Donovan (3 page)

Nevertheless,
no matter how much I had, and still loved Donovan, deep in my heart I felt so
angry with him. How could he have left me, turned his back on me like that? I
could understand him not wanting to take over the ranch from his father. I
could even understand him not wanting to remain in Stinnett. I could understand
him wanting to make his own life. What I couldn't understand was how easy it
had seemed for him to turn his back on everything that he had known, including
me. Why hadn't he made an effort to maintain communication with me? Had I so
terribly misread and misjudged his feelings for me? Had our relationship been
more one-sided than I had imagined?

"You
see something wrong?"

Dori's
voice jarred me once again from my
reflections. I smiled up at her image behind me. "It's perfect,
Dori
, thank you." She removed the cutting apron from
around my shoulders and then grabbed a blow dryer, which she turned on and blew
over my shoulders to make sure that any stray hairs were blasted to
smithereens. I slowly stood, then turned to give
Dori
a hug. "Thanks for the ear,
Dori
."

"Any
time, girlfriend,"
Dori
replied, squeezing
tight.
"Any time.
You know that."

I did. I
nodded, then turned and headed toward the cash register to pay for my overhaul.
Then I walked outside, pulling my truck keys from my pocket as I stepped into
the parking lot. I walked across the lot and climbed into my Ford Ranger pickup
truck, where I sat for several moments, idly staring out the windshield.
Dori's
shop was located at the east end of Main Street, and
I watched local traffic pass by. Everyone seemed focused on their errands and
chores. The local feed and grain store was the busiest at the moment, with cars
and trucks pulling in and out regularly. Beyond that, the post office, the
small courthouse, the library, and several shops and businesses lined the
street. I glanced down at my watch. I had to be to work by four o'clock this
afternoon. While Frank had paid me a small but reasonable wage to take care of
his books for him, I also had what I called my main job at the Chit Chat
restaurant twelve miles south of Stinnett in the town of Borger.

I had
worked as a waitress at the Chit Chat for the past five years, and when I had
time, I also picked up other odd jobs. I liked to stay busy, and while there
was not much in the way of careers in Stinnett or Borger, I loved the area and
didn't want to leave. In the summertime, I spent a lot of my free time at the
Lake Merritt National Recreation Area south and west of Borger. Occasionally, I
visited Amarillo for shopping expeditions or just a day away from the quiet and
rural communities out in the middle of nowhere when I had a desire to be around
more people and activity.
 

I didn't
really like the hustle and bustle of Amarillo, and with my thoughts still on
Frank, the family, and ultimately, Donovan, wondered what it was that had
pulled Donovan so far away from our small home town. It wasn't that bad, or at
least I didn't think so. Obviously, Donovan had a different opinion. With a
scowl and a muttered curse, I shoved the key into the ignition slot and turned
over my engine.
Enough thoughts about Donovan.
He had
made his choices, and now he had to live with them. I had work to do, and then,
after my shift, I planned to head back to the ranch to help Lisa and the family
in any way I could in preparation for Frank's funeral and burial.

Chapter 3

Donovan

I felt
exhausted after arriving at the Donovan Husband Amarillo International Airport,
serving the Panhandle regions of Texas and Oklahoma. The single terminal
airport had been recently renovated, but all the shops and restaurants were
closed, as was expected for close to five o'clock on a weekday night. Totally
different from what I was used to in New York City, which was filled with
services, facilities, and restaurants that were open twenty-four hours a day.

"Good
to be
back
home?" Damien, my best friend who had
flown in from New York City, asked.

"Nope,"
I muttered. "And besides, we still have over an hour drive up to Stinnett,
and that's after we get from the airport here to downtown Amarillo."

"About
that," Damien commented. "I think I'm going to find a hotel room and
stay here tonight."

Before I
could say anything he lifted a hand to explain.

"I
think it would be better if I stay here for tonight and you go on ahead. I'll
rent a car and come up at some point tomorrow afternoon. That will give you
time alone with the family."

I knew
better than to argue with Damien. It was nice that he had offered to accompany
me, but I knew what he was getting at. He knew about my history with my family,
as during our college years, he had come down with me several times to visit
over school breaks. He knew that I had become estranged with my family because
I hadn't wanted to settle down and run the family ranch, but there was more to
it than that. Without saying anything, I shrugged and gave him a nod.

"You're
okay with that, right?" Damien asked.

"Makes
sense," I said. "To be honest, I feel a little awkward. It's been
eight years since I've been back home."

"Think
there'll be trouble?"

"I
have no idea," I sighed. Dusk was just settling over the eastern horizon,
and just by the look of it I could tell it would be full dark in another hour
or so, even though it was only five o'clock in the afternoon. Stuck between
late summer’s heat and the cooler weather of fall, this region of Texas
experienced a wide variety of weather this late into September.

The
airport was located along Highway 60, roughly ten miles east of downtown
Amarillo. Shane had said that he would have my truck waiting in the parking
lot, so we headed toward the Preferred Parking area located close by the single
terminal entrance and not far from the parking garage structure. He’d probably
dropped off the truck earlier this morning.

As Damien
and I headed toward the parking lot, our carry-on gym bags slung over our
shoulders, I quickly scanned the lot, looking for my old 1992 F-250 Ford truck.
The parking lot wasn't crowded, and it didn't take long to spot my truck at the
far end of the lot. I couldn't help but smile as I spotted it, complete with
chipped blue paint, off-road tires, and Bull Nose front end replacement bumper.
The sight of it brought back a rush of memories, both good and bad. As we
headed closer, Damien glanced at me.
 

"Surprised
that old monstrosity still runs," he commented.

"Hey,"
I replied. "It's a fucking workhorse, and a lot more practical than any of
the cars you drive around the city." I inserted my key, still on my
keychain after all these years, and pulled open the door. I flipped the switch
and opened Damien's door lock as well.

