“We’ve already been through that. He’s called everybody he knows. He’s been talking to a foreman at some hellhole in Arizona about working as a cowhand. Shit, he wouldn’t even be foreman. Fucking Arizona, for god’s sake. Who the hell wants to live in fucking Arizona?”
Someone had to come to Jake’s defense. “Some people like Arizona,” Marisa said. “Tanya, look. If it’s all he can find—”
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do. One thing I’m not doing is moving to some damn desert—”
“But you live in a desert now,” Marisa couldn’t keep from pointing out. Granted, West Texas wasn’t the same type of desert as Arizona, but it was arid and hot all the same.
“I’m thinking about Dallas,” Tanya said as if Marisa hadn’t spoken. She squinted toward the sandwich poster on the wall above the back counter. “If I could get a chair in a good salon in Dallas, I might make some real money. And I could work at getting my paintings into a gallery.”
“What would Jake do in Dallas? I wonder if he’s ever even been to Dallas.”
Tanya’s cocked head bobbed, her eyes blinking rapidly. “Well, you know what? That’s his problem. I just know I’m not moving to fucking Arizona.”
Marisa sighed. From what she could tell, Tanya had always been number one on Tanya’s list of whom to please. “So, what’re you saying? You’re gonna leave him?”
“I don’t know. All I know is I’m not moving to Arizona.” The confused zebra picked up her mug and took a swallow. She seemed calmer now.
“If you’re of a mind to leave him, Tanya, you’d better give it a second thought. People who really care about you are few and far between. He does everything he can for you. It’d hurt him something awful if you just up and pulled out.”
“He should’ve thought about that before he became a fucking cowboy.”
Little shards of anger burst within Marisa. The woman seemed to have loyalty, if it could be called that, only as long as a person could do something for her. Like Jake had probably done when he married her. “He was a cowboy when you met him. You’re the one who should have thought about who he is.”
“All I know is I’m not moving to fucking Arizona.” Her green eyes, glistening with unshed tears, zeroed in on Marisa. “What are you gonna do, Marisa? I mean, you’ve got Raylene and all. You might as well be chained to a bowling ball.”
Marisa cringed. “Mama would be hurt if she knew you said that. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I haven’t made any decisions.”
And she wouldn’t tell them to Tanya if she had.
“Well, at least you’re not moving to fucking Arizona.”
Tanya stood up without another word, stamped through the flea market and yanked open the front door.
Marisa stared after her a few beats, stunned, but not very surprised at her hissy fit. Tanya’s personality puzzled her more every day. Marisa shook her head to clear it. She had too much to think about to dwell on Tanya. She veered back to Lanny and his planto move to Colorado.
****
The late-day sun was casting long golden fingers and deep purple shadows across the desert when Terry arrived in Agua Dulce. He had been away for three weeks.
At the Sweet Water RV & Mobile Home Village, the first person he saw was Ben Seagrave, sitting on the top step of the three-step stair that led onto his porch. He was dressed as usual—faded T-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. His hair stood on end, his face glistened with perspiration. He was strumming a guitar. For some reason, Terry was glad to see the cranky old fart.
Terry braked and stuck his head out the crew cab’s window. After riding all day in the comfort of air-conditioning, he felt the burst of desert heat that hit him like a flamethrower and sweat broke out on his body at once. “How’s it going?”
“Heeeeyyy, long time no see. Where ya been?”
The songwriter sounded half drunk. Beside him sat a partial six-pack. Terry had never seen him without something alcoholic at hand or in his hand. Terry propped an elbow on the window sill. “Had some things to take care of in Fort Worth.”
“Get out. Sit a spell. Have a beer.” Seagrave continued to strum the guitar strings.
As he ran through some complicated fret work, Terry could tell the guy knew his way around a guitar. But then he should. He had been a professional musician for years and had awards, trophies and a substantial amount of money that spoke for his talent.
