Along Came a Cowboy (7 page)

I lean forward to see what she's looking at. A trophy. Puzzled, I turn to Mom. “Where'd you find that?”

“In a box in the attic. I got that one out to remind me to have you take the box the next time you came by.”

I cringe as Jennifer reaches over and wipes a layer of dust off the trophy with her finger. It's been a while since I stopped by, hasn't it?

“Your grandmother was quite the barrel racer in her time, too,” Dad says, his green eyes sparkling with pride as he looks at my mom.

Jennifer picks up the trophy and examines it from all angles.

“Awesome. I've always wanted to be in a rodeo.” For the first time since her arrival, excitement twinkles in her eyes.

“Well, why not? You can do anything you put your mind to,” Dad says. There's no telling how many times he said that to me and Tammy when we were growing up. And even after I disappointed him beyond redemption, I clung to those words. They got me through the grueling schedule of chiropractic college and every tough time since.

“What about Mom?” Jenn asks. “Did she barrel race?” A shadow crosses her face again, and I know she's remembering that she's adopted.

Mom stares at the trophy as memories flit across her face. She smiles. “Tammy was more interested in being Miss Rodeo Queen than barrel racing. She liked horses, but only if they didn't wrinkle her outfit.”

“Or clash with it,” I add. Mom's eyes widen in surprise at my joke, but we laugh together, and Dad's soft chuckle rumbles underneath.

Jennifer clunks the trophy down onto the table and sits up straight. “I want to ride bulls.”

My mom chokes, and my dad leans up to beat her on the back. “Sorry. Cake went down the”—she gasps—“wrong way.”

I can totally sympathize.

“Girls don't ride bulls,” I say quietly.

Jennifer looks at me, her mouth set. “I saw a really cool article about girl bull riders on Yahoo. Some associations don't let them ride, but there are plenty that do.”

I stare at her. She knows how to shake things up, doesn't she? I can sit this one out, though. My parents will never stand for their precious and only granddaughter climbing on a twisting, snorting, stomping bull.

“I really want to ride bulls,” she says, her big green eyes trained
on Dad. “You said I could do anything I put my mind to.”

Dad looks at Mom then back to Jennifer. “Have you ever seen anyone ride a bull? Other than on TV?”

She shakes her head.

“Then that's your first step.”

She smirks. “You think if I do I'll chicken out, but I won't.”

“Chicken out?” Dad says, disbelief in his voice. “No granddaughter of mine is going to chicken out of anything.”

Mom leans forward in her chair. “Of course, if you decided you didn't want to do it, no one would—”

Dad reaches over and puts his hand gently on Mom's arm, and she stops in midsentence. “You'll need a padded vest and a helmet,” he says to Jennifer.

“And a spare brain,” I mutter. I cannot believe he's seriously considering letting her do this. Even in the best of situations, she could break a bone.

“I know just the person to help you,” Dad finishes as he walks over to the desk, picks up the cordless phone, and dials a number. Then he holds up a finger as he apparently waits for an answer on the other end. “Jack?” he booms. “Alton Donovan here. My fifteen-year-old granddaughter is visiting this summer, and she wants to learn to ride bulls.”

Jack? As in Jack Westwood? Great.

“Yes, she's here with me now, and she rides horses, but she thinks riding bulls sounds like fun.”

Jennifer is watching Dad, who is apparently listening intently to Jack, but I catch Mom's eye and lower my eyebrows. Has he lost his mind?

She shrugs.

That's comforting.

“Mm hm, mm hm. You will? I sure appreciate it.”

He hangs up the phone and beams at Jennifer. “My neighbor
will be glad to show you a few things about bull riding.”

“But I—” I stop. I don't even know what to say.

He looks at Jennifer in her shorts and sandals and then looks at me. “You mind running her home to get some jeans on? Maybe she can fit into a pair of your boots. Jack said if you'll bring her by this afternoon, he'll introduce her to a bull and see what she thinks.”

Jennifer is already heading toward the door.

“But what will Tammy. . .” I stand.

He puts a hand at my back and gives me a very gentle push toward the door. “You girls go on. I'll call Tammy and explain.”

I nod. When my dad makes up his mind, there's no room for argument. I'm sure he sees himself as a master of psychology. I just hope it doesn't backfire on him.

W
hat's the deal with you and the Grands?” Jennifer asks on our way to the Lazy W.

“What do you mean?” I play dumb, like adults always seem to do when they're uncomfortable with a question. Something I never thought I'd do. But it beats handing her the iPod that's lying on the console between us and suggesting she find some good music to listen to. Which appears to be my other option.

“You kept apologizing. And when y'all talked”—she picks up the iPod herself, apparently growing tired of the conversation already, thankfully—“it was just weird. Nothing like when we're here for Christmas.”

She's right. It's amazing what a buffer two extra adults can be. But without Russ and Tammy there, the awkwardness is palpable. Which is why, even though I drive out to the barn and ride several mornings a week, I don't go up to the house often.

Oh, I drop by on their birthdays. . .Mother's Day and Father's Day. . .and stay long enough to give them a generic-sounding card and equally generic gift. They mail me a card with a check in August for my birthday. And Mom usually calls. One time a few years ago, she got my machine and she
and dad sang “Happy Birthday” complete with “and many mooore.” I didn't delete that message until Christmas.

I open my mouth to try to explain, but the earbuds are in place, and her eyes are closed. One could quickly learn to love technology.

