Cowgirl Come Home (4 page)

Chloe Zabrinski was a sweet kid with a diagnosed learning disability. Chloe’s mom picked Louise as her daughter’s tutor without asking Paul, Louise was certain. Luckily, the two had clicked. In part, because Chloe reminded Louise so much of Bailey when she was the same age.

“Paul,” she’d said, approaching the tall handsome man with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

The boy had grown into a more commanding personality and presence than she would have predicted all those years back. Smart. College-educated. Innovative. He saved the family business from Big Box intrusion and turned it into a thriving, competitive business.

As strange as it sounded, Louise was proud of him. Like a mother. Or the mother-in-law she could have—should have—been to him.

He picked up a big, bulky power saw and started wrapping the cord. “I still have about half an hour of cleanup. How does the ramp look?”

She barely glanced at the new switchback tacked to the steps of her modest wood and rock home. “It’s wonderful. I was sure surprised yesterday to see the owner doing the grunt labor.”

“Our regular crew is a little backed up. I knew this one was on deadline. When does OC get to come home?”

“Tomorrow…if he starts eating.”

Paul’s lips pressed together and he gave a nod. He’d grown into such a handsome man. Every bit as strong, forceful and confident as Oscar had been at the same age. But unlike her husband, Paul didn’t wear his demons on his face, in his actions and attitudes. “Heard about the leg. That’s tough. Marietta’s lost a colorful character.”

Her back stiffened. “He’s not dead yet.”

“Sorry. I just meant…from what they’re saying he won’t be doing a lot of fishing anytime soon.”

The sickness in her belly percolated. “He’s been counted out before.”

Stay away from that illiterate roughneck
, her father had warned.
He’ll bring you nothin’ but grief.

“Things will be different when Bailey gets home.”

Paul dropped the heavy saw so abruptly its leading edge half-buried in the soft grass. He turned to unbuckle his tool belt. “You talked her into coming back, huh?”

A little too disinterested?
A good try, but Louise didn’t buy it. Never had. She’d known he wasn’t over her daughter when she met his new wife. Jennifer. College girl. Pretty brown hair and green eyes. A Bailey clone. Close but…no cigar.

And eventually she divorced him and returned to Bozeman to marry a man who loved her for who she was, not who she wasn’t.

“I asked.” She didn’t know how extensive the town’s gossip tree was these days. “You knew she lost her husband in a car accident, right?”

He nodded. “Tough deal. Got hurt, too, I heard.”

“Broken ankle. Opposite leg as her dad. Strange coincidence, isn’t it? Luckily, she’s younger and healthier. She’s walking now.”

His eyes showed more interest than his measured, “Oh.”

“Actually, Paul, I have a problem, and I was hoping you might be able to help me out.” She took a deep breath.
All he can say is no.

“Chloe told me she and Mark are going to their mother’s tomorrow. I don’t know what time you usually go, but I thought, if it wasn’t a huge imposition, you might pick up Bailey at the airport then drop her here on your way past?” She rushed to add, “If I’m not with Oscar, he won’t eat or drink. And he torments the poor nurses so. Partly the medicine, but partly…well…”

“He’s a snarly wolverine.”

She bit her lip. Why contradict the person she was soliciting help from?

“Text me her arrival information. I’ll let you know if the time works.” He’d picked up his tools and walked to his truck before she could thank him.

She checked her phone again. Even allowing for slow baggage claim, Paul should have dropped Bailey off at the house by now. Her finger hovered over the text app a moment before she changed her mind and shoved the phone in her pocket.

What she and her daughter needed to say to each other had to be done in person. Louise’s moment of reckoning was coming…in more ways than one.

“S
o…bring me
up to speed. What do I need to know about Marietta to keep from stepping in deep horse pucky?”

Bailey’s question came between bites. The woman still ate like she’d come off an eight-day hunger strike. He’d always been impressed by how little Bailey cared about impressing anyone else—except when she was on the back of her horse.

“Everything’s pretty much the same. A few new homes on the east side of town, a big grocery store, chain drugstore and some fast-food places.”

She reached for another slice. “This is excellent. Thank you. I was supposed to have an hour and a half in Denver but then my flight out of Phoenix was late. I was starved.”

He could see that.

“What about you? You’re a building contractor now?”

“No. God, no. I have a crew that handles small remodels, utility sheds and decks. Mostly DIY stuff people think they can handle then find out they can’t. I leave new construction to the pros.”

“Business is good?”

“I can’t complain.” Zabrinski’s Big Z’s first quarter set new records for both volume and profit. Too bad he couldn’t boast about his personal life. “I’ll introduce you to Jane Weiss, the new head of our Chamber of Commerce. She’s from California, too.”

“California’s a big place.”

“Hmm. Never been.”

She dropped her half-eaten slice of pizza and eased back in her chair. “I’m stuffed. Thank you, Paul. I really can’t thank you enough.”

He’d already paid for the food before they sat down, so he closed the carry-out box lid and got up. “Am I dropping you at the house or the hospital?”

“The house. I’d like to get unpacked before OC gets home.”

“In case he says something that makes you want to run away?”

She chuckled. “Maybe.”

He walked slowly to accommodate Bailey’s gait. “Your mom says he’s mellowed.”

“So have I…thanks to the drugs.”

She made it sound like she was an addict, but he’d watched her cut the white tablet in half before swallowing the smallest piece.

Bailey paused at the Pizza Palace counter to thank the owner. “Your pizza is delicious. I’m impressed. Tasted like home.”

Home. California.

“Where are you from?”

“Central Valley. You?”

“Outside Sacramento. We were one of the first wave of ABCers.”

Bailey nodded as if the comment made perfect sense. The two chatted a few minutes longer, then Bailey waved goodbye. “I’ll be back. Thanks.”