After the five-hundred-mile drive from Fort Worth, Terry was tired. A cold beer sounded good. Besides that, he wanted to avoid thinking about the three weeks he had just spent. Three weeks of constant negotiating, troubleshooting and nonstop effort to pull the Larson’s deal out of the fire. He had saved it, but only by a hair and only by doing something he hadn’t planned quite yet. For all his effort, the project still hung by a thread.
He slid out of his truck, shut the door with a soft clack and ambled over to Ben’s steps, at the same time throwing a casual look toward Pecos Belle’s. He glanced at his watch. Marisa would be cleaning up.
Though his days in Fort Worth had been long and busy, his nights had been stressful. Too many nights, Marisa and her future, her tight jeans and the kiss they had shared in his mobile home had traipsed through his dreams. She had been such a
presence in his thoughts, he had been unable to generate an interest in spending his off-hours with Michelle. Several quarrels had resulted and finally, Michelle told him to take a hike. On that score, he had no real regrets.
Instead of spending what little free time he’d had in Fort Worth with a female, he had spent it skydiving. Even taking part in one of his favorite activities, he found himself wondering if Marisa would take to floating through the air beneath a parachute. He had helped his friend Chick exercise his horses a few times, then gone with him and his eight-year-old son, Clay, on a two-day trail ride. As they camped out on the Brazos River and fished for catfish with a trotline, he wondered if Marisa liked fishing.
The woman had occupied a place in his head so often she may as well have been with him physically.
Last weekend he and Chick took Clay to a rodeo in Mesquite, where they’d had great fun and a lot of laughs. Seeing the relationship between Chick and his boy, Terry envied him and wondered if he himself could be as good a father as his best friend was. Or if he would ever get the chance. The questions left him uncharacteristically down in the dumps.
Ten years ago he would have never given fatherhood a second thought. Then a few years back, he awakened one morning and realized most of his peers had wives and children and were talking about family vacations and Little League baseball and how little Joey was doing in 4-H. Some even had second wives and a second set of kids to talk about. Suddenly, he was the guy on the outside looking in.
All through the long drive from Fort Worth, dissatisfaction with his present lifestyle pecked at him. The only explanation was the fact that he would soon celebrate his thirty-seventh birthday, yet another reminder of time passing and him with nothing but money and real estate to show for it.
Nearing the steps, he could see great wear and tear on the face of Ben’s guitar and a strip of duct tape that had been wrapped around the wide end. As the musician plucked at the strings, Terry sank wearily to the bottom step and cracked a beer, letting the sound of the guitar drive out all else. There was something soothing in music from strings, especially if it was the only sound in the quiet end of a day in the desert. Limb by limb, cell by cell, in spite of the heat, Terry felt himself relaxing. Fort Worth, big-city bankers, cantankerous bureaucrats, demanding customers—all seemed to live on another planet.
“Heard tell you bought out the XO,” Ben said as he picked a one-two rhythm in a tune reminiscent of Johnny Cash.
Shit. Winegardner must have told. “Hm,” Terry replied, and took a swig of beer.
“Won’t be the same without Lanny ‘round here,” Ben said, studying his fingers moving over the guitar frets.
Winegardner had mentioned leaving Agua Dulce, but Terry hadn’t heard with certainty that he planned on doing it. Terry had hoped he would change his mind and take him up on the offer of becoming a resident of Ledger Ranches retirement community.
“He’s leaving?”
“Colorado, I think he’s going.”
Ben did a run on the guitar strings. “Here’s a new one I’m fiddling with.” He struck a low chord and began to sing in a nasal, but sonorous voice.
“I walk up to your door
And draw a deep breath in.
I’ve reached my journey’s end
But where did I begin?
“Been miles and miles from home
To get where I’ve been
No matter where I’ve gone
I’m back to you again.”
Terry liked music, though he had no technical knowledge to brag about. He knew how to dance to country and sometimes went out in Fort Worth to Billy Bob’s or the Stagecoach Inn to see and hear the big-name country performers. Ben’s voice, deep and gravelly and on key, floated to his ear and he closed his eyes and listened to the words of the poet.