"Stinks
like one," Damien commented as he climbed onto the bench seat.

"Does
not," I replied. I climbed in behind the steering wheel and allowed the
scent of hay, dirt, dust, oil, and, okay, some horse smell - obviously from the
saddle blanket that covered the seat – to rush through my senses. I hadn't
realized how much I'd missed the earthy smell of Texas, the hint of sand,
mesquite, and scrub pine. I'd been smelling car exhaust, asphalt, and subway
fumes for so long I had forgotten how good it smelled out here. Oh, I had been
in Montana a few months back opening one of my gyms out there, but I hadn't been
able to spend much time outdoors.

"I
booked a room at the Courtyard Amarillo downtown," Damien said. "It's
on south Polk Street, heading north out of town."

I nodded.
"I know the place. It's in the historic Fisk building downtown." I
glanced over at him. "You sure you don't want to just drive up with
me?"

"I’m
sure," Damien said. "I'll come up at some point tomorrow. I'll call
you and let you know when I’m heading out."

"Head
north out of town and take the 385 east,” I told him. “It turns into the 136
heading north. You’ll drive along the eastern edge of Lake Meredith and the
Lake Meredith National Recreation Area and then you’ll hit Fritch. I like to
take the 136 out of Fritch due east to Borger, as it's less roundabout, and
then head north on the 207 out of Borger until you get to Stinnett. When you
get to Stinnett, give me a buzz and I'll tell you how to get to the ranch, or
to my hotel, whichever. I'm not sure where I'll be staying yet."

Damien
glanced at me.

"You
don't think you'll be welcome at the ranch?" he asked, surprised.

"I
have no idea," I replied, feigning indifference. “My mom told me I’d be
staying there, and I’m sure she’ll welcome me, but I’m not so sure about
Cameron, Shane, Julie or Tammy.” I hadn't heard from them in years. I had only
written to Memphis a few times, and I had talked to Shane a couple, but that
was about it.

Before
long, I pulled up in front of the hotel and dropped Damien off at the lobby
entrance. "You sure you will be okay?" I asked. "After all,
you're not in New York City anymore."

Damien
nodded. "I’ll be fine. You be careful driving out there. Never know when a
cow might be standing in the middle of the road, right?"

I made a
face, and then Damien shut the door, offered a short wave, and turned and
strode into the lobby. I pulled out of the driveway and took the exact route
out of town that I had suggested for Damien. The roads were practically
deserted this time of the evening, even though it was still early by New York
City time, like they always were in the middle of the week in rural Texas. It
was dinnertime out this way.

Just as I
hit the outskirts of Fritch, I turned on my headlights, and then cruised at a
comfortable speed through the endless emptiness. It was a mindless drive, one
that had been imprinted into my memory after years of traveling that route
before I had left home. It gave me time to think, though my thoughts were far
from pleasant.

I was
still reeling from the news of my father's death. To be honest with myself, I
was forced to admit that the news had hit me harder than I thought it would.
I'd been angry with my dad for so long that I had allowed my feelings to push
out all the good memories and the good times we shared together. My dad had
taught me how to swim, to shoot, to hunt, and how to ride a horse. I'd learned
a solid work ethic from him, and so much more. So much anger and resentment,
and now it all seemed so pointless. Now, I would never have a chance to say I
was sorry or to feel his arms wrapped around me, to hear his deep rumbling voice
or his booming laugh.

I
swallowed a hard lump in my throat and blinked several times, clearing my eyes.
Damn. I hadn't expected this. I was worried about my mom as well. The last two
times I'd spoken to her on the phone, she had sounded different.
Stressed.
Well, maybe not particularly stressed, but she
definitely sounded anxious.
Uncertain.
I didn't even
want to think it, but to be honest, the last time I talked to my mom several
months ago, she had sounded, well, rather forgetful. The thought was sobering.
My parents were mortal, as my father's unexpected death had made me realize.
Neither one of them would be around forever. I had destroyed any chances of
ever reconciling with my father. I just hoped it wasn't too late to reconcile
with my siblings… or others I had left behind so many years ago.

By the
time I approached Borger, my stomach grumbled loudly in protest. I realized I
hadn't eaten much in the last couple of days since hearing the news about my
father's death and decided to stop and get something to eat, though I was
within a half an hour of Stinnett. As I drove into the small town, I saw lights
blazing at a cozy looking restaurant called the Chit Chat. I pulled into the
parking lot, surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday evening, and found a spot at
the far side of the lot. I would probably have to wait for a table but I didn't
really care. I wasn't particularly anxious to rush into Stinnett and deal with
dad's death, my siblings, or my mom’s certain grief.

I climbed
out of the car and walked toward the entrance. I stepped aside as a rather
large group spilled out of the restaurant, laughing together. Wearing my jeans,
a T-shirt, and a baseball cap, I felt right at home with the locals. Jeans,
flannel shirts and cowboy hats or beat up, sun-faded baseball caps with John
Deere or Caterpillar logos were the typical attire around here. Stepping into
the restaurant, I heard the gentle twang of a Garth Brooks melody playing
softly over the loudspeakers. A pretty brunette standing at the hostess stand welcomed
me.

"Good
evening, sir," she said.
"How many?"

She barely
looked eighteen, fresh-faced, innocent, and wearing a big, friendly, and
genuine smile. "Just me," I replied.

She
glanced down at her ledger. "You have a reservation?"

I barely
refrained
a laugh. "Do I need one?" After all,
this wasn’t New York City. I was out in the middle of the boondocks in the
middle of Podunk.

"Well,
if you don't mind waiting for a few minutes, I'm sure I'll be able to get you
seated before too long."