Cowgirl Come Home (14 page)

Mom’s voice sounded as frustrated as Bailey felt. Going through boxes of other people’s junk was not what she came home to do. If she hoped to gain any traction in sales at the Marietta Fair, she needed product to sell.

“Sure, Mom. Paul and the accountant should be back from lunch any minute. He’ll probably keep an eye on the place until I get back.”

She’d wanted to go to lunch with them. Normal people, doing normal things. But, even if she hadn’t been worried about Marla showing up, Bailey knew she had to keep her distance from Paul.

Broken people had no business glomming onto healthy, happy, normal people.

As if on cue, a man’s voice called, “We’re baaack.”

Try though she might, Bailey couldn’t tamp down the squiggle of excitement that darted through her chest. She hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was…that old feeling she didn’t want to call love.

“If that Arnold Schwarzenegger imitation was for my benefit, you should know he hasn’t been governor for a couple of years.”

Paul laughed as he walked into the back room. “Hey, look at the progress. Way to go, Bailey.”

She straightened, arching her back to relieve the tension of bending over. “Really? I was just thinking these boxes were multiplying like Tribbles.”

“Tribbles. I forgot you were a cowgirl Trekkie. Believe it or not, my kids are huge Star Trek fans. We have the whole TV series on DVD.”

“We brought you lunch,” Sheri Fast said, holding a To-Go box from the Main Street Diner.

Bailey recognized the eco-friendly packaging. “That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

“Paul changed his mind about twelve times before settling on the Chinese Chicken salad. God, I hope you like it,” she said, rolling her eyes in a friendly, girlfriend-he’s-got-it-bad air.

Bailey couldn’t help but laugh—especially when she spotted Paul’s blush.

“Four, at most,” he insisted.

Bailey’s mouth watered when she opened the lid and inspected the fresh greens and a plethora of yummy toppings. A small plastic container of dressing was tucked into one corner of the box. “This looks like enough for two people. I should take it home to share with OC. His nurse had to cancel.”

“Do you need me to drive you?”

Distance. Distance.

“Thanks, but I managed to make it over here in Dad’s truck this morning. Doesn’t have power brakes, but I drove slowly.”

She grabbed her purse and the salad and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back in an hour, if that’s okay?”

Paul picked up a broom and held it in front of him like a sword. “I will defend this place to my death, m’lady.”

“Please don’t. I haven’t found a single bit of junk worth it. Just threaten to call the Sheriff, and Marla will run away.”

He frowned. “And people think I micromanage.”

She drove slowly—in part, enjoying the freedom of being behind the wheel again. She’d missed driving almost as much as she missed riding. She understood what her father was going through better than he knew. Being dependent on other people for the smallest little thing was humiliating and depressing.

Maybe his new prosthetic leg will help, she thought.

She wasn’t sure which was worse—the old, bitter drunk OC or the new, defeated and humbled OC?

Bless you, Paul Zabrinski,
she thought as she walked up the ramp. Her father wasn’t the only one who couldn’t handle stairs well. Especially after a long morning of being on her feet.

The front door was unlocked, as usual. She dropped her purse on a chair and set the take-out container on the kitchen counter. Humming under her breath, she took two plates from the cabinet and divided the lush greens evenly.

Her mouth watered as she drizzled the aromatic dressing over the mosaic of large hunks of chicken and crunchy Chinese noodles. She grabbed a cloth napkin and fork before starting down the hallway.

Her humming lodged sideways in her throat the moment she caught a whiff of an unfamiliar—yet too familiar—smell. Booze.

“Dad?”

She hurried into the master bedroom, equal parts fear and dread making her hands shake. She was so focused on the unmoving body on the bed she tripped over something on the floor. Pieces of lettuce fell like green rain, but she managed to recover her balance.

She looked down. A distinctive brown paper sack. An amber pint bottle.

Her stomach clenched. Tears sprang to her eyes. Disappointment pressed heavy on her chest, making it hard to speak.

“Oh, Dad, how could you? You heard the doctors. You drink, you die. Is that what you want? Then why the hell did I spend the whole morning trying to fix this mess you made? Why, OC? Why?”

Her father came to on the bed, either passed out or sleeping. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and rummy. He didn’t appear drunk, but he’d had an entire lifetime to practice faking sobriety.

Her fingers clenched the plate. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to dump the salad on his lap and storm off. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge either she or her mother would have to clean up the mess.

“I should have known you couldn’t do it,” she said, setting the plate on his bedside table.

“Where’s the nurse?”

“Cancelled.”

“Your mother?”

“At work. Everybody is doing what needs to be done to dig you out of this hole. Everybody but you, apparently. Who brought the bottle?” she asked, but stopped him before he could answer. “Never mind. I don’t care. I’m done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I picked up after you for most of my life. Helped Mom clean up your messes. Apologized for your drunken ugliness. I made it my job to show this town the Jenkins name wasn’t the punch line of a bad joke.”

She shook her head, anger intricately entwined with disappointment. “I don’t have it in me to fight the good fight again. If you’re going to drink, I’m leaving—only this time I’m taking Mom with me before you kill her, too.”

He didn’t say a word when she walked away.