“I’ve seen mountains and valleys,
Been through sunshine and storms,
When all I ever needed
Was to have you in my arms.”
The singer paused, picked a melancholy melody, then took up the words again.
“I’ve swum oceans of tears,
Walked deserts full of sand,
Trying to convince myself
You’re not what I had planned.
“Now, standing at your door,
There’s no place I’d rather land.
My heart is in your hands.
Say you’ll love me, too.
Again.”
The song ended on a soft note and a chord that died away. Hearing some of his feelings put into lyrics Ben had written, Terry felt the hairs on his neck stand up.
“Just worked that little ditty out this week,” the musician said. “Calling it ‘The Journey.’ How’d you like it?”
“Sounds okay. Who’s gonna sing it?” Terry didn’t care who sang it. He had asked Ben the question to distract himself from the pointed words.
“Don’t know yet. Coupla fellers lookin’ at it.”
Am I trying to convince myself Marisa wasn’t what I had planned
? Terry asked himself.
Nah. That was bullshit
. What he felt was frustration. He was drawn to her because, with her prickly personality, she never seemed to be in sync with him. He had a deeply ingrained desire to see everyone happy and agreeable. Being the control freak that he readily acknowledged he was, he couldn’t keep from picking at a situation where someone wasn’t playing on his court. He likened the quirk to worrying an unhealed sore.
Before he could get into a conversation with Ben about the song, Bob Nichols approached from behind Ben’s singlewide, walking as if he were barefoot on a carpet of broken glass. “Good afternoon,” he said, almost whispering.
“Hi, Bob,” Terry said, his own voice involuntarily lowering. Agua Dulce’s water well leaped into his mind. While in Fort Worth, he’d had several conversations with the state regulatory agencies regarding the well. After learning he wouldn’t have to drill a new well right away, he had made a decision to allow Nichols and Mr. Patel to continue to use the water, a move that should make Marisa happy. He was eager to tell her about it.
“Hey, Spaceman. Who you talkin’ to today?” Ben gave a deep heh-heh-heh. His voice didn’t grow softer. “Lemme guess. Somebody on Venus?”
“Oh, much farther than Venus,” Bob answered, glaring at his tormentor with an offended look. “I’ve recorded some very interesting thumps. A mathematical rhythm, if you will, similar to your music.”
Ben cocked his head and arched his brow. “No shit? You don’t suppose that was my bass string you heard?” He plucked a thick string and produced a loud growling sound.
Bob Nichols’ face contorted into a wince, his brow tented in a hurt expression. Though Terry suspected these two might play this verbal ping-pong every day, he still felt sorry for Nichols. He had seen and heard enough of the little guy to be convinced that he believed his fantasies about aliens and space travelers.
From his perch on the top step, Ben looked down at Terry. “You gonna be around for the weddin’?”
“Who’s getting married?”
“Why, Lanny and Marisa. After he inked the deal to sell out to you, he asked her. She’s taking Raylene and going to Colorado with him.”
Terry’s mind reeled. A fist to the gut couldn’t have been more shocking.
“Now that you’ve bought Lanny’s ranch, will you be asking me to tear out my spaceport?”
Nichols’ whispery voice brought Terry back to earth and he turned to see Bob Nichols’ eyes staring him down. The eccentric little guy must not yet know that Winegardner had refused to sell the chunk of land where the UFO landing pad was located. Land that had valuable highway frontage, too. Terry had tried to talk the rancher into including it in the XO sale, but he wouldn’t budge. “I’ve known Bob Nichols for over twenty years,” Winegardner had said. “He’s never harmed even a ladybug. I’m gonna let him keep using that little piece of land.”
At that statement, Terry had ceased to debate. Getting control of the mineral rights where he had mentally mapped out his subdivision had been far more important than acquiring the small parcel of ground Nichols happened to be using for his space traveler experiments.