Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 (11 page)

Her laconic cowboy could be a poetic soul sometimes. One tear fell down her cheek. Dean caught it with his thumb and wiped it away.

His voice grew softer, just loud enough for her to hear. “That dream job. It’s waiting for you. You’ve worked hard for it. You deserve it.” He smiled. “I can’t wait to see what you accomplish.”

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she said. The song slowed towards its inevitable end.

He kissed her lips. “I’m gonna to miss you too, princess.”

As the band played the final chords of the song, the crowd began to applaud. When Monica opened her eyes, Dean let her go. His eyes on hers, he touched the brim of his cowboy hat and nodded. Without saying goodbye, he turned around and slid back into the crowd.

* * * * *

Two days later, Dean drove his father’s old truck out of town, past the airfield east of the highway. On the outskirts of Oleander, the road he took cut through acres and acres of grapes. For generations, the Singhs had grown table grapes, green Thompson and red Flame and Summer Royal grapes so purple they were almost black. Monica’s father had six brothers, all involved in the cultivation, processing or distribution of their family’s grapes. Theirs was a tight, shrewd operation, the envy of farmers all over the Central Valley.

As Dean drew closer to Monica’s family’s house, he took control of his breath. He always did the same thing before a big show, right after he put on all his protective gear but before he got into the arena. Thirty deep, slow breaths, in and out. He cranked down the window and let in an early-evening breeze.

Breathe in, breathe out. One. Breathe in, breathe out. Two.

The exercise got blood flowing into his brain. But it also got his mind off any anxieties that would take him out of the game. He’d gotten into the habit a long time ago. His fellow bullfighters teased him about it, asking how far apart his contractions were so that they’d know when to pass out the cigars.

Set on the edge of a field facing the foothills, the Singh house was gleaming white, a large stucco house with an expensive-looking clay tiled roof. Its lush, green lawn contrasted with the dry earth surrounding it. A familiar silver minivan, a relatively new Mercedes Benz and a brand-new red F-150 were parked in the driveway. As Dean parked his truck in the turnaround, he took a mental note.

Appearances are important to the Singhs. Water and trim the lawn. Keep the cars clean.

He got out of his truck and took a quick look at his own appearance. He’d showered and ironed his clothes, but he hadn’t cleaned his boots.

Shit.
He shook his head and stuck his keys in his pocket.
Too late now.

He walked up the slate steps to the double doors with brass handles. He took his thirtieth breath and blew it out slowly. Then he rang the doorbell.

A surly young woman he recognized as Monica’s sister-in-law opened the door and eyed him suspiciously. “Yes. Can I help you?”

“Good evening, miss,” he said. “I’m here to speak with Jasmohan Singh. He’s expecting me.”

The look she gave him should’ve come with a number to the poison control center. But she opened the door and said with a frown, “Come in.”

He took off his hat and followed her into an empty living room.

“Sit down,” said the young woman. “I’ll get him.”

The leather sofa sighed under Dean’s weight. He looked around while he waited. The house was pristine. Thick Persian carpets covered polished marble tile. A mantel clock ticked loudly over the fireplace. He could see a faint reflection of himself in the plasma TV. He looked nervous. He put his hat on the seat next to him and tried to relax his shoulders a bit. As he was trying to figure out what to do with his hands, Monica’s father walked in.

Dean stood up. “Mr. Singh.”

The older man was wearing pressed slacks, a black polo shirt and topsiders. He wore a navy blue turban. He was handsome and imposing, a quintessential businessman and not the kind of salty rancher that Dean was used to dealing with around these parts. Reading glasses were perched at the end of his nose, perfect for peering over and looking disapprovingly at Dean, which he did as they shook hands.

“Mr. MacKinnon. Please, have a seat.”

The two men sat down opposite one another. Monica’s father sat on an armchair that held him at a slightly higher level. Dean understood the significance of this.

“I know why you’re here,” said the older man. “And while I respect your decency in coming to speak with me, I don’t want to waste your time. You may not date my daughter. It’s impossible.”

Dean was expecting that. “May I ask your reasons?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, there’s the obvious one. She’s not here. She’s moved back to Northern California, as you’re well aware.”

