She smirked. “Maybe.”
We danced in the barn for the better part of an hour. To her credit, we really danced. And I don’t mean bump and grind. I mean like real stuff. She twirled beneath my arm and smiled. “I sort of let it slip that you and I were doing this.”
“Yeah, it slipped all right.”
“And once the girls found out, they created a playlist and had a couple other ideas.”
“Like?”
“Just wait. All in good time.”
Georgia had apparently created most of the playlist and while I didn’t know many of the songs—starting with Josh whatever-his-name-was, she’d added a few that I did. By about eight, Sam had danced me until I didn’t want to dance anymore. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No.”
“Good. Now, I’m hungry. Feed me.”
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“What happened in the barn… stays in the barn.”
She laughed.
I walked to the table and stared at everything laid out across the boards. “Can I put me back on now?”
“Yes.”
I’d packed a basket, an actual straw basket, and placed it in the truck. I opened her door, helped her up, and drove down along the river. On the southern end of my property, the river narrows. At times of low water, you can walk across and not get your shorts wet. Tonight was one such time.
In the middle sat a mound of rock and sand and trees. An island of sorts. Only the highest of floodwaters trickled over it. I parked the truck, grabbed the basket and a Coleman lantern. We slipped off our boots, left them on the bank, rolled up our jeans, and walked across the river. The moon was just climbing out of the west and an April breeze cooled us. We climbed up onto the island and beneath a thin canopy of four scrub oaks that thrived there. I lit the lantern, spread a wool blanket, laid out my spread of food, opened a bottle of Cabernet and motioned for her to sit.
“Wow. You think this up all by yourself?”
“Well, Dumps suggested the lantern.”
“I am impressed.”
She sat and poured Cabernet into plastic Solo cups. She offered one to me. I shook my head. “No.”
“You’re not having any?”
“I never drink when I’m carrying.” And I didn’t.
She sipped and shook her head. “You are so uptight. You wear that thing to bed?”
“Well, I don’t exactly wear it.”
She studied the river. “You think there are any bad guys out here?”
I shrugged, staring west. “That’s the thing. You never know.”
She offered the cup. “Drink the blasted wine, Cowboy.”
“A sip or two.”
I sat and offered her a plate. I’d fixed a spinach salad, cooked a piece of salmon in the oven, and made some rice. Being a bachelor had forced me to do a few things I’d not done before. Cooking salmon might be at the top of the list, followed closely by making a spinach salad. I offered her oil and vinegar dressing and she took it. Then the salt and pepper. She sat cross-legged, facing me, plate in her lap, smiling. She was enjoying this immensely. And, I suppose I was, too. I handed her a Tupperware filled with sliced strawberries. “The salad is better if you cover it with these.”
A few miles off, coyotes cackled. Closer in, maybe a mile, a few answered.
She chewed. “I figured something out about you yesterday.”
“You did?”
“Yep.”
I waited.
“That…” She pointed her fork at the 1911. “It’s an albatross.”
I’d read “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” I knew the metaphor. I nodded once in agreement. “At times. At others, not so much.”
“But you have a hard time taking it off. Don’t you? And I don’t just mean physically.”
“The tough part is not learning the skill, but what it does to your thought process after you learn it. They pin that badge on your chest, hang that on your hip, and you change the way you see the world. Always looking at every scenario you come across in terms of how you’d defend it. How you’d protect those around you. Others. Always sit in restaurants facing the door, checking the exits, making notes.”
“And that’s not the worst part, is it?”
“No. Although I wouldn’t call it a ‘worst part’ as much as it is a calling.”
She waited. Pushing her salad around her plate. Sipping occasionally. I continued, “Pretty soon, you lose your ability to engage in the midst of your life. You miss moments. You miss relationships. You miss a lot. Least, I did. But as bad as that is, and as undesirable as that is, if you’re in a fight for your life at three a.m. with a bad man walking down the hall—maybe he’s got your wife with a knife against her throat, or your daughter, maybe he’s jacked up on speed, crystal meth, or maybe he’s trying to stick something sharp in you, or even worse your wife or kid—you better go into that with the right mind-set. And, you’d better go with something other than a spoon. You may not believe this but I don’t enjoy carrying this thing. Don’t relish it. The cool factor played out a long time ago. It is designed to wreak destruction and havoc and if wielded well, it does so well. Trust me, mopping up blood, especially your own, is not a lot of fun. Worse yet, is mopping up that of those you love.”
“Why then? I mean, really. You’re retired. You could set it down. Let it go.”
“I’ve thought about it, but doing so is like peeling off my skin. I’m not sure how long I’d live without it. I know, and have always known, that there will be people whose path I cross who will not be able to fight for themselves. The sheep need a sheepdog. They might not know it, might not ever thank me, but that ain’t the reason I do it.”
“So, you’d die for a total stranger.”