Once they were in the truck and headed toward the highway, Paul asked, “What’s an ABCer?”

“Anywhere But California. A lot of small business owners have moved to other states. Ross bought a place in Nevada. My late husband.”

He didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help himself. “You mom told me he died in a truck accident.”

She nodded, but her expression didn’t invite more questions.

“How bad is your foot?”

“Broken in two places. I’m now the proud owner of two steel rods and several very big screws in my foot and ankle.”

He winced. “Ouch.”

A red Prius cut in sharply to take the exit. Paul tapped the brakes a little harder than necessary. Bailey’s torso lurched forward until the seatbelt stopped her. Paul reached out without thinking.

The back of his arm hit her mid-chest. The first boobs he ever touched. Bailey Jenkins’s breasts. Still as firm and lush as his traitorous body remembered.

She reacted as if poked by a cattle prod. She shifted sideways, turning her shoulder toward him, but he could see her cheeks were kissed with red.

“Sorry.”

He meant that. Yes, he wanted to touch her. But he wasn’t seventeen anymore. They both had battle scars. She had barely healed wounds—both inside and out. He needed to pull from his fifteen-plus years of retail experience to sell her on a new beginning with an old friend.

They drove in silence, Bailey’s gaze glued to the scenery. Every once in awhile, she’d point out something that had changed since her last visit.

Nothing she pointed out was new to him since he’d made this drive three to four times a week since Jen told him she was moving to Bozeman.

He couldn’t say he’d been blindsided by her decision to break up. He’d known for months she wasn’t happy. He’d just grown tired of asking, “What’s wrong?” So, he stopped.

She’d left a few weeks later taking half the furniture—the new stuff—and half their savings account. He could have fought harder, but that wasn’t his style. He’d tried that once with Bailey and hadn’t been successful then, either. At least, this time he didn’t invoke the Zabrinski family curse. Either Jen didn’t inspire the same level of emotion he’d felt with Bailey or he’d grown up at little.

*

Bailey didn’t know
whether to be relieved or disappointed when she spotted the outskirts of Marietta.

Together, the pizza and the pain pill had taken the edge off her anxiety about seeing her father, but the combo did nothing to lessen the sense of let down she felt about returning home this way, broken and defeated.

So not the triumphant return she’d pictured when she left fifteen years earlier waving her dreams like an American flag—all proud and self-righteous.

In the end, she’d conquered nothing, achieved nothing and had practically nothing to show for all her blood, sweat and tears.

Without conscious thought, she reached for the plastic luggage tag attached to her backpack. One side showed her contact information—Maureen’s suggestion because, she’d admitted, there was an outside chance Bailey might throw a clot and die on the plane. On the other side was a photo of her beautiful Daz.

Dazzling Dandy Commander. Her eight-year-old roan stallion. The sweetest, smartest, funniest horse she’d ever known. Sturdy, fast, light on his feet and gifted in the show ring.

Ross had been the one to find him—see his potential. But Daz’s training had fallen to her, and they’d bonded in a way that made her husband jealous.

Was that the real reason he moved to Nevada?
A power play to see if I’d follow Daz?

And when she made it clear she wasn’t giving into his emotional blackmail, Ross wiped out both their futures with one impulsive turn of the steering wheel.

“Is that your stud horse?”

She turned the tag over and sat up. “Uh-huh.”

“Roan. Nice coloring.”

Her throat closed up. Talking about Daz was a thousand times harder than talking about Ross. His cries still haunted her dreams, although a number of doctors had told her the concussion would have knocked her out completely and there was no way she could remember hearing anything from the accident.

They were wrong. She’d slipped in and out of consciousness, but some images were burned into her memory. Blood oozing down Ross’s face. The ghostly white cast of his skin that told her he was dead. The hiss and pop of the engine. And Daz’s whinny.

“He was my little boy. All twelve hundred pounds. I got him when he was four. Filled with piss and vinegar, as OC would say. So naughty, I can’t even remember all the mischief he got into.

“Ross was ready to sell him. Called him un-trainable.” She closed her eyes, savoring the memory. “We made a bet.”

“You? Really? You wouldn’t even play strip poker with me.”

His joking tone made her smile. But he had a point. She never gambled. Yet, somehow she wound up marrying Ross, who would have bet on whether or not the sun was coming up the next day if he could get the right odds. In fact, the first time they met he’d bet her a kiss that he’d win his heat. When he did, he pulled her into the saddle as he rode by and kissed her amidst the raucous cheers of the crowd.

“Our bet was for sex every night for a week if he won. And an expensive box of beads if I did.”

At the time, it seemed like a win-win since she enjoyed making love with her husband and the beads were a hobby she thought she might like to try.

“How’d you break him of his bad habits?”

“Jelly Bellies. His favorite was coconut. The only one he refused to touch was licorice.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

She shrugged. “I stole the idea from Mom. She keeps a bag in her desk at the library. When kids are reading quietly and behaving nicely, she rewards them. When they mess around, she makes them go outside and pick up trash. When Daz misbehaved, I’d make him walk behind me in circles. Mind-numbing boredom for a smart horse. He stopped being a butt-head and smartened up real fast.”

“That’s brilliant. I have a horse—and a child—who could use your help.”

She looked away. “My doctor says no strenuous outdoor activities for six weeks.”

“Is that how long you plan to stay?”

She had no clue. “I’m taking it one day at a time.”

Nothing more was said until he pulled the truck to a stop in front of the 1940s-era home, white clapboard siding with dark green shutters. Mom had painted the door a brilliant red since Bailey’s last visit. A very new-looking ramp ran from the driveway to the front door, tying into the original porch.

“The ramp looks great.”