“Family obligations are keeping me here at the moment,” Dean said. “But I would travel anywhere to be with her, if she would have me. And if I had your blessing.”

“Which brings me to reason number two. I can’t give you my blessing.”

“You know my family. Is that the issue?”

“I know your mother and father. Good people. I know you too. Hard worker. Respected in your sport. Of course I admire that.”

“But still not good enough for Monica?”

Monica’s father leaned forward in his chair. “Please don’t take offense at this, Mr. MacKinnon. My family settled in California almost a hundred years ago. The way we have kept our religion and our culture alive is by marrying people of the same background. This is how we continue, how we stay whole. If we hadn’t maintained this tradition, our sense of identity, the very core of who we are would’ve been diluted, even lost. Do you understand?”

Here was where things got tricky. A few conversations with Monica and a couple of hours on Google formed the extent of Dean’s knowledge of Sikhism. He didn’t want to come across as a loudmouthed white boy. But he definitely didn’t want to come across as a pushover. “Mr. Singh, Monica once told me that the word Sikh means student. Is this correct?”

He could see the old man’s invisible hackles rising. “Yes. It does.”

“She told me it’s a religion of students, dedicated to learning the teachings of the gurus and studying the Sri Guru Granth Sahib.”

“Mr. MacKinnon—”

“And I’ve read Sikhism teaches that people from all races are equal in the eyes of God.”

“Equal, yes, but free to sleep with my daughter? No. That is not part of our religion.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at Dean, his eyes clouded with contempt and pity.

“You have a point there.” Dean looked up at the scowling man. He couldn’t fault Mr. Singh for being angry. If he had a daughter as beautiful and brilliant as Monica, no man would ever be good enough for her. “To be honest, I’m surprised you and your brothers haven’t beaten me to death with grape stakes and buried me in one of your vineyards.”

Monica’s father’s features relaxed slightly. “The night’s still young, Dean. I saw
Casino
too, you know. De Niro and Pesci. Good movie.”

“Well, at least we agree on that.” Dean took another deep breath, clearing the cobwebs out of his brain and putting him back on target. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Singh, so I’ll just get to the point. I’m not here to ask permission to see your daughter.”

That got his attention. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m here to ask permission to see you.”

The older man sat up in his chair. “What?”

“Please, hear me out. I want to learn about you. You and your family. What you value. Who you are.” He cleared his throat. “Monica loves you. She was so afraid of letting you down that she kept our relationship a secret, something she was ashamed of.” He paused. “Mr. Singh, I don’t want to be the kind of man she’s ashamed of. I want to be the kind of man she would be proud to be seen with. And for that, I need to ask your help.”

Jasmohan Singh narrowed his eyes, and Dean realized at once where Monica had gotten the shrewd sparkle in hers.

“What do you have in mind?” the older man asked.

* * * * *

September in Northern California. Monica missed the sun.

Her corner office had floor-to-ceiling windows, but there wasn’t a lot to see besides traffic on De Anza Boulevard, the gas station across the street and overcast skies.

Her dream job wasn’t what she had expected. A massive paycheck was nice, but there were underlying issues in the office. The cofounders of the startup weren’t getting along. The office manager had disclosed to her that they were having trouble securing their third round of funding. The stress was starting to show.

She’d just completed her 10:30 conference call and was clicking through the quagmire in her inbox when a call came through from reception.

She picked it up. “Monica Kaur.”

“Monica, you have a visitor.” Shirley the receptionist sounded unusually giggly. “He says his name is…I’m sorry, what was your name again?” More giggles. “Dean MacKinnon.”

Monica almost dropped her phone. She kicked her chair away from her desk and stood up, automatically fussing with her hair. “I…um…”

“Are you there?” Shirley asked.

“Yes, I’m here.” Monica’s brain raced. “Could you…maybe…could you walk him back to my office?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Oh jeez. What is he doing
here
?
Frantic, Monica dug in her purse for a compact. She dabbed powder over the bridge of her nose and tucked a few wild tendrils of hair back into her bun. Cursing, she slipped her shoes back on and swept the remains of her yogurt parfait into the trashcan.

