The Sweet Spot Page 3

  She pushed open the swinging doors to the business side of the store, a cavernous pole barn. Pallets of feed for every domestic animal in East Texas towered in racks; parts and tools nestled along the walls. A fake wood-paneled counter faced her, covered in seed flyers and John Deere parts catalogs.

  At the end stood a woman perusing a dog-eared catalog—a woman Char had never met but recognized from the gossip. This was that Yankee who’d moved in a few months back. Just where do you go to get an outfit like that? Red shortie cowgirl boots, a lacy black square-dance miniskirt puffed with petticoats, a white bustier cut down to there, and a black lace bolero jacket. Char swallowed, attempting to focus on the woman’s features. A nimbus of black curls overwhelmed her deathly pale, sharp-boned foxy face. Huge dream-catcher earrings bobbed with her every move. She looks like Dolly Parton gone Goth.

  Clannggg! Char jumped at a horrific crash from the back of the barn. It sounded like someone had dropped something heavy against a metal wall, and the tall ceiling amplified the sound. The woman looked up, glaring at the pallet racks. “Damn it, Travis!” The shrill New York accent echoed. “Will you quit fiddle-fucking around? You tear down the place, your uncle Junior’s gonna eat your bony ass for lunch!”

  She must have heard Char’s sharp intake of breath, because she turned and leveled a stony look at her sole customer. “Nepotism is not a good idea when your family tree doesn’t branch.” She took a loose-hipped stroll behind the counter.

  Char stood, open-mouthed. When the woman’s eyes narrowed, Char scrabbled for something to say before she could get started on her. “I need food.”

  A raven eyebrow arched. “You may not have noticed; this isn’t a restaurant.”

  “Not for me.” Her face heated. “For my cattle.” She clasped her hands behind her back to get rid of them. “Well, actually, they’re not my cattle. I only collect the bulls’ semen.”

  The eyebrow went higher and the woman stared as if Char were an odd bug.

  The word in the coffee shop was that this Yankee was single and, since she’d taken a job with all-male clientele, was looking for action. Toni Bergstrom, the town’s most reliable gossip, said the feed store job was only to recruit for her part-time job. A woman’s oldest part-time job.

  Who was this woman to judge her? “Oh, I don’t think I need to explain to you.”

  The raven-haired harpy planted her fists on her hips. “Listen, honey, don’t you get all snotty with me. I don’t give a good goddamn if you get the semen the old-fashioned way. Just tell me what brand of feed you want, and how much.”

  The sound of a two-stroke engine fired up in the back and got louder at an alarming rate. They both turned to the warehouse as a four-wheeler loaded with feed sacks slid from around a corner, going too fast.

  A lanky teenager in sunglasses and a backward baseball cap leaned almost horizontally over the handlebars, bony elbows waving as he barreled across the floor. When he hit a patch of spilled grain, he cut the handlebars to the left, and the four-wheeler spun in a series of donuts across the floor in front of the two women.

  “Travis! You sap-headed Dumpster monkey! Get off that thing before you hurt something!” The woman rolled her eyes, turned back to Char, and, in a strident voice, said, “What can I get your majesty?”

  Char opened her mouth to speak, then realized she hadn’t written down the brand off the feed sack. Come on, Char, focus. Netting, covered in paper. What color? Her sluggish brain sorted facts with slothlike speed as the woman stood staring in pointed disinterest.

  Silence spun out.

  The heck with the brand, how much should she buy? The cattle seemed content with the two bags this morning, but if they’re pregnant, maybe they needed more. Who am I to know? All she wanted was to get back to the sanctuary of her own kitchen. Instead, she’d fallen through a looking glass with a push of the warehouse’s swinging doors. Off-kilter and overwhelmed, Char did the only thing that could embarrass herself further. She burst into tears.

  Not just tears. Gulping, gut-wrenching, snot-inducing sobs. The Ugly Cry.

  JB let the heavy door to the arena close behind him and tilted his hat to block the sliver of sundown that sliced his brain like a hot poker, his head throbbing to the beat of amplifier echo. His carryall brushed his leg as he walked to the parking lot, empty save a few cars, trash fluttering in the sporadic breeze. The silhouette of his Peterbilt towered over the sedans, and he sighed seeing the crowd that surrounded it.

