One Fine Cowboy (10 page)

From the kitchen window, Charlie could survey the front of the barn, most of the outbuildings, and the long, winding driveway. She knew Nate was in the barn cleaning tack and Doris was napping in the bunkhouse, so she was the only person who saw a car sweep up the drive and deposit Nate’s newest client. The car was a genuine redneck taxi—a beat-up El Camino with a checkerboard paint job that had obviously involved a can of spray paint and a homemade stencil.

Charlie supposed you might call the apparition that stepped from the passenger’s seat a cowgirl—but she was definitely a cowgirl with a twist. The girl was a symphony in black—black leather cowboy boots, a black lace bustier revealing a swath of pale tummy flesh, black jeans, and a long black duster like the bad guy in a Kevin Costner Western. She wore plenty of black eyeliner too, and even black lipstick and black polished fingernails.

Charlie laughed aloud. This was going to be good. If there was such a thing as a Goth cowgirl, she was looking at it. She couldn’t wait to see Nate’s reaction.

The creature stood in the dust of the departing taxi, staring after it like it was her last chance for salvation. Then she squared her shoulders and turned toward the house.

Charlie recognized that gesture. She’d squared her shoulders exactly the same way half a million times. It was how she steeled herself to deal with a situation she didn’t want to face.

It was how she dealt with fear.

She stepped out onto the porch and waved at what appeared to be the Satanic Cowgirl of Doom. “Welcome to Latigo Ranch,” she said, as the new guest mounted the steps at a dirge-like pace.

Dead Cowgirl Walking
, Charlie thought. She fought off an urge to giggle.

“Yeah.” The girl wasn’t much for talking, but then she’d apparently spent all her eloquence on her appearance. Besides the black clothing, her hair was the flat black of a bad dye job, and her skin was pasty pale, as if she’d lived out her life in a cave. The whole effect screamed misfit. There wasn’t much left the kid needed to say.

“Did you want to clean up? Stow your stuff in the bunkhouse? There’s another guest in there napping, but I’m sure she won’t mind. I mean, it’s your bunkhouse too.” Charlie stopped her jabbering, aware that the girl’s silence had unnerved her into babbling incoherence.

“By the way, I’m Charlie,” she said. “I’m—I’m sort of Nate’s assistant, I guess.”

The girl stared at her, the gray eyes expressionless.

“And your name is…?” Charlie lifted her eyebrows expectantly.

“Phaedra.”

“Phaedra…?”

“Just Phaedra.”

“Oh, I get it. Just one name. Like Madonna.”

“No, like Cher. Cher’s cool. Madonna’s a bitch.”

“Right. Like Cher.”

Stifling a chuckle, Charlie trotted down the steps and grabbed the girl’s duffel bag, wondering if everything inside was black.

Probably.

“Come on—I’ll show you where you’re staying.” She trotted off to the bunkhouse without looking back.

The girl traipsed behind her, stepping into the bunkhouse doorway a moment after Charlie had hoisted her bag onto a bed by the window. Doris lay sprawled on the next bed over, deep in slumber, a gentle but unmistakable snore issuing from her open mouth.

“I’d rather be over there.” Phaedra pointed toward the far corner of the room, toward the only bed and nightstand that lacked a jar of flowers.

“Oh, no you wouldn’t,” Charlie said. “It’s nicer here by the window. Plus it’ll be easier for our pajama parties.”

“I’m not into nice,” Phaedra said scornfully. “Or pajama parties. I want that one over there. Where I can be alone.”

Doris sat up, rubbing her fists into her eyes like a sleepy child.

“Alone?” She shook her head, then fluffed up her hair on the side where it had been flattened against her pillow and squinted at the new arrival. “You’ll be alone in the grave, child. Best take good company when you can find it.”

Phaedra shook her head and hauled her gear over to the corner bed.

“Or not.” Doris shrugged and turned to Charlie. “How’s that cowboy’s butt doing? You save it yet?”

