint thought Renee finally believed him when he said her eyes were lovely and her freckles added charm to her face. Or maybe it wasn’t his reassurances. As she gave out the stuffed toys they garnered at every truck stop claw machine along the way, small children often told her she was pretty and fingered her hair when she bent over to give them a small teddy bear or a yarn octopus. On one occasion when she’d offered to hold a tired child while the parents chatted with Clint, the little girl told Renee she was “comfy” and promptly went to sleep. Even Renee knew that very small children usually called it as they saw it.

She complained only once—about her backside spreading from too much driving and too little exercise. Yes, she knew she wore her clothes a little tight, but her jeans stretched to the point of uncomfortable. Clint had an easy answer for that. They got up at dawn and went running. He needed the workout as well without having access to the machines he used at the bigger venues. Preferring to run on a treadmill in the comfort of a gym, Renee had some trouble keeping up on the rough roads and in the high altitudes. He adjusted his stride and encouraged her each step of the way. He let her use his lighter hand weights, too. To tell the truth, she’d gotten a little less buff, not quite as honed, a little rounder, a little softer—and he liked her that way.

Out in the wilderness, wi-fi hot spots came few and far between. Carefully, he left Renee at the laundromat with their dirty clothes and a few new fashion magazines when he made for the local libraries to check his e-mail, confirm future performance dates, leave instructions for his broker, and drop his mother a line. Snuffy wrote often, asking how the Nelle and The Tin Can were holding up.