A Cowboy's Touch (33 page)

He considered the cost. Was he willing to pay it, willing to do anything for the woman who’d stolen his heart—even if it meant losing her?

38

C
hatter buzzed around Abigail and her mom from their booth table. She scanned the restaurant they’d dined at many times and wondered why, for the first time, she felt out of place. She’d been back in Chicago for a week and a half, but somehow it seemed much longer.

Outside, darkness was falling against the Chicago skyline. Across the restaurant, a cheer rose from the enclosed bar as the patrons watched the Cubs score a run on the flat-screen TV.

“Eat something,” her mom said.

“I am.” Abigail realized belatedly she’d only been pushing the salad greens around. She forked a cucumber and slid it into her mouth.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

Abigail thought about disputing the statement, but who was she kidding?

“You have a headache? I have some Tylenol.”

“I’m fine.” Truth was, strange as it sounded, her hypertension symptoms were better. She hadn’t had a headache in three days, and her palpitations were less frequent. Maybe her past had weighed on her more heavily than she’d thought.

At least something was better.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened in Montana?” her mom asked.

Abigail flashed her a no-trespassing look, then forked another bite of the salad. She was tired of thinking about Wade. The memories only made her ache for what she couldn’t have.

“All right.” Her mom waved her hand. “I’ll just be honest. Reagan already told me everything.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“I should’ve warned you about J. W. I mean, heaven knows he’s got cowboy charisma galore and looks that could stop rush-hour traffic on the Eisenhower.”

Abigail groaned. “Moooom . . .”

“Well, I’m old, not dead, honey.” She sipped her French onion soup from the side of her spoon.

“I do not want to talk about this.” Not with her mom or Reagan or anyone else. Abigail set down her fork and rubbed her temple. She was done stuffing food into her mouth that she didn’t even taste.

“Fine.” Her mom wiped her mouth on the starchy white napkin. “Let’s talk about what you’re going to do next.”

“Show up at the office next week and start packing up, like everyone else.” She hated the thought of facing everyone again after letting them all down. It was going to be a long week.

“I mean after that.”

In the last week she’d made a decision that had been long in coming. Her heart was no longer in writing, certainly not in exposés. She’d barely managed to finish the simple travel article on Moose Creek.

Simple, my fanny
.

“I’ve done a lot of praying about it, Mom, and I’ve decided to give up writing. I just don’t have that burning desire anymore. My reasons for writing are gone, and I’m feeling led toward something else. I think I want to be a teacher.”

Her mom nodded slowly, studying her face. “Okay . . . that’s not completely unexpected. You know I’ll support you in whatever you choose to do.”

Her mother touched her hand, which, Abigail realized, was now balled into a fist around her poor defenseless napkin.

“Is that what all this tension is about? Your career? You’ve dreaded telling me?”

Abigail wished she could blame it on that. Truth was, she felt total peace about that decision.

“You can’t write, you’re not eating, and judging by the Jones bags under your eyes, you’re not sleeping much either. A few months with Aunt Lucy was supposed to give you a break, but instead you’ve come back broken.”

“Very poetic, Mom.” Had she thought her mom wouldn’t notice? Abigail had always been driven. Couldn’t wait to get to the next story. Now she wondered how she could even take her next breath.

“Honey, talk to me.”

Abigail deliberately inhaled, just to prove she could. The tangy smell of balsamic vinaigrette turned her stomach, and she pushed her plate away. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Are you in love with J. W.?”

“Wade.”

“What?”

“He goes by Wade.” She tossed her napkin on her plate. “Oh, what does it matter? Wade, J. W. . . . it isn’t like I’ll be addressing him anytime soon.”

“If he loves you, honey, he’ll forgive you.”

“It’s not that simple. He and Maddy are leaving their home because of me. Everything he said was true.”

“You were only doing your job. You’re the Truthseeker. At least, you were.”

“If the truth hurts innocent people, what good is it?” That, in a nutshell, was what bothered her so much. “My column was for exposing bad people who did bad things. But Wade didn’t do anything wrong, Mom. On the contrary, he only did what was best for his daughter after the awful experience of losing his wife. That article— no matter how well written—was nothing but tabloid trash, and I’m glad it wasn’t published.”

“Abigail . . .”

Now that she’d stated it so bluntly, she knew it was the truth. “No, Mom. My column was for exposing wrongs. Well,
I’m
the one who was wrong. Wrong for spotlighting an innocent person’s private pain.”

Her eyes burned, and she blinked them clear. A familiar ache swelled in her throat.
Jesus, how can there be any tears left?

“I’m sorry I put you in that position.” Her mom’s green eyes turned down at the corners.

Abigail dabbed her eyes with the napkin. “It’s my fault.”

“You were only trying to save
Viewpoint
. Maybe there’s a way to fix things between you and Wade.”

Abigail shook her head. “That’s not my decision. And I feel selfish for dwelling on my own misery when so many people have lost their jobs because of me. You. Riley—she doesn’t even get child support, and now she’ll have no income either. Warren’s fighting lung cancer and needs insurance, not to mention his salary. Evelyn’s the sole supporter of her elderly mother. I could go on and on.”

The server came and removed their dinnerware. Abigail drained the last of her soda and pulled out her credit card.

“Know what we need?” Her mom dabbed her lips with the napkin. “A girls’ day out. It’ll get your mind off your troubles. Let’s do something fun, maybe tomorrow?”

Abigail shrugged. “Sure.”

“We can invite Reagan if she’s not on call.”

“I guess the theater’s out then.”

“I’ll plan the whole day, and it’ll be a surprise. How’s that?”

Abigail reached deep and pulled out a smile. “Sounds fun, Mom.” She supposed anything was better than sitting around her apartment with memories of Wade swimming around her head.

