The Sweet Spot (4 page)

“Not for me.” Her face heated. “For my cattle.” She clasped her hands behind her back
to get rid of them. “Well, actually, they’re not my cattle. I only collect the bulls’
semen.”

The eyebrow went higher and the woman stared as if Char were an odd bug.

The word in the coffee shop was that this Yankee was single and, since she’d taken
a job with all-male clientele, was looking for action. Toni Bergstrom, the town’s
most reliable gossip, said the feed store job was only to recruit for her part-time
job. A woman’s
oldest
part-time job.

Who was this woman to judge her? “Oh, I don’t think I need to explain to you.”

The raven-haired harpy planted her fists on her hips. “Listen, honey, don’t you get
all snotty with me. I don’t give a good goddamn if you get the semen the old-fashioned
way. Just tell me what brand of feed you want, and how much.”

The sound of a two-stroke engine fired up in the back and got louder at an alarming
rate. They both turned to the warehouse as a four-wheeler loaded with feed sacks slid
from around a corner, going too fast.

A lanky teenager in sunglasses and a backward baseball cap leaned almost horizontally
over the handlebars, bony elbows waving as he barreled across the floor. When he hit
a patch of spilled grain, he cut the handlebars to the left, and the four-wheeler
spun in a series of donuts across the floor in front of the two women.

“Travis! You sap-headed Dumpster monkey! Get off that thing before you hurt something!”
The woman rolled her eyes, turned back to Char, and, in a strident voice, said, “What
can I get your majesty?”

Char opened her mouth to speak, then realized she hadn’t written down the brand off
the feed sack.
Come on, Char, focus.
Netting, covered in paper. What color? Her sluggish brain sorted facts with slothlike
speed as the woman stood staring in pointed disinterest.

Silence spun out.

The heck with the brand, how much should she buy? The cattle seemed content with the
two bags this morning, but if they’re pregnant, maybe they needed more.
Who am I to know?
All she wanted was to get back to the sanctuary of her own kitchen. Instead, she’d
fallen through a looking glass with a push of the warehouse’s swinging doors. Off-kilter
and overwhelmed, Char did the only thing that could embarrass herself further. She
burst into tears.

Not just tears. Gulping, gut-wrenching, snot-inducing sobs. The Ugly Cry.

JB let the heavy door to the arena close behind him and tilted his hat to block the
sliver of sundown that sliced his brain like a hot poker, his head throbbing to the
beat of amplifier echo. His carryall brushed his leg as he walked to the parking lot,
empty save a few cars, trash fluttering in the sporadic breeze. The silhouette of
his Peterbilt towered over the sedans, and he sighed seeing the crowd that surrounded
it.

He walked up, shaking his head. “There is no way all of you are going to fit in that
cab. Y’all are going to have to call a taxi.”

Mitzi stepped up and took the carryall from his hand. “We’ve got it all worked out,
We can fit eight in the sleeper and, if we squeeze, four more in the cab.” Beseeching
eyes searched his face. “Oh, come on, JB. It’s not very far. It’ll be fun!” The crowd
agreed, anxious to get the evening started.

JB remembered when this would have been a lark; now all he thought about was the legal
ramifications. When had that shift happened?
What the hell.
“Okay.” The couples high-fived each other and walked to the cab. JB reached into
his pocket for the keys. “But.” The kids turned to him. “If I get a ticket, ya’ll
are anteing up to pay it. You got that?” They nodded, and he caught the humor-the-old-man
look that passed between Josh and Andy out of the corner of his eye.

It must be nice, not having responsibilities. JB was used to them. His parents had
been killed by a drunk driver on their way home from a monthly movie date when he
was just a toddler. He’d been raised in a loving home by his grandparents, but they
were elderly even
then. Luckily his shoulders had grown fast enough to handle the responsibilities of
the family farm. He was in high school when his grandfather died, killing JB’s dreams
of community college. He took over, making sure that Grams had enough.

He smiled, watching the laughing couples pile into the truck. Maybe a lark was exactly
what he needed.