“Well, dinner’s almost ready,” Charlie said. “You can come on in if you want. You too, Phaedra.”

The girl looked up from where she was arranging a pile of books on the nightstand. Sartre’s
Nausea
topped the stack.

“Not hungry,” she said.

“Come anyway.” Charlie gave her a look that had cowed many an underclassmen during her stint as a teaching assistant. “It’s part of the deal.”

“All right.” Phaedra rose, mumbling under her breath, and trailed behind the two women like a reluctant haunt.

“Smells good,” Doris said as they mounted the porch. “Terrific.”

“I probably can’t eat it, whatever it is,” Phaedra announced. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“No problem,” Charlie said. “It’s spaghetti and meatballs. Meatballs optional.”

The table was set with a blue gingham cloth and blue paper napkins Charlie had found in the pantry. A drinking glass filled with black-eyed Susans was flanked by an earthenware bowl of pasta, a saucepan filled with rich, red sauce, and a pyramid of plump meatballs stacked on a plate.

“Sit down and help yourselves,” Charlie said. “I’ll go get Nate.”

“No need.”

She turned to see the cowboy standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand.

“Well, dinner’s ready.” She gestured toward the table like a game-show hostess, waiting for his reaction to the homey atmosphere she’d managed to wring out of his bare-bones kitchen.

But Nate was staring across the table at their newest guest. He squinted, then put a hand to his forehead.

“Hello?” he said.

“That’s Phaedra,” Charlie said. “A new client.”

“Thought I was hallucinating,” he muttered. He stared down at the table, that muscle in his jaw working. “I’ll go wash up,” he said and strode out of the room.

Charlie watched him go with her hands on her hips. She’d cleaned the bunkhouse, cooked his dinner, played hostess to his spooky new student, even shown him her panties, and then some—but he had nothing to say. She was starting to think he couldn’t be much of a horse trainer. Didn’t animals need positive reinforcement?

“Guess he didn’t realize his ass was in trouble,” Doris said.

“Guess not.” Charlie shrugged and sank into a chair. If Nate didn’t shape up, she’d be gone sooner rather than later, that was all. She swallowed a lump that was closing off her throat and wondered what that was all about.

“Well, let’s not wait on the cowboy,” she said. “Eat up, girls.”

Doris pulled out the chair across from Charlie and sat down, making a production out of tucking a paper napkin into the neck of her shirt. Phaedra hovered behind her.

“Sit, child.” Doris motioned toward a chair at the far end of the long farm table. “Over there, if you want. Where you can be alone.” She gave the words a goofy Greta Garbo inflection.

Phaedra slid wordlessly into the indicated chair and took a tiny serving of noodles when Charlie slid them her way. Dipping into the sauce, she topped them with a dab of red.

“This looks terrific.” Doris forked a huge pile of noodles onto her plate, topped it with four meatballs, then ladled the sauce generously over the top. Nate reentered and sat down, scanning the table with about as much expression as a peeled potato.

“Got us another vegetarian,” Doris said, nodding toward Phaedra.

“Oh.” He considered Phaedra, his gaze taking in her bizarre outfit. “Which package did you buy?” he asked.

Phaedra shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“My dad did it. He said I’d get to ride horses, though.”

“Well, how long you here for?”

She shrugged again.

“Guess you’ll do Package B with the others, then.”

“Whatever.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Phaedra,” she said, drawing the name out as if he was an idiot for asking.

“Phaedra who?”

She heaved a heavy sigh and looked over at Charlie.

“Just Phaedra,” Charlie said. “She just has the one name. You know, like Madonna.”

“Cher.”

“Madonna.”

“No. Like Cher.”

Charlie laughed. “What do you have against Madonna, anyway?”

Phaedra shrugged. Charlie watched her a while, but the girl lapsed back into silence, studiously twirling her spaghetti onto her fork a strand at a time.