“Well, I’d work to avoid it but any time you take this thing in your hand, dying is one possibility. It goes with it. The flip side of the coin. Listen, I’m not walking around with a messiah complex, but I’ve spent over twenty years in law enforcement and I know this—bad guys aren’t dumb. They’re not coming at you with fly swatters. They’re coming at you with what will subdue you. Conquer you. Enslave you. Most folks, people out there in polite society, don’t like to think about it, but that’s a fact. So, there are people like me who think, ‘Maybe if I’m prepared, and willing, and able, I can help someone who might not be able to help themselves. And, in doing so, maybe I can push back the tide.’ ’Cause, at the end of the day, that’s what it’s about. It all boils down to good versus evil. And while I don’t hate many things, I do, with an absolute hatred, hate evil when it is played out on mankind.”
She looked away. “Tyler Steele, I’ve never met anyone like you. You may be a dying breed.”
“My father was.”
We finished our plates. She said, “Got any dessert?”
“Sorry. Never big on sweets.”
“Let me guess, they slow you down or something. Affect your shooting.”
“No, most give me the wind.”
“The what?”
“The wind.”
She laughed. “Got it.” She stared at the water, stood up suddenly, and slapped her thigh. “Let’s go swimming.”
“You want to do what?”
She kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her jeans, and began slipping off one leg. “Go swimming.”
“Well…”
“Oh come on. Stop being such a prude. Boxers are like a bathing suit.”
This was not the way I’d seen this evening panning out in my mind.
The water was clear, cool, and flowing gently. She unhooked her bra, pulled it out the sides of her shirt sleeves like women do which I’ve never understood. I stripped down to my underwear and she held my hand as we walked into the water. We sat on the sandy bottom while the water climbed to the middle of my chest. She sunk her head and tucked her hair behind her ears.
We sat, talked, splashed each other and laughed for
the better part of an hour. The moon was high as we rose to climb back up the bank. I sort of squeegeed the water off my arms and legs, slid my jeans on and then sat on the blanket. She stood in front of me squeezing the water out of her hair. The river had vacuum-sealed her shirt to her skin. The underwear was a new purchase and not the stuff we’d bought at the Ritz. I have two words for you: lace and not much of it.
She turned, sort of modeling. “You like?”
I nodded and swallowed. “Yes.”
“I’m glad.”
I smiled.
She sat next to me, tossing her hair from one shoulder to the other. She slipped off her T-shirt, laid it across a rock next to us, then sat next to me and pressed her back to my chest, wrapping my arms around her.
“Cowboy?”
I swallowed, the warmth of her warmed me. I whispered, “Yes.”
“I’m falling for you.”
I nodded. My hands were wrapped around her stomach. Her hands were wrapped over the tops of mine.
She looked over her shoulder. “I was just wondering if that was okay with you.”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How about Brodie?”
“He’s having a rough time with it.”
“Are you having a rough time with it?”
“I’m having a rough time not letting my mind go places it shouldn’t.”
She turned, facing me. My hand in hers. “You don’t have to.”
When Andie and I had first married, and for many years after, our love had been tender. Fun. A shared longing. Never ashamed to find me in the dark, she would pursue me, take my hand. Brodie was conceived not too far from where we now sat.
Love like that lingers. Lace and a bikini wax don’t diminish that.
I paused. Trying to figure out how to get the words out of my mouth. Her head tilted.
“Cowboy, I’m literally throwing myself at you. Is there something about this picture you don’t like?”
“No, I—”
“Then speak, before you give me a complex.”
I scratched my head. “Sam, trust me, this whole picture right here is intoxicating, but I need to get unmarried from Andie. Permanently. My divorce isn’t final for another couple weeks.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
“According to the law, I’m still married and until now, I’ve never been unfaithful. And as tempting as this is, and you are, I don’t want to start now.”
She flopped down, shaking her head. “Really?” She looked defeated. “Really. Really? Wow.”
She was quiet a few minutes, then without saying a word, she reached forward, and kissed me. “It’s not easy being you, is it?”
“Not right this minute.” If ever I didn’t want to be me, it was that moment.
She stood, and slipped off that underwear I was telling you about. “I can’t stand sitting in wet underwear.”
I heard myself say, “Lord have mercy.”
She stuck both feet in her jeans and started shimmying them up her legs. “What? You thinking about changing your mind? Having a tough time being so resolute?”
I looked some place other than at her. “You’re not making it any easier.”
She smiled and buttoned her jeans. “I’m not trying to make it easy.”
“I gathered that.”
We dressed, which was a great relief, crossed the river, and rode beneath the moonlight back up to the house and then to town to pick up the kids. Both were asleep on Georgia’s couch. I carried them to the truck. At the apartment, I stood on the front steps and turned my hat in my hands, trying to find the muster to kiss her good night. She stopped my hat from spinning and looked at me. I said, “At the end of the month, when things are final, I was wondering if we could have another date? Maybe go dancing someplace. Would that—”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “The girls are never going to believe this.”
“What about, ‘What happens in the barn…’?”
She leaned forward, pulled on my shirt. “Cowboy, tonight I wanted you to be one man, but needed you to be another. Thank you for being what I needed and not what I wanted.”