But, then, what could he say? Drunks made promises they couldn’t keep. She knew that. Why had she thought for a minute he’d changed?

*

OC had known
pain before. The ache of infection eating away on his flesh was nothing compared to the burning cut of his daughter’s words, the sizzling acid of seeing complete and utter disappointment in her eyes.

Like the principal who judged without giving OC a chance to defend himself, Bailey had condemned him, too. But unlike the school administrator, Bailey had good reason to think the worst. He’d ruined her childhood.

He liked to think there’d been a few good parts. He’d worked from pre-dawn to dark every summer to be able to afford to keep the horse she loved and the ranch she called home. He’d done that for her. But his demons had undermined his good intentions. When the drink got hold of him, he’d turn into somebody he recognized but didn’t like. His father.

His hand shook when he reached for the phone. He couldn’t tell if Bailey was still in the house—packing her bags, maybe—or crying her eyes out. He wanted to go to her, to tell her, “I didn’t so much as taste the stuff.” But he couldn’t reach the wheelchair.

He could reach what was left in Jack’s glass.

His mouth turned desert dry. His finger shook as he punched in the number he knew by heart.

“Marietta Library. Louise speaking.”

“Come home, Luly. I need you. Please,” he added. A word he didn’t use often enough.

*

At the rate
her heart was beating, Louise feared she’d have a heart attack before she got home. Although Bailey said she’d check on her dad, Oscar’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. A take-out container and full plate of salad sat on the kitchen counter.

She hurried down the hallway to the bedroom. “I’m here. Taylor came back just before you called. What happened?”

She could tell by the way his hands gestured as he spoke how upset he was. His words tumbled over each other. He pointed to the floor. A bottle in a sack. God, she’d seen a million of them. In the bathroom. On the backseat of her car. Under a hay bale in the barn. This one looked nearly full. In the past, she only found the empties.

“Who brought this?”

“Jack.” He sat up a little straighter. “I didn’t take a drink. He did. And he threw what was left in the glass at me. I need a shower.”

She could see the truth in his eyes. She knew him under the influence. Lately, she’d gotten to know him sober. She could tell the difference. But Bailey…her poor, fragile daughter probably could not.

“Yes, you do. You stink.”

She helped him into the wheelchair. He was getting stronger, at last. A week ago she would have had to lift him onto the white plastic shower bench. Today, he did it himself. He washed his hair and used the hand-held adapter to rinse away the bubbles. By the time he called out to tell her he was done, she had the sheets changed.

“I don’t want to go back to bed. I want to find Bailey.”

Louise shook her head. “You can’t. I told Taylor I’d be right back. Today’s story day for the preschoolers.”

“I could drop you off…” He looked at his stump, naked and exposed. His leg was healing but it wouldn’t support the effort required to drive a car—even an automatic.

“When was your last pain pill?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Eat your lunch, take your pill and rest.” When he started to protest, she added, “I’ll call Paul. He’ll know where to find her. We can go together when I get off work. I promise.”

She crossed her fingers behind her back. She’d call Paul, but Bailey could be anywhere. She had credit cards and her father’s truck. She could be on her way back to California for all Louise knew.

Unconsciously, she put her hand on the lump.

“What’s wrong with your side?”

The eagle eyes of a hunter. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Luly. I’ve seen you poke at that spot before. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I found a lump.”

“What kind of lump?”

“I don’t know. It’s bigger than a plum but smaller than a peach.” She’d decided this while shopping in the produce aisle the other day.

“Sh…show me.”

She unfastened the waistband of her skirt to release her soft cotton top. She carefully pulled up the fabric. In the past couple of days, she’d noticed an increased sensitivity around the spot.

Oscar placed his hands on her hips and pulled her a step closer, then positioned her to take advantage of the sunlight coming from the window. “How long have you had this?” His voice held the gruff tone of fear.

“A month. Maybe a little longer.”

“Oh, good God. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked at him, conveying an answer too obvious for words.

“Of course. Because of me.” He let go of her and sat back in his wheelchair. “Call the doctor. Make an appointment. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.”

Then he opened his arms and she went—same as she had since that day forty odd years earlier when he admitted he couldn’t read. He was her heart. Good or bad. Healthy or sick. Bailey didn’t understand. Louise had lost count of the times Bailey had begged her to leave him. “Why, Mama? Why do you stay?” Louise couldn’t explain why she couldn’t leave her center of being, any more than she could explain why the sun came up every day.

“I know we will,” she said, feeling a sense of hope she’d thought was lost forever. Oscar Clark Jenkins was back.

Thank God.

P
aul finished tightening
the last screw before reaching for his phone. A generic, uninspiring ringtone. Not the Carrie Underwood song he was hoping for.

“Oh, hi, Louise. I thought you might be Bailey. She said she’d be back by two. It’s nearly three. Is everything okay?”

“No. It’s not.” When she finished explaining what she believed happened, she added, “I looked Oscar in the eye, and I can swear to you, Paul, he did not drink.”

“But Bailey assumed the worst.”
Why wouldn’t she, given her history with her father?

“Oscar and I need to go out for awhile. Might even be overnight. Oscar’s afraid she’ll leave town before he has a chance to explain.”