Jenna's Cowboy
JENNA'S COWBOY
SHARON GILLENWATER
© 2010 by Sharon Gillenwater
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
E-book edition created 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-0747-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To my husband, Gene, who served his country as a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam. My hero then. My hero still. I thank God that he brought you home to me.
And to the members of the United States Military, both present and past, and to your families.
Thank you for your service and your sacrifice.
May the Lord bless you and keep you and give you peace.
Contents
A special thank-you to Bill and Doris McClellan, recently retired from the Renderbrook Spade Ranch, for answering my questions about the large cattle ranches in “our” part of West Texas. I hope I didn’t mess anything up, but if I did, any mistakes are mine. Y’all are the best!
While I was researching combat-related post-traumatic stress disorder, my agent, Steve Laube, suggested I look at the books written by Chuck Dean. What a blessing! Thank you, Steve.
Nam Vet
by Chuck Dean
Down Range: To Iraq and Back
by Bridget C. Cantrell, PhD, and Chuck Dean
Once a Warrior: Wired for Life
by Bridget C. Cantrell, PhD, and Chuck Dean
I only wish my husband and I had found
Nam Vet
twenty years ago. With God’s help, we muddled through on our own, but I suspect things would have been much easier and different if we’d understood what we were dealing with.
I strongly urge anyone who has served in combat—no matter what the war—or who has a loved one who has served, to read these books. They will help you understand PTSD and give insights on healing, both medically and from a Christian perspective.
If you think you or a loved one might be suffering from PTSD or any other potential service-related disorder, contact the Disabled American Veterans (
www.dav.org
). They will assess your situation, and if appropriate, serve as your advocate with the Veterans Administration.
The Spirit of the Lord GOD is on Me,
because the LORD has anointed Me
to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and freedom to the prisoners.
Isaiah 61:1 (Holman Christian
Standard Bible)
Callahan Crossing had changed some while he’d been gone. But then, so had he. A man couldn’t fight for his country and not be affected by it. Nate Langley had served with honor, and according to his army commanders, courage. Which he figured really meant he was as bullheaded as his father had always said he was.
But some things ran deeper than love of country, such as family loyalty and duty. It was time to protect those he loved by tilling the land his family had owned for almost a hundred years. Time to help his father, who could no longer handle the load of running a farm alone.
Thumbing through the latest issue of
Western Horseman
magazine, he glanced down the aisle of Miller’s Grocery toward the deli. The roasted chickens were still turning in the rotisserie, so he’d have to wait awhile longer. He’d already picked up the new battery for his truck, and it would be at least twenty minutes before UPS delivered the tractor part his dad had ordered from the farm implement store. Killing time at Miller’s was preferable to listening to long-winded fishing tales any day.
Halfway down the aisle, two elderly ladies stopped by the birthday cards for a chat, their West Texas twang bringing a smile to his face. At the other end, two high school boys stopped while one of them scribbled on some paper attached to a clipboard.
Nate’s smile widened into a grin. It was the last week in September, traditionally the time for the local newspaper subscription drive. It was usually handled by two or three clubs at the high school as a fund-raiser, but he hadn’t heard which ones were competing this time around. It was also homecoming week, and judging by the boys’ appearance, Costume Day was still part of the celebration.
One was dressed as a stereotypical TV geek—pants a couple of inches too short, white socks and black loafers, white shirt with a plastic pocket protector holding pens and a short ruler, slicked-back hair, and dark-rimmed glasses. The other guy, who probably played tackle on the football team, wore a purple tie-dyed loose cotton T-shirt, yellow flowered bell-bottom pants, and sandals. An orange flower painted on his cheek clashed with a shoulder-length, cheap pink wig.
Pinky glanced up toward the checkout counters and tilted his head, giving somebody the eye. “We haven’t asked her.”
“Quit staring at her like that.” The Geek made a face. “Dude, she’s old, and she’s got purple hair.”
“Just a couple of stripes for school spirit. So she’s cool.”
“Well, yeah . . .”
“She may be old, but she’s still lookin’ good.” Pinky moved out of sight. The Geek rolled his eyes and followed.