I nodded, walked to my truck, and drove off whispering, “It ain’t easy.”
Streetlights lit the cab every tenth of a mile until we got out of town. Brodie was awake. He rubbed his eyes. “What, Dad? What ain’t easy?”
I patted his head. “Nothing, big guy. Go back to sleep.” He drifted off. We pulled into the drive. I carried him to his bed and knew there was no way on earth I was going to be able to go to sleep. So, I grabbed a towel and walked out to the windmill. I opened the spigot to full and walked beneath it.
I stood there for a long time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Dear God,
Things here are good. Mom’s working a lot and she likes painting people’s feet. She’s practiced on me a couple of times and she’s pretty good. My feet ain’t never looked this pretty. And she’s now working up to shampooing when the other women are too busy. She says she gets good tips ’cause she scrubs people’s heads real good ’cause she’s got strong nails and they really dig into people’s scalps and they like that. They say it’s relaxing.
I got some good news. I got my first grade today in school. It was an “A.” That’s real good. It’s one mark shy of the best you can get. I got it for writing a story in my Language Arts class. We were asked to tell about something that had happened to us in the last few weeks. Just any old thing but start at the beginning and use detail. So, I wrote about us meeting Cowboy and how he saved us at the truck stop and then how he took us to the Ritz and then how he took us home, and how we met Brodie and Mr. Dumps and well, everything that’s happened since then. It was a lot. She said she would have given me an “A+” but she had only asked for three pages and I gave her seventeen so she said she had to mark me down but I didn’t mind none ’cause I got to tell it and it reminded me. It reminded me that good stuff has happened to us. That you ain’t forgot us. That maybe we matter. I titled it, Down Behind the Sun. She said she liked my title. I said I got it from Cowboy ’cause it’s how his daddy used to describe West Texas and the Bar S. It’s a good description. I don’t know if it’s what Cowboy’s daddy meant but to me it’s like down behind the sun would be a good place to be. It’d be where you are. Where you hang out. And if we tried to get there without talking to you then we’d burn up ’cause we’d have to get past the sun and ain’t nobody can do that ’cause it’s hotter than a nuclear bomb. Least that’s what I think.
And Momma’s been talking to me about, you know, about the thing that happened. Been trying to get me to talk to her or somebody, anybody, about it all. Says I shouldn’t bury it but go ahead and just tell what I feel and what I think. She asked me if I wanted to talk to a doctor about it. That we could find one and I said my body don’t hurt no more but my heart does and I don’t think the doctor can help the part of my heart that hurts and she started crying and didn’t stop for a long time and I didn’t mean to hurt her and I told her I was sorry and she just hugged me and then I asked her if I could talk to her about it and she sat up and said well of course. So, I asked her stuff I been needing to ask. And we talked a long time. When I finished asking all my questions and she finished trying to answer them all, she told me I didn’t need to be ashamed. I said I didn’t know what that meant and she told me it was that thing that made me want to look away when people looked at me ’cause I didn’t want them to see what I saw when I looked at me. And I told her I do feel that and all that happened to me is my fault. And I told her it felt like it was ’cause I kept stuff secret from her. Like the ice cream and the gummy bears. Like maybe I got what I deserved. And she cried some more and said there ain’t been a thing in this world that’s happened to us that’s been my fault or that I deserved. And when we finished she brushed my hair a long time, which is my favorite thing and while she did that I told her tha
t I didn’t need to talk to no doctor ’cause the part of my heart that hurt didn’t hurt as much anymore. It was like the words she spoke were the words my heart needed to hear and when it heard them some of the pain left. I told her maybe if we talked about it some more that some or most of the rest of the pain would just up and fly away. And she cried some more and said we could talk about it every day if I wanted.
Listen, Momma’s home. Gotta go. She had a date with Cowboy. Her face is all flush. She gets that way when she eats chocolate or drinks wine. Or oysters, but she don’t eat them much ’cause they make her gassy.
Oh, and God, I know I’ve asked this a lot but please keep Billy away and don’t let him find us. ’Cause you and I both know he’s still looking for us. And we know why. I guess the thing I’m wondering is if we know that, and Cowboy don’t, are we lying?
I guess I kind of know the answer to that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sam showed up Saturday with Hope. It was raining buckets. She splashed through the puddles from the truck, up to the porch. I ran to the passenger door, scooped up Hope and Turbo and carried them back to the porch. Sam wrung out her hair. “Now that’s a rain.”
I nodded. “Like a cow peeing on a flat rock.”
“Like a what?”
“Cow peeing on a flat—”
She held up a hand. “I got it the first time. Boy, that really paints a picture.”
“Well, it’s just how we describe a—”
“What do you do around here for fun when it’s raining like this?”
“We read a lot.”
She studied my shelves. “These are all books about battles, generals, Indian chiefs, famous lawmen.” She pulled one down and read the back jacket, “A collection of stories of common men performing great deeds.” She shook her head. “Don’t you have any fiction? Any love stories?”
“ ’Fraid not.”
“Let’s watch a movie?”
“Sure.”