  He walked up, shaking his head. “There is no way all of you are going to fit in that cab. Y’all are going to have to call a taxi.”

  Mitzi stepped up and took the carryall from his hand. “We’ve got it all worked out, We can fit eight in the sleeper and, if we squeeze, four more in the cab.” Beseeching eyes searched his face. “Oh, come on, JB. It’s not very far. It’ll be fun!” The crowd agreed, anxious to get the evening started.

  JB remembered when this would have been a lark; now all he thought about was the legal ramifications. When had that shift happened? What the hell. “Okay.” The couples high-fived each other and walked to the cab. JB reached into his pocket for the keys. “But.” The kids turned to him. “If I get a ticket, ya’ll are anteing up to pay it. You got that?” They nodded, and he caught the humor-the-old-man look that passed between Josh and Andy out of the corner of his eye.

  It must be nice, not having responsibilities. JB was used to them. His parents had been killed by a drunk driver on their way home from a monthly movie date when he was just a toddler. He’d been raised in a loving home by his grandparents, but they were elderly even then. Luckily his shoulders had grown fast enough to handle the responsibilities of the family farm. He was in high school when his grandfather died, killing JB’s dreams of community college. He took over, making sure that Grams had enough.

  He smiled, watching the laughing couples pile into the truck. Maybe a lark was exactly what he needed.

  JB did a triple step, hesitated, then turned. The band was on a break, and Billy Currington wailed “That’s How Country Boys Roll” on the jukebox. JB cocked his hat, did a shuffle step, kicked, and turned. When the song ended, and he strolled off the dance floor, his bum hip shooting a hollow ache down the long bone of his leg. Nothing another Bud won’t fix. He sank gratefully into his chair.

  The mood in the bar was raucous. The bull riders celebrated their triumphant rides or, at least, surviving the dismount. No small feat in a sport when your turn wasn’t over until you outran the wicked horns of an enraged one-ton animal.

  The bar was packed to the walls with PBR riders, roadies, production people, and fans. “Hey, JB,” Stony Brewer yelled above the crowd noise. “When I get to the championship round, I’m picking Mighty Mouse. If you make his first corner, you can win the round on him.”

  JB smiled at the fresh-faced farm kid from Wyoming. They got younger every year. “You’d best worry about your next bull first, son.”

  Cody Tanner leaned around the girlfriend in his lap. “Yeah, Stony. You won’t get no mother’s milk outta Bombadier. He’s got bad timing to go with the attitude.”

  The riders argued about their draw in the next round as the band shuffled back in. With the crash of the first guitar riff, any attempt at conversation died. Why do they have to crank the amps so hard? Jesus, we’re sitting twenty feet away. Judging by the happy faces around the table, JB figured his opinion was in the minority.

  He looked around the room. When had he gotten to be the oldest one there?

  The drum backbeat of Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova” reverberated in his chest as the girls around the table rose as one and strutted to the floor.

  The female lead belted out the lyrics in a sultry, breathy voice, and the dancers added the bumps and grinds. Every male eye in the place lasered in on the dance floor.

  JB watched breasts bounce and hips roll in skintight jeans, back pocket rhinestones flashing in the lights.

  Char had loved to dance, back in the day.
But she never would have danced like that. He felt his face heat. Call him old fashioned, but stuff like that should be saved for the bedroom.

  He glanced around. Barely a thirty-year-old in the crowd. What was he doing here? A limping old lone wolf in a pack of paired-up pups. He’d never noticed the age difference when he’d been with Jess.

  God, had he spent the past four months an oblivious poster child for midlife crisis?

  “Oh, heck, shoot me and have it over with,” Char blubbered. The woman had handed her a paper towel from behind the counter, and Char’d been too embarrassed to look up since. “I didn’t mean to be snotty with you. I’m just not having a good day. I almost got my daddy killed, we’re out of feed for our danged heifers, and I have no idea of what brand or how much we need—much less how I’ll get it unloaded when we get home.” Char took a breath. She honked into the damp paper towel to make herself stop babbling. “And I’m late getting my father home for his medicine.”

  A snort came from behind the counter. Char raised her head. The woman stood hands on hips, face expressionless. “That blows. What you need first is a cup of coffee.” She strolled to the glass door, hips rolling. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.”