39

A
bigail read the sign.
Midwestern Rodeo Grounds
.

They’d driven all this way for a
rodeo
?

“A rodeo!” Reagan said in an odd high-pitched tone from the backseat of their mom’s car. “How fun!”

More like torture. Abigail swallowed the feelings that clogged her throat as her mom found a parking space. She’d wondered what her mom had up her sleeve when they’d headed north out of Chicago and crossed the Wisconsin border, then turned off at the tiny town of Manawa.

What was her mom thinking? Today was supposed to be about getting away, forgetting her troubles. Didn’t her mother know her troubles centered around a cowboy, and a rodeo would only remind her of all she’d lost?

“What do you think, girls?” her mom asked as they exited the car. “I surprise you?”

“Sure did.” Abigail tried to season her words with enthusiasm.

“Who knew there was a rodeo so close to Chicago?” Reagan said.

Not Abigail. She followed her mom and Reagan toward the outdoor arena entrance.
You can do this. It’s just a rodeo
. Just a few dozen cowboys showing their stuff. Soon she’d be in the car, headed back to her own world. She sucked in a deep breath for courage and was assaulted instead with familiar smells. The loamy smell of dirt. The raw smells of leather and horseflesh. The sweet scent of fresh hay.

Her heart seemed to stutter in response, and she stopped. A woman smacked into her back.

“Sorry,” she muttered, stepping aside. She told herself to keep walking, to follow her mom and sister, but her feet seemed planted to the ground.

The sounds were coming now too. The country and western music blaring over the speakers. The whinny of a horse. The clopping of horses’ feet.

Reagan turned and noticed Abigail had fallen behind. “Come on, Abs,” she called.

Reagan worked back through the crowd, their mom on her heels.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t go in there.” She hated to ruin their fun day out, but this wasn’t her idea of fun. Not anywhere close.

Her mom looked pained. “Oh, Abigail.”

“It’s just a rodeo, Abs,” Reagan said.

But it wasn’t. It was a walk down memory lane. A painful walk, one she didn’t want to take today or any day soon.

“You two go on. I’ll just wait in the car.”

“Don’t be silly! Come on, it’ll be fun.” Reagan took her arm, and the crowd jostled them toward the entrance. “We’ll forget your diet for the day and split a funnel cake.”

Sure, tempt her with food. Reagan was right, though. She was being a total sissy. It was just a rodeo. If she couldn’t handle seeing a bunch of cowboy hats and trophy buckles, she wasn’t worth her salt.

They hit the funnel cake stand first, then made their way to the aluminum bleachers. The sweet confection was divine, but once it hit Abigail’s stomach, a touch of nausea set in.

They watched the bareback bronc riding, the team roping, the steer wrestling. Every event reminded her of something that had happened over the summer. Watching Wade during branding her first day at the ranch, sitting tall and confident in his saddle. Wade sweeping her into his arms and setting her on Ace after her fall. Dancing in his arms that first night at the Chuckwagon. She chided herself for her wayward thoughts and forced her mind back to the present.

By the time two hours had passed, she was more than eager to go home. It was getting late. They had a long drive home and church in the morning. “Let’s leave early,” she said. “Beat the traffic out.”

“There’s only one event left,” Reagan said. “The best part—the bull riding.”

Since when had Reagan cared about rodeos? Abigail stifled a sigh. She’d made it this long, she supposed she could endure one more event.

One by one bulls busted from the chute, twisting their bodies and bucking the cowboys as the seconds ticked off time. Cowboy after cowboy hit the dirt hard. Abigail winced every time, recalling too easily her fall from Trinket and the subsequent headache. Miraculously, each cowboy got up, dusted off his hat, and exited without injury.

“Well, not quite the ride Cody wanted,” the announcer said. “Let’s hear it for Cody Langley!” The crowd applauded.

“Now we’re ready to gear up for our last rider, and, folks, it’s gonna be a doozy. Last bull out of the chute tonight is our infamous Maaaaad Hornet!”

The crowd cheered. Abigail gathered her purse, ready to leave.
Thank You, God, that it’s almost over
.

The announcer continued. “Now, I always worry twice about anybody put on the back of Maaaaad Hornet. But I ain’t too worried this time. I ain’t worried ’cause we got a real pro riding tonight.”

“Let’s go now,” Abigail said to her mom. “The parking lot will be a mess.”

“I want to see the last rider,” Reagan said.

Abigail slumped back in the seat, sighing.

“Y’all ain’t gonna believe this, but we got a real special treat for you tonight: a nationally renowned cowboy who’s been off the circuit waaaay too long. Please welcome back . . . J. W. Ryan!”

The name snagged Abigail’s full attention. She peered around the head in front of her to the chute, far away, where a cowboy lowered himself onto Mad Hornet. She must have heard wrong. Wade wouldn’t show his face in public, not like this. She was losing her marbles.

Still, her heart beat wildly in her chest. The rider was broad and sturdy looking, even on the back of the notorious bull. She was aware of the crowd going mad, cheering wildly.

Was it him? Abigail squinted, focused on the cowboy. Fawn hat, black vest, fawn chaps, like the ones she’d seen him wear so many times. The cowboy wrapped the rope around his wrist, then gave his brim a sharp tug. And Abigail knew. That was his tug.

“That’s him,” she whispered.

What was Wade doing here? He shouldn’t be in such a public place, shouldn’t be risking his privacy.

The bull shot from the chute.

Shouldn’t be risking his life. Abigail squeezed the straps of her purse.
Oh, God, keep him safe!
What was he doing on that bull? It had been four years.

The bull lived up to his name. He writhed and twisted, bucked and bounced. Wade’s hat went flying. His body undulated with sudden jerks. One bare hand waved overhead, the other held tightly to the rope.

“Hang on,” she whispered. “Hang on.”