JB did a triple step, hesitated, then turned. The band was on a break, and Billy Currington
wailed “That’s How Country Boys Roll” on the jukebox. JB cocked his hat, did a shuffle
step, kicked, and turned. When the song ended, and he strolled off the dance floor,
his bum hip shooting a hollow ache down the long bone of his leg.
Nothing another Bud won’t fix.
He sank gratefully into his chair.

The mood in the bar was raucous. The bull riders celebrated their triumphant rides
or, at least, surviving the dismount. No small feat in a sport when your turn wasn’t
over until you outran the wicked horns of an enraged one-ton animal.

The bar was packed to the walls with PBR riders, roadies, production people, and fans.
“Hey, JB,” Stony Brewer yelled above the crowd noise. “When I get to the championship
round, I’m picking Mighty Mouse. If you make his first corner, you can win the round
on him.”

JB smiled at the fresh-faced farm kid from Wyoming. They got younger every year. “You’d
best worry about your next bull first, son.”

Cody Tanner leaned around the girlfriend in his lap. “Yeah, Stony. You won’t get no
mother’s milk outta Bombadier. He’s got bad timing to go with the attitude.”

The riders argued about their draw in the next round as the band shuffled back in.
With the crash of the first guitar riff, any attempt at conversation died.
Why do they have to crank the amps so hard? Jesus, we’re sitting twenty feet away.
Judging by the happy faces around the table, JB figured his opinion was in the minority.

He looked around the room. When had he gotten to be the oldest one there?

The drum backbeat of Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova” reverberated in his chest
as the girls around the table rose as one and strutted to the floor.

The female lead belted out the lyrics in a sultry, breathy voice, and the dancers
added the bumps and grinds. Every male eye in the place lasered in on the dance floor.

JB watched breasts bounce and hips roll in skintight jeans, back pocket rhinestones
flashing in the lights.

Char had loved to dance, back in the day. But she never would have danced like that.
He felt his face heat. Call him old fashioned, but stuff like that should be saved
for the bedroom.

He glanced around. Barely a thirty-year-old in the crowd. What was he doing here?
A limping old lone wolf in a pack of paired-up pups. He’d never noticed the age difference
when he’d been with Jess.

God, had he spent the past four months an oblivious poster child for midlife crisis?

“Oh, heck, shoot me and have it over with,” Char blubbered. The woman had handed her
a paper towel from behind the counter, and Char’d been too embarrassed to
look up since. “I didn’t mean to be snotty with you. I’m just not having a good day.
I almost got my daddy killed, we’re out of feed for our danged heifers, and I have
no idea of what brand or how much we need—much less how I’ll get it unloaded when
we get home.” Char took a breath. She honked into the damp paper towel to make herself
stop babbling. “And I’m late getting my father home for his medicine.”

A snort came from behind the counter. Char raised her head. The woman stood hands
on hips, face expressionless. “That blows. What you need first is a cup of coffee.”
She strolled to the glass door, hips rolling. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.”

By the time Char caught her breath and finished mopping her face, the woman had returned,
thrusting a Styrofoam cup of sludgy-looking gray liquid at her.

“This should buck you up, but don’t drink the whole thing. The dregs could be lethal.”

“Thanks.” Char took a sip and winced. Junior’s coffee was infamous. His patrons claimed
the local mortuary used it as embalming fluid.

“Why don’t you tell me your name, and I’ll look up what brand you get from your past
orders.”

Jeez, why couldn’t I have thought of that?
“I’m Charla Rae Denny.”

“JB Denny’s wife? Well, hell, why didn’t you say so to begin with?” The woman’s face
lit up. In spite of her front teeth being a bit crooked, she really was pretty when
she smiled. “I’ve got a pallet of feed on the loading dock with your name on it. Emilio
was supposed to pick it up two days ago.”

Char winced again, but not from the coffee. The
clerk really was an outsider if she hadn’t heard the juiciest gossip to hit this town
since the justice of the peace and his male clerk were found snuggling on his office
couch.

“By the way, I’m Bella Donovan.” She turned, cupped her hands around her mouth, and
yelled, “Travis! Get your furry butt up here. You’ve got a customer!”