  By the time Char caught her breath and finished mopping her face, the woman had returned, thrusting a Styrofoam cup of sludgy-looking gray liquid at her.

  “This should buck you up, but don’t drink the whole thing. The dregs could be lethal.”

  “Thanks.” Char took a sip and winced. Junior’s coffee was infamous. His patrons claimed the local mortuary used it as embalming fluid.

  “Why don’t you tell me your name, and I’ll look up what brand you get from your past orders.”

  Jeez, why couldn’t I have thought of that? “I’m Charla Rae Denny.”

  “JB Denny’s wife? Well, hell, why didn’t you say so to begin with?” The woman’s face lit up. In spite of her front teeth being a bit crooked, she really was pretty when she smiled. “I’ve got a pallet of feed on the loading dock with your name on it. Emilio was supposed to pick it up two days ago.”

  Char winced again, but not from the coffee. The clerk really was an outsider if she hadn’t heard the juiciest gossip to hit this town since the justice of the peace and his male clerk were found snuggling on his office couch.

  “By the way, I’m Bella Donovan.” She turned, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled, “Travis! Get your furry butt up here. You’ve got a customer!”

  An hour later, Char turned into the long drive to the house, grateful to be home at last. The crying jag seemed to have wrung the last bit of starch from her; even holding the steering wheel took effort. She drove the truck to the back of the house, grateful for the evening shadows that cloaked the yard. Even so, she couldn’t help seeing the tree stump as the truck rounded the corner.

  She pulled to the barn and cut the engine. “Let’s go in, Daddy. I’ll put some dinner on.” What, exactly, she had no idea. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the feed bags stacked against the back window. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

  Her father came around, opened her door, and handed her out. He wrapped her hand over his arm and, patting it, said, “It was a good day, Charla Rae.”

  She looked up at his smiling face. There was no telling; he could be remembering a day from twenty years ago. They called it sundowner’s syndrome because his memory got worse with nightfall. She sighed and squeezed his arm. “Yes, Daddy, a good day.”

  They’d only gone a few steps when the sound of another vehicle coming up the drive silenced the evening birdsong. Headlights swept as a stakebed truck rounded the turn, blinding them. Pulling abreast, the tinted window unrolled. Char recognized Travis, the kid from the feed store.

  “Bella sent me to unload. Where should I put it?”

  Char’s shoulders slumped in relief. Thank you, Jesus. And Bella-Goth Dolly-Donovan.

  CHAPTER

  4

  The reward for work well done is the opportunity to do more.

  —Jonas Salk

  CJ Denny Bucking Bulls, Charla speaking.” Her new job nixed the luxury of ignoring the phone. It could mean business. She’d learned at least that much in the past week.

  “Missus Denny? I am Rosa Castillo, from Pedernales County Senior Services,” a melodic, Hispanic-accented voice said. “Reverend Mike asked me to call. He said you may need some help with your father.”

  Char jerked to attention so fast her vertebrae clicked. The county? “We don’t need the government’s help. We’re doing fine.” Dang it, why wouldn’t do-gooders just leave her be? She hadn’t been to church since… well, it had been awhile. The voice coming out of the handset on the way to the cradle caught her attention.

  “—free nursing help.”

  She returned the receiver to her ear. “You’re a nurse?”

  “A nurse assistant. I give in-home care to Alzheimer and dementia patients.”

  Char looked at her father sitting on his bed, shirt buttoned cockeyed. She’d been helping him dress when the phone rang. He studied the boot in his hand as if he had no idea what it was used for. She could hear the bawl of hungry cattle from here, and she hadn’t even put the coffee on yet. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “I could make an appointment to come out and tell you about it. You’d want to meet me, and I’d like to meet your father.”

  The idea of government help rankled. Her family had always taken care of their own. But her family was now down to her and her father. Char knew she couldn’t ignore the reality of her dad’s condition any longer. Not after yesterday’s fiasco. “Hang on, Daddy. I’ll help you with that.” He tugged at the boot that he’d put on the wrong foot. “Listen, I really have to go. But I probably need to hear more about this. When can you come out?”