“Phew,” Charlie said, swiping her brow in mock relief. “For a minute there, I thought we were going to have a conversation. You know, you’re going to make a great cowboy.” She glanced over at Nate. “They don’t talk either.”

Nate had watched the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, his head bobbing from one side to the other. Now he ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand to his forehead.

“Sorry,” he said. “Headache.”

Despite her anger, Charlie felt a stab of pity. She could never resist a wounded animal, and Nate, with his silence and his stoic endurance, seemed more animal than cowboy sometimes.

“Let me see your eyes.” She leaned over and pushed his hair off his forehead. His eyes were still unnaturally dark, a narrow border of gray edging the dilated pupil. Without thinking, she reached up and ran her free hand through his hair, stroking him like an injured pet. He swallowed hard and glanced toward Phaedra’s watchful eyes and Doris’s delighted grin. Charlie pulled her hands away and he stared down at his plate.

“You should probably go lie down,” she said.

“No, I want to eat,” he said, sounding surprised, as if he’d noticed the spaghetti for the first time. “You made real food.”

“Sure did,” she said. “There wasn’t much to work with.”

“I’ll take you into town to restock if you want,” he said. “Later. After, um… after I do the dishes.”

“I’ll do the dishes,” Doris said. “You two go on to town.”

Charlie flashed her a glare. “You’re a guest,” she said. “Nate should do them.”

“Well, you’re a guest too,” Doris said. “And it seems to me you do all the work around here.” She looked expectantly at Nate, who was looking down at his plate and chewing his spaghetti like a meditative cow savoring its cud. He didn’t seem to hear her.

Charlie sighed. “Whatever,” she said.

The four of them turned their attention to the food, twirling the pasta onto their forks in awkward silence. Charlie could feel Phaedra’s eyes watching her every move. She set down her fork and turned toward the girl.

“You have a question?”

“No,” Phaedra said. “I mean, yes.”

Charlie sat back. “Well, ask it.”

“Why are you here?”

Charlie shrugged. “Same as you, probably.”

Phaedra kept watching her with those spooky kohl-rimmed eyes. Charlie wondered if she ever blinked.

“But you’re cool,” Phaedra said. “I like your hair. And your clothes.”

“Well, thanks.” Charlie almost laughed at the unexpected compliment. She might have to rethink her style if Goth Girl approved.

“You don’t belong here,” Phaedra said.

A loud clatter at the other end of the table pulled their attention to Nate. He’d slammed his fork onto his plate, spattering spaghetti sauce across the front of his shirt and onto the floor.

“She does so,” he said, giving Phaedra a hard stare.

Charlie looked up, startled, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to her lips. “What?” she said.

“You belong here,” Nate said, shifting the fork to one side. His voice was too loud, his tone defensive. “You belong here just fine.”

Charlie stared at him a moment, then followed his gaze as he looked around at the table loaded with food, and at the black-eyed Susans in their water glass, then back at her.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

Nate’s pickup was a nest of fast-food wrappers and horse tack and smelled faintly of Butt. Embarrassed, he rolled down a window, then tossed some of the junk onto the back bench of the crew cab to make room for Charlie.

“Watch the potholes,” she said, climbing in. “You’ll break an axle, like I did.”

“No way.” Nate patted the truck’s dashboard as if it was a faithful cow pony. “Sally’s made for these roads.”

“Sally?” Charlie grinned and Nate felt his face flush. “You named your truck? And it’s a
girl
?”

Nate cranked the ignition and revved the engine, ignoring her. She was a city girl, he reminded himself. She didn’t realize how important a good pickup was to ranch work. You had to treat it right, like a woman.

Not that he had any clue how to treat a woman. He glanced over at Charlie. He’d made her clean the whole bunkhouse by herself, and then he’d stepped over the line and kissed her again.

And then he’d taken advantage of her. Or something. Obviously, he’d crossed some invisible line.