An hour later, Char turned into the long drive to the house, grateful to be home at
last. The crying jag seemed to have wrung the last bit of starch from her; even holding
the steering wheel took effort. She drove the truck to the back of the house, grateful
for the evening shadows that cloaked the yard. Even so, she couldn’t help seeing the
tree stump as the truck rounded the corner.

She pulled to the barn and cut the engine. “Let’s go in, Daddy. I’ll put some dinner
on.” What, exactly, she had no idea. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the feed
bags stacked against the back window.
I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

Her father came around, opened her door, and handed her out. He wrapped her hand over
his arm and, patting it, said, “It was a good day, Charla Rae.”

She looked up at his smiling face. There was no telling; he could be remembering a
day from twenty years ago. They called it sundowner’s syndrome because his memory
got worse with nightfall. She sighed and squeezed his arm. “Yes, Daddy, a good day.”

They’d only gone a few steps when the sound of another vehicle coming up the drive
silenced the evening birdsong. Headlights swept as a stakebed truck rounded the turn,
blinding them. Pulling abreast, the
tinted window unrolled. Char recognized Travis, the kid from the feed store.

“Bella sent me to unload. Where should I put it?”

Char’s shoulders slumped in relief.
Thank you, Jesus.
And Bella-Goth Dolly-Donovan.

C
J Denny Bucking Bulls, Charla speaking.” Her new job nixed the luxury of ignoring
the phone. It could mean business. She’d learned at least that much in the past week.

“Missus Denny? I am Rosa Castillo, from Pedernales County Senior Services,” a melodic,
Hispanic-accented voice said. “Reverend Mike asked me to call. He said you may need
some help with your father.”

Char jerked to attention so fast her vertebrae clicked.
The county?
“We don’t need the government’s help. We’re doing fine.” Dang it, why wouldn’t do-gooders
just leave her be? She hadn’t been to church since… well, it had been awhile. The
voice coming out of the handset on the way to the cradle caught her attention.

“—free nursing help.”

She returned the receiver to her ear. “You’re a nurse?”

“A nurse assistant. I give in-home care to Alzheimer and dementia patients.”

Char looked at her father sitting on his bed, shirt buttoned cockeyed. She’d been
helping him dress when the phone rang. He studied the boot in his hand as if he had
no idea what it was used for. She could hear the bawl of hungry cattle from here,
and she hadn’t even put the coffee on yet. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to talk right
now.”

“I could make an appointment to come out and tell you about it. You’d want to meet
me, and I’d like to meet your father.”

The idea of government help rankled. Her family had always taken care of their own.
But her family was now down to her and her father. Char knew she couldn’t ignore the
reality of her dad’s condition any longer. Not after yesterday’s fiasco. “Hang on,
Daddy. I’ll help you with that.” He tugged at the boot that he’d put on the wrong
foot. “Listen, I really have to go. But I probably need to hear more about this. When
can you come out?”

Two hours later, she waved to her father as he and Junior strolled up the Double D
ranch’s drive. As much as it stung her pride to ask for help, she’d forced herself
to call over to Junior’s and see if he’d mind a visit from his old sidekick. Luckily,
he’d been elated.

Char didn’t pretend to understand the odd friendship. She had to smile at Junior’s
massive backside in overalls, waddling beside her tall, lean father. Their personalities
were the flip sides of a coin as well; her dad’s Atticus Finch to Junior’s Vinnie
Gambini. Local legend had it that the two had torn up the countryside when they were
in high school. Hard to imagine.

She sighed and backed the truck down the drive. A long day of work waited at home.
She gritted her teeth. “
Without
a pill.”

Char eyed the massive white thunderheads piled on the horizon, hoping they didn’t
mean what they probably did. At the bottom of the drive, she pulled out her cell phone
and dialed the number on the grimy business card paper-clipped to the sun visor. Her
mother had taught her to do the job she dreaded most first. She hit
send
and pulled out onto the deserted farm road.

“Junior’s Feed & Seed.” The harsh Yankee accent barked from the speakerphone.

“Hello, Ms. Donovan. This is Charla Rae Denny.” Her words came out in a rush. “I wanted
to call and thank you for sending your boy out to unload for me the other night.”

Silence, then a throaty chuckle. “Hey, looked to me like you got a weasel deal. Fuggedaboudit.”