  Two hours later, she waved to her father as he and Junior strolled up the Double D ranch’s drive. As much as it stung her pride to ask for help, she’d forced herself to call over to Junior’s and see if he’d mind a visit from his old sidekick. Luckily, he’d been elated.

  Char didn’t pretend to understand the odd friendship. She had to smile at Junior’s massive backside in overalls, waddling beside her tall, lean father. Their personalities were the flip sides of a coin as well; her dad’s Atticus Finch to Junior’s Vinnie Gambini. Local legend had it that the two had torn up the countryside when they were in high school. Hard to imagine.

  She sighed and backed the truck down the drive. A long day of work waited at home. She gritted her teeth. “Without a pill.”

  Char eyed the massive white thunderheads piled on the horizon, hoping they didn’t mean what they probably did. At the bottom of the drive, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number on the grimy business card paper-clipped to the sun visor. Her mother had taught her to do the job she dreaded most first. She hit send and pulled out onto the deserted farm road.

  “Junior’s Feed & Seed.” The harsh Yankee accent barked from the speakerphone.

  “Hello, Ms. Donovan. This is Charla Rae Denny.” Her words came out in a rush. “I wanted to call and thank you for sending your boy out to unload for me the other night.”

  Silence, then a throaty chuckle. “Hey, looked to me like you got a weasel deal. Fuggedaboudit.”

  “Um. Yes. Well, thank you again.”

  “Hey, Charla Rae. You wanna have coffee sometime?”

  “Oh.” She pictured herself sitting in a booth at the coffee shop, every eye in the place glued to the two of them. “I’m sorry. That would be nice, but I’m so busy. I have the cattle to care for, and my father…”

  Bella’s voice could freeze meat. “Yeah. Whatever.” Click.

  Char’s conscience pricked as she closed the phone and tucked it into her shirt pocket. The woman was brash and dressed like a floozy. But… Char recalled the rush of relief she’d felt when Travis pulled up in the yard. Her mother had taught her better.

  Topping a hill a quarter mile from their l
and, Char slammed on the brakes. In the middle of the road, not twenty feet from her bumper, stood a cow. It turned. Not just any cow. Her cow.

  She didn’t know many of the stock on sight. Mighty Mouse, of course, and Kid Charlemagne, their best buckers. Most of the heifers didn’t even have names, just numbers. But not this one. Tricks chewed her cud, staring at the truck as if wondering what it was doing on her road. Jimmy had spent too much money to buy this granddaughter of the legendary Houdini. So far, all she’d lived up to was her granddaddy’s name, escaping from an intact fence.

  “Dadburn it!” Char actually reached for the phone in her breast pocket to call Jimmy, then let her hand fall to the door handle. She stepped from the truck, keeping the door between her and the massively pregnant black-and-white spotted cow.

  “Shoo!” She waved her arms. “You get home now, y’hear?” When the curious cow walked over, Char scooted into the cab, slammed the door, and yelled out the rolled-up window, “Get off the road, you dumb broad!” She beeped the horn, but Tricks just sniffed the windshield, smearing green drool. She strutted like a bovine diva to the opposite side of the road to partake of the high grass in the bar ditch.

  “I do not have time for this.” Char put the truck in gear and hit the gas. She had to saddle a horse and get back here ASAP. Jimmy had artificially inseminated Tricks with semen straws from Dillinger, the two-time PBR Bull of the Year. Just as the heart to run was passed down in Thoroughbred horses, the urge to buck could be passed down in bulls. She knew they’d be able to sell the calf for big dollars, even before it was old enough to be bucked. But Jimmy had no intention of selling. He had visions of standing in the arena, accepting the Bull of the Year award at the finals in Las Vegas. Char’s wants were smaller. They revolved around an orange bottle on the kitchen windowsill and the oblivion of bed.

  When she got home, she jumped out of the truck, ran for the barn and horse bait. She jogged to the yard, eyeing the shaggy horses grazing in the field. Standing outside the fence, she banged the bucket of oats on the slats to get their attention. Char gulped as they trotted over. Jimmy had always teased her about it; she’d grown up on a ranch, the daughter of a champion barrel racer and an all-around champion cowboy, yet she was afraid of horses. She forced her shoulders back. She knew how to ride. She wasn’t afraid, exactly. They were just so—large.