She didn’t seem mad anymore, but the air in the pickup felt hot and close and he couldn’t meet her eyes. He needed to apologize to her, but he couldn’t figure out how. It seemed like she’d forgiven him but probably for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t because she knew he couldn’t help himself when she looked at him a certain way, and it wasn’t because she realized he was up against it with this clinic thing, and desperate for help.

It was because she thought he was ignorant and didn’t know how to behave.

He glanced down at her hip. The red ribbon had disappeared. She’d retied the bow. Probably with a double knot—or a padlock.

“Is there anything you need for yourself? In town?” He still had a credit card. Maybe he’d just charge those boots and hope for the best. Sandi wouldn’t have minded a bit that there was nothing in the checking account to back up the plastic. She always acted like a credit card wasn’t real money. Like stuff you bought that way was free.

As a matter of fact, he’d better call the bank and see if she was still using her card. Who knew how much she’d charged since she’d left? Being broke was probably his best-case scenario. Most likely he was in debt up to his neck. He ought to shut the account down.

No, he couldn’t do that. Sandi wasn’t the only one depending on him.

“I’m okay,” Charlie said. “I don’t need anything.”

If it hadn’t been for the pebbles pinging off Sally’s undercarriage, the truck cab would have been totally silent the whole rest of the trip. He just couldn’t think of a thing to say.

They passed the grain elevator, then Bucky’s Feed and Seed, and finally turned right onto Main Street. Nate had always enjoyed coming to town, but with Charlie by his side, the thriving metropolis of Purvis looked small and dusty—kind of pitiful. The biggest building was the three-story sandstone Masonic Hall on the corner, and the business district consisted of a hardware store, a tack shop, and five bars.

Charlie was from Jersey, where they probably had a Super Wal-Mart and a shopping mall in every town. Purvis must look to her like the back of beyond.

And what did he look like through her eyes? A redneck? A hick? He already knew she didn’t like cowboys. She probably thought he was a real yahoo.

She was wrong. He was no yokel. He read a lot and watched documentaries all the time. He had opinions on all kinds of things outside the limited world of Purvis.

But she’d never know it if he didn’t learn to carry on a conversation.

***

Charlie watched the town flash past. It took about three seconds for the businesses lining the main street to peter out, giving way to occasional gas stations and mini-marts. As far as she could see, Purvis was just a handful of bars and a hardware store.

“Well, if you want to get drunk and fix stuff, this is the place to be,” she said.

“We have a bowling alley,” Nate said, his tone defensive.

She smiled and let her hand dangle out the window, feeling the air rush through her fingers. Nate had barely said a word the whole trip—just stared straight ahead like an all-night trucker on his last leg home. It should have felt awkward, sharing the truck cab with such a silent companion, but for some reason, Charlie felt comfortable. There was no need to clutter up the drive with small talk.

But that could get old, long-term. She wondered how Sandi dealt with Nate’s reticence. She’d have had to be one of those self-possessed women who didn’t need a lot of fussing and petting—a woman who was complete in herself.

Somehow, Charlie didn’t think that was the case. She remembered the magazines scattered around the house—all about movie stars and fashion—and the “Perfect Face” book in the bedroom. There were self-help books too, about how to be happy.

How could you learn to be happy from a book?

Charlie was pretty sure Sandi was looking for something in Denver that was lacking in her life here at Latigo. It must be something to do with Nate, because the ranch had plenty to offer. She thought of Junior, pressing his soft muzzle to her neck; the long view of the plains from the kitchen window; the fresh, smog-free air scented with sagebrush and pine. She felt closer to nature here than ever in her life—more a part of the world, more whole and complete. Maybe she and Sandi had just been given the wrong lives.

Maybe they should trade.

Yeah, right. She could find fulfillment out here. She wouldn’t miss civilization. She could do without ethnic food and pedicures and nightclubs and the shore.

Not.

And her mother would be thrilled to hear that her hyper-educated daughter was giving up on school to clean house for a cowboy.

Yeah, right.