When we turn into the Lazy W driveway, I glance over at Jennifer, whose eyes are still closed, and slip my lip gloss from my purse. It's a light pink, barely noticeable really, but maybe it will help me not to feel so frazzled. I slow to a crawl and keep one eye on the road and one on the mirror as I quickly trace my lips with the wand.

“You know this guy?”

I jerk and make a shiny line on my cheek, then fumble for a napkin. I wipe it off and meet her level green gaze. She's not a little girl anymore.

“We were neighbors growing up, so of course I knew him back then. Not so much anymore.”

“What's he like?”

“He's. . .” Smooth. A tad arrogant. Sometimes infuriating. Unbelievably good-looking. “Nice.”

“Really?” Her brows draw together. “You don't sound very sure.”

“Jenn, why do you want to ride a bull?”

She shrugs. “I just do.”

“To prove that you're as opposite your mom as you can be?”

A shadow crosses over her face, and I know I nailed her motivation.

She folds her arms in front of her. “I really want to ride a bull. Do you think Granddaddy is just messin' with me?”

I shrug with my hands still on the steering wheel. “I quit trying to read his mind years ago.”

“Do you still barrel race?”

“Not competitively.”

“Why?”

I struggle to phrase an answer. I slip out to the ranch several times a week in the early morning hours and ride, but anything more than that would require days like today. And I'm sure not up for that. There are other, deeper reasons, but that one is enough. “I'm pretty busy with my practice.”

She may not be a little girl anymore, but today she's asking as many questions as a five-year-old.

When we get out of the car, Jack and Dad are standing out near the barn talking. Dad waves us over. “Jack, this is my granddaughter, Jennifer.”

Jack makes no indication that he picked Jenn up hitchhiking last night. Instead, he doffs his hat and smiles, his dimples deepening. “Jennifer.”

She blushes.

Maybe she's embarrassed because he's the one who picked her up when she was on her way to my house, but it could just as easily be his good looks. It doesn't matter what age females are, he apparently has the same effect on them.

He smiles at me, and I pray I don't blush. “Rachel. Good to see you again.”

I nod. “Small world.”

Dad laughs and looks at Jack. “Remember what I told you the other day when we were fixing that stretch of fence that runs by the main road?”

Jack nods. “When we're working by the road and hear a car coming, I should just give a quick wave over my shoulder and keep on working. It's most likely either someone I know or someone who knows me.”

“Or both,” they finish together with a laugh.

Jennifer has wandered over to the horse stalls while Dad
and Jack are male-bonding. Dad excuses himself and goes over to introduce her to Jack's horses.

I'm amazed that I feel a flare of jealousy that Dad is so at home here, and with Jack, in general. Before I got pregnant, I did everything I could to be the son Dad never had. Is Jack filling that bill now?

When I look back at Jack, he's watching me, his eyes scrutinizing my expression.

I raise an eyebrow. “So do you have a plan?”

“Excuse me?” he asks as if he didn't hear me.

“A plan. To keep Jennifer from actually riding a wild bull.”

He shrugs. “Your dad has a plan. We'll see how it goes.”

I figure I might as well cut to the chase. I square my shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “Don't let her get on a bull.”

“Don't worry.” He flashes me a grin. “She won't be the one getting on the bull.”

“You still ride bulls? I heard you retired.”

“You heard right. But I'm doing this as a favor. And Alton rarely asks for those.”

“You spend a lot of time with my dad?” I ask, hoping for a casual tone.

He shrugs. “Define ‘a lot.' He's a good friend.”

Call me suspicious, but he's also a man with “a lot” of premium property. And he makes no secret of the fact that he and Mom are planning on selling in a few years to get something smaller. What better way to get the prize than to bump the estranged daughter out of line and take her place. Okay, now you can call me paranoid. “I guess I was surprised because he's never mentioned you.”

He lowers his eyebrows. “He mentions you often, but I don't get the impression he sees you much.”

Maybe I started it, but we've crossed over into way-too-personal territory, and I'm not willing to go there. Since his words feel like a reprimand, though, I can't resist one little retort before I walk over to join Jennifer and Dad. “That must be why he forgot that this same psychological ploy backfired on him when I was fourteen and determined to tame a wild filly. Against Mom's protests, Dad let me try. Instead of breaking the horse, I broke my collarbone.”

“Actually,” he calls softly enough for my ears only, “I remember that was the summer you ended up barrel racing with your arm in a sling.”

I pause. He remembers that? Unfortunately, it's in the past. One more place I can't go with him. I just keep walking.

“But you riding that wild filly is also one of the first things your dad reminded me about when I moved back here.”

I spin around. “Really?”

He nods.

Curiosity draws me the two steps back toward him. I want to ask what else Dad “reminded” him about me. Instead I say, “I know he and your dad were friends, but how did you two get to be. . .close?”

He shrugs. “We're neighbors. We go to church together.”

I knew Alma attended with Mom and Dad at the little congregation I grew up in, but I didn't realize Jack did. That explains part of the closeness. With fewer than fifty members, everyone is close.

“And he's been patient with a greenhorn like me.”

“The great Jack Westwood, a greenhorn?”

“Nobody's good at everything.” He shoots me a wry grin. “I know rodeos, but ranching is a completely different story. I left home for the circuit before I really learned the ranching business. Your dad's help has been immeasurable.”

I look across the barn lot at my dad, noting for the first time that his once auburn hair is spattered with gray. “He knows a lot about cattle.”

“He knows more than cattle,” Jack says and walks slowly over to Jennifer and Dad.

I stand there for a minute and stare after him, thinking about his last words. Dad does know more than cattle, I'm sure. But unfortunately, he doesn't know me.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to.