Curious to see who they were talking about, Nate tossed the magazine into the cart and moved down the aisle. He stopped and peeked around an end display of hot dog buns, canned chili, and baked beans.
Jenna Callahan Colby
.
Pinky was right about one thing. She did look good. Nate supposed that to a teenager, twenty-eight was old. Since he was a year older, he didn’t have a problem with it. She was still slender, with an athletic build. Her red hair, short now instead of shoulder length, was cut in a simple layered, flattering style. She wore a short-sleeved shiny gold top, close enough to the school colors to count. Her slacks and the purple stripes in her hair were a perfect match to the letterman’s jacket hanging in his bedroom closet at the farm.
He drew back and watched her between the shelves while she teased the boys.
Her turquoise eyes sparkled as she gave Pinky the once over. “So are you in the drama club?”
He shook his head, the pink hair flopping across his face.
“Is there a hippie commune around here that I don’t know about?”
Pinky chuckled and shoved a clump of wig out of his eyes. “No, ma’am. At least I haven’t heard of one.”
“How about you?” Jenna turned to the Geek. “Science or math?”
The kid grinned, but his face turned bright red. “Looks like I should be in one of those, huh?” He tipped his head toward his friend. “We’re in FFA.”
“No! Well, you certainly fooled me. Great costumes.”
A wave of nostalgia swept over Nate. The Geek was right— he and Jenna were old. He’d been in FFA a lifetime ago. For years, the letters had stood for Future Farmers of America. About the time he hit high school, the organization changed the name simply to FFA since there were many more facets to agriculture education than farming. He supposed that was progress, but he’d always think of farmers like his dad when he heard the name.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the lady at the deli waving at him. She held up a couple of packages. The roasted chickens were ready. He nodded, then absently picked up a can of chili and some hot dog buns and started toward the deli, hoping nobody had noticed that he had been watching Jenna.
Nate had fallen in love with her the summer he was fifteen when his horse threw him into the big, water-filled dirt stock tank, and she hadn’t laughed. She’d watched him with a tiny frown of concern as he sat up, sputtering muddy water and dying of embarrassment. Then she asked if he was all right. Momentarily hurting too much to move, he stayed put and forced a grin. When he plopped his wet Stetson on his head, she dismounted, took off her boots, and waded in to cool off.
Between the time she got off her horse and sat down beside him in the water, he was a goner. He’d been crazy about her all through high school, although he never told anyone, not even her. He’d tried hard to keep his feelings hidden whenever he was around her and especially at her father’s ranch, where he sometimes worked.
He’d slipped up once his senior year, watching as she walked to the house from the barn. Her father, Dub, noticed and flat-out told him that he wouldn’t take kindly to a part-time cowboy making a move on his little princess. Though Dub liked him, the tough rancher didn’t pull any punches in letting him know he wasn’t good enough for his daughter. When she married, it would be to someone who was going places. And they both knew he wasn’t. He was a cowboy at heart, and working the farm came in a close second. Neither occupation would earn more than an honest living.
Nate had only nodded in acceptance. It would have ruined a good friendship if he told her how he felt. By then she’d been crazy in love with Jimmy Don Colby, a high school football star who was being pursued by a dozen colleges.
After graduation, Nate went to work at a ranch in far West Texas and convinced himself that he was over her. That it had been a bad case of puppy love.
Then 9/11 happened, and Nate felt a call that ran deeper than anything he’d ever known. Less than a week after that fateful day, he joined the army. He was in Afghanistan when his mom wrote that Jenna and Jimmy Don had gotten married, and Jimmy had been drafted into pro-football by the Dallas Cowboys. Nate was in Iraq when he heard that she’d had a little boy. Another letter from his mom several months later said that Jenna and Jimmy were getting a divorce because Jimmy had found someone new.
Nate had thought of her often during the lonely nights camped in the windswept sands of the Middle East. Picturing her face, he had silently prayed for her and her son as he drifted off to sleep. In his dreams, he’d seen her smile, heard her whisper his name, felt her fingertips brush his cheek.
He caught another glimpse of her through the store window as she walked to her pickup. A familiar ache tightened his chest, one he thought he had vanquished long ago.
Maybe things hadn’t really changed at all.