Nate swung the truck into a lighted parking lot, pulling up in front of a long, low clapboard building with large windows bearing hand-lettered sale signs.

“Holy crap.” Charlie was halfway out of the truck before Nate pulled to a stop. “Veggie Burgers half price.” They pushed through the swinging door. “I wouldn’t think they’d even carry them around here.”

“We don’t.” A heavyset man at the cash register tipped his straw Stetson as they stepped inside. With a bucking horse tattooed on his bicep and a bandanna knotted around his neck, he’d have looked more at home riding in a roundup than clerking in a corner grocery. “Got ’em in on accident. That’s why they’re on sale.” He turned to Nate. “Hey, Nate. How’s Sam?”

Sam? Charlie wondered who that was. Since Nate had named his truck, she figured it was probably his tractor, or a combine or something.

“Fine,” Nate said. “I think.”

“You think? A looker like that, you’d better keep track of her.” The cash register cowboy slapped a hand over his heart and put on a theatrically pained expression. “She’s a heartbreaker, that one.”

A looker? A heartbreaker? Charlie narrowed her eyes at Nate. Surely the natives didn’t take the personification of farm machinery that far, although it was possible Nate had a closer relationship with that pickup than he’d ever had with a woman.

No, it sounded like Sam was a flesh-and-blood female. Had Nate had a little something on the side—something besides Sandi? It seemed incredible that he could have found enough words to woo another woman. After all, that would involve having conversations beyond his usual Neanderthal grunts.

Nate shrugged and grabbed a cart. Apparently, the mysterious Sam didn’t even merit a grunt.

“What should we get?” Charlie asked. “You want to do burgers tomorrow? You have a grill, right?”

Nate nodded.

Charlie pitched a bottle of ketchup into the cart, along with a jar of mustard. Burgers were always good—ground beef for Nate and Doris, and the on-sale veggie patties from the frozen food department for herself and Phaedra. She was dithering over the rolls when a tall man in a felt hat pulled his cart beside theirs.

“Nate,” he said. Nodding to Charlie, he tipped his hat, revealing a bald pate rimmed by a fringe of gray hair. Wyoming was paradise for bald guys, Charlie thought—if only they’d ditch the hat-tipping tradition.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Len.” Nate nodded.

The man lifted his eyebrows, still regarding Charlie.

“This is, ah, Charlie Banks,” Nate said. “She’s kind of helping out at the ranch.”

“Nice to meetcha.” The man turned back to Nate. “How’s Sam?”

Whoever Sam was, she was hardly a secret. Maybe this guy thought Charlie was girlfriend number three.

“Fine,” Nate said. “Gone to Denver for a while, though.”

Denver? That was where Sandi was, right? Maybe Sam and Sandi were one and the same. Maybe it was some kind of nickname. After all, Nate didn’t seem like the cheating type. He seemed pretty honest. Straightforward.

She should just ask. It was natural to wonder who Sam was, with everyone talking about her. It wouldn’t be nosy, or intrusive. And she usually wasn’t one to beat around the bush. If she wanted information, she went after it, throwing etiquette and delicacy to the winds.

But she felt a strange reluctance to delve into the mystery woman’s identity. Maybe it was because she really didn’t want to know if Nate had been two-timing Sandi. After all, if he was a cheater, then he wasn’t the man she thought he was. And if he was some kind of ladies’ man courting a whole string of floozies, the sparks that flew between him and Charlie took on a whole different meaning.

Or rather, they took on no meaning at all.

She decided to ignore the whole thing, but the guy with the hat wouldn’t cooperate.

“You’d better watch out,” he said. “Pretty girl like that, she might never come back.”

Nate shoved the cart farther down the aisle, kind of rudely, Charlie thought. Evidently Sam was a sore subject.

It was probably better not to ask.

“Hey,” the man said.

Nate turned.

“Sorry. Kidding. I wasn’t thinking,” Len said. “You doing okay?”