She had just finished checking her teeth for stray raspberry seeds when the receptionist appeared at her office door.

“Here she is,” Shirley said, all smiles.

Outside, heads popped up over cubicle walls like gophers in holes. Monica could hear her coworkers’ curious whispers and stifled laughter. She stood up, and Shirley, still mooning, sidled quietly away.

The man who stood in the doorway was breathtaking. She’d daydreamed about him for two months, but the Dean she remembered was nothing compared to the reality of him.

For a moment, he stood statue still, staring at her with his bright blue eyes. Tall and jacked, he was wearing an ivory wool hat, a dark-blue shirt and crisp, dark jeans. He’d put on one of his championship buckles. A gray sports coat strained across his massive shoulders. He wore his usual shitkickers, but he’d cleaned and polished them.

In his arms, he carried a huge bouquet of wilting orange poppies wrapped in brown paper. A few delicate petals covered him like confetti.

As he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, she breathed him in. Her nervous system lit up like twinkle lights. He smelled like leather, old bay aftershave and sex, sex, sex.

“Hey,” he said.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” Her voice faltered.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Me neither.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Monica spotted her officemates eavesdropping on them. She reached behind him, closed the door and lowered the shade that covered the glass wall. Knees trembling under her skirt, she walked back to her desk chair and pointed at the armchair by the window.

“Have a seat,” she said, as though he were just another client instead of the man who’d been haunting her fantasies for eight weeks straight.

Before he sat down, he put the bouquet in her arms. “Um, for you.” The petals rained down on her slate-colored carpet. For a moment she remembered the sun-scorched field covered with wildflowers and what it was like to see Dean shirtless for the first time. Her toes curled.

She put the flowers down on top of her stacks of file folders and reports. Their bright orange hue was intense. Suddenly, she realized that everything in her office, including the clothes she wore, were shades of gray. She’d been living without color since she’d left Oleander behind—since she’d left him.

“Why didn’t you call to tell me you were coming?” she asked, even though she suspected she already knew the answer to that question.

“Didn’t want to take the risk that you’d turn me away.” He looked around the room. “Nice digs.” When his gaze came to rest on her, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You look good, Monica.”

Pleasure rippled through her, but she forced herself not to smile. “What are you doing here?”

He took off his hat and balanced it on his thigh. “I’m here because I need to talk to you. In person.” He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and cleared a frog out of his throat. He was nervous. Dean MacKinnon was never nervous. Monica had to admit it was a glorious thing to see.

“Here I am,” she said, making her voice as placid as possible. “What’s going on?”

“Okay. Remember that stuff I said during the dance, about you going your way and me going mine?”

“Yeah.”

“Total bullshit.” He rubbed the wool brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger as he stared at her. “The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. Monica, you’ve done something to me that I wasn’t able to explain before. But I think…I think I got the gist of it now.”

She said nothing, but her heart began to kick at her ribcage.

“You know a lot about me. But I don’t think you know about what happened with my ex-wife.” He looked down at his hat and was quiet for a long time. He cleared his throat again and spoke slowly. Every word crystal clear, as though he were telling his story for the first time. “I was coming up as a bullfighter. Working bigger and better shows. I met Kelly at an event in Red Bluff. She was the daughter of a rancher out there. We were twenty-two. We fell in love fast, got married in Reno. I brought her to Oleander to live with my family. The idea was I’d work the rodeos to help her pay for college. When she was done, I’d come back and take over the ranch. We had it all planned out.”

Monica tried to imagine young Dean, madly in love and optimistic about the future. She’d heard rumors, but never the full story. After his marriage ended, he’d left Oleander for good, crisscrossing the country on the pro bull rider circuit, rarely home, not even on Christmas.

“I don’t know if it was being away from her friends and family,” Dean continued, “but she started to act up while I was away. Ditching classes. Hanging out with a fast crowd. My mother, my father, even my brothers tried to look after her, but she was like smoke. Weren’t nothing that could hold her.” He shook his head. “I’d come back in the off-season and we’d try to play husband and wife. But we were always arguing. She’d accuse me of running around on her. I’d swear to God that I was never unfaithful to her, but she didn’t believe me.”