Nate nodded, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes fixed on the king-sized bottle of ketchup perched in the shopping cart’s kiddy seat. He was a lousy liar. Whoever Sam was, he obviously missed her.

Yeah, right. Missed her so much he fell into bed with the first woman who came his way.

Charlie felt her cheeks warming up with a slow burn that was half anger, half shame. Swinging the freezer case open, she grabbed the last two boxes of veggie burgers and half a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream. The flavor was the perfect metaphor for Nate’s life, she thought. And hers, if she was totally honest about it.

She followed Nate toward the checkout, where the tattooed man had been replaced by a white-haired woman, stout and motherly.

“Nathaniel,” she said. “I heard about Sandi and Sam.”

Okay, so they were two separate women. This really was a small town. Everybody seemed to know Nate’s business. And everybody seemed kind of worried about him. She felt a pang of envy. When she went shopping in Newark, nobody knew her name. Nobody asked how she was. Except maybe that “Saddle Up” chick. But Charlie had bought her friendship with the purchase of those stupid boots and that pricey jacket.

The checker leaned forward across the conveyer belt and looked up into Nate’s eyes, her own filled with concern. “Are you doing okay, hon?”

Nate blinked a few times, swallowed, and nodded. The woman reached over and patted his hand. “It’ll all turn out okay,” she said. “Don’t you worry.” She turned to Charlie. “And who’s this?”

“This is Charlie,” Nate said. The woman nodded, as though seeing Nate with yet another woman was perfectly normal. Next time anybody mentioned small-town values, Charlie’d be able to tell them a thing or two. “Charlie, this is my Aunt Gwen.”

Charlie nodded. “Nice to meet you.” She went down to the end of the counter and bagged while Nate busied himself finding the bar code on each item in the cart and placing it facedown on the belt.

“You take care now,” Nate’s aunt said when they were finished. “If you need anything, just call me. You know me and Uncle Ted are there for you.” She turned to Charlie. “That’s a good man there. You take care of him.”

A good man? With three women? All Charlie could do was swallow hard and nod. Obviously, Nate’s family loved him unconditionally.

They loaded the bags in the back of the pickup and climbed in. “Feed store next,” Nate said. He drove back to Bucky’s in silence and put the car in park.

The feed store was a barnlike, cavernous structure stocked to the ceiling with feed, tack, tools, and even clothing. Nate stopped at the cash register to talk to yet another acquaintance while Charlie paused at a circular rack of Carhartt jackets, admiring the stiff, utilitarian canvas and wondering what kind of winter called for a coat that could stand up by itself. She moved on to the hats, trying on a felt Stetson like Nate’s, then whipping it off before it could wreck her hair.

“Hey. Come on back here,” Nate said, leaning around the corner of a tall metal utility shelf stacked high with sacks of feed. “I want to show you something.”

Charlie followed him to the back of the store, where boxes lined the wall, each stack topped with a cowboy boot.

“Try these on,” he said, handing her a boot. It was a soft shade of brown, with simple tooling decorating the leather. The toe was pointed, the heel slanted, but it wasn’t nearly as extreme as her Jersey boots.

Charlie sat down on a bench and slipped her foot into the boot, but it wouldn’t make the turn. Frowning, she tugged at the top and shoved her foot the rest of the way in.

“Comfortable,” she said, surprised. “Really comfortable.”

“That’s how a boot should feel. Those things you’re wearing are like torture devices.”

“You got that right.” She picked up the other boot and examined the tooling. “How much are these?”

Nate turned away. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, really, how much? I think I might want a pair.”

“Sure hope so, ’cause they’re yours,” he said, faking absorption in the label on a Western shirt.

“You bought them? For me?” Charlie touched his arm, forcing him to look at her.

“They’re not very fancy,” Nate said.

“No,” she said. “They’re
real
boots.” She tugged off her other high-heeled absurdity and slid her foot into the other boot. “They fit,” she said. “How did you know my size?”