The Sweet Spot Read online

  “Come on, God, a little help here…”

  There! The toe of her sneaker hit something solid, in the mud. A tree root. “Thank you, Lord.”

  Ten minutes later, the motionless calf slid into Char’s lap so fast she sprawled on her back in the mud. She lay stunned a moment, staring up at the few stars winking between the blackness of clouds. The calf’s legs jerked under her hands. Joy rose like a fountain of sparks in her chest as a sobbing laugh burst from her throat.

  Tricks lowed. Probably as relieved as Charla.

  She struggled to sit up, tears streaming. In the weakening truck lights she looked down at her lapful of bull calf—gray, with black spots, gummy and wet—the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. As it struggled to right itself, she pushed it out of the mud pit, onto the grass. Lifting its head on a wobbly neck, it bawled.

  Char crawled away on her hands and knees and, once clear of the mud, pushed herself to her feet. She stood, swaying, breathing heavily. The cow lowed once more, and the afterbirth was delivered where Char had been sitting a moment before.

  She stepped to the cow’s head. “You did it, Mama! A strong baby boy.”

  The cow lay still, eyes closed. Char frowned. “You rest. I’ll take care of him.”

  She walked on needle-prickling legs to the truck. A laser of light flashed in her eyes and danced over her. Headlights bounced through the field toward her.

  “Now the cavalry shows up,” she grumbled, opening the truck door. In the dome light, she dug in the mess behind the seat until she came up with a grease-stained towel. She carried it to where the calf lay shivering, struggling to collect its long legs beneath it. Her back creaked as she leaned over to clean out the nostrils, then scrubbed the towel over the calf’s body to dry and warm it.

  Rosa’s ancient El Camino truck pulled up, the headlights spotlighting the tableau. She started babbling before she got out. “Oh, Charla, I’m so sorry!” Her pale scrubs flashed in the light as she trotted over. “I was teaching Ben to make bread, and you know how you can get wrapped up in that—”

  “This woman could talk gum off a wall, I swear.” Her dad walked up. “Well, whadya got here, Charla Rae?” They watched the calf struggle to its feet. It stood, tottering on wobbly legs, turned its face to them, closed its eyes, and bawled. Rosa laughed, took the rag from Char, walked over, and rubbed down the calf.

  “He had his head and one leg turned back, but he seems okay now, Daddy. But I’m worried about Tricks.” Char took his hand and led him to the cow, lying still, right where she’d left her. “Shouldn’t she be up, so the calf can suckle?” Her father leaned over, lifted the cow’s eyelid, then straightened and strode to the truck.

  She followed. “Will she be okay?”

  “She’s plumb tuckered, hon.” He rummaged in the area behind the seat. “I always kept sorghum in here, just in case…” He extracted an aluminum gallon can, set it on the grass, then dug some more. He straightened, a baseball cap in his hand. “This’ll do for a trough.”

  “Oh, but Daddy—” That wasn’t any baseball cap. That was Jimmy’s state championship senior league softball cap. She wished she had a nickel for every time he’d told the story of his base-clearing homer in the bottom of the ninth inning. She knew that wherever he was right now, he was missing that cap. She rubbed her aching, blood-spattered, bone-crushed forearm and glanced down at the rag that used to be her favorite turtleneck. “I think that’ll do nicely.”

  He filled the hat with molasses, carried it to the cow, and put it under her nose. Tricks lifted her head, sniffed it, and took a tentative lick. Then another. Soon all that remained was a gooey, tongue-smeared brown stain.

  Her father squatted beside the cow’s head. “Bring the calf, Little Bit. He’ll do the rest.”

  Rosa relinquished the baby with one last swipe of the filthy rag. “At first I tried to rub the spots off. I thought he was dirty!”

  Char half lifted, half pushed the calf the few steps to its mother. When she saw the calf, Tricks lowed and slowly heaved herself to her feet. The baby squalled, and the cow nudged him to her udder. Once he located dinner, the calf drank with gusto, approval apparent down to his flicking tail.

  Char looked up, blinded by the lights of another vehicle bumping across the field toward them, too fast.

  She raised a hand to block the glare. “Who could that—” The truck had almost slid to a stop when the engine died. The door flew open, and Jimmy leapt from the cab.

  Char shot a glare at Rosa, who lifted a shoulder. “You left to feed over two hours ago. I was worried. If there’s trouble here, who else am I going to call?”

  Realizing she held the gooey evidence, Char whipped the cap behind her back.

  Jimmy ran up, his eyes flashing wild in the car’s lights. “Are you all right?”

  She took a step back. “Sure.”

  He bent over, hands on knees, sides heaving, way more out of breath than he should have been running ten steps.

  Her dad said, “Dang it, JB, you’re always on the road when something big happens. Glad you’re home, son. Come look at what a ranch wife can do in a night’s work.” He stepped aside.

  “Oh, wow.” Jimmy breathed out the words like a little boy who just got his heart’s desire for Christmas.

  While her dad explained the problem birth, Char backed to the ranch truck and tossed the evidence onto the shadowed floorboard, and slammed the truck door.

  Jimmy turned to her, head cocked, eyebrows scrunched. “You did this.”

  She walked the few steps back, puffing out her chest. “Didn’t see anyone else available.”

  She remembered that look. From back in high school, when Jimmy thought she was all that.

  “You’re amazing.”

  At his boyish smile, her heart took that tiny familiar pinch. She wiped her sticky hands together. “Rosa gave me an idea for a name. But it’s your calf, so…”

  “He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, so you get to name him. What is it?”

  “Dirty Tricks.”

  Her dad barked a laugh and pushed the straw cowboy hat to the back of his head. “I can just hear JB announcing that at the PBR finals.”

  “Your mouth to God’s ears, Ben. I think it’s a great name.” Jimmy stepped over the mud pit to Tricks, patting and murmuring to her. He bent and lifted her lip, examining her gums. “She’s dehydrated. We need to get her back to the barn and some water.”

  Now that the drama was over, Char felt as limp as raw bacon. She turned to walk to the truck and stumbled on the uneven ground.

  Her dad was there, his arm around her waist. She leaned on his bony shoulder. “I’m so tired, Daddy.”

  “You did a good thing here tonight, Charla Rae. I couldn’a done better. Now let’s get you home.”

  Char bent and lifted the hank of rope from the mud. “In a minute, Daddy.” She walked to Tricks, looped the rope around her neck, and rubbed the broad forehead. “Come on, girl, let’s take your son to the nursery.”

  “Do you mind if I tag along?”

  If Jimmy wouldn’t have asked in that voice—that polite, assume-nothing voice—she’d have said no. “Okay.”

  It was his stock, after all.

  Rosa took her dad’s elbow. “Let’s go, Ben. We left dinner on the table. Will you help me heat it up?”

  “I’ll turn off all the lights, Charla Rae.” Ben walked to the ranch truck. “This battery is about gone. JB, you give her a jump if she needs it, hear?”

  “Yessir, I will.” Jimmy shrugged out of his fancy PBR letterman-style jacket and settled it over her shoulders.

  Char had been cold so long she’d forgotten what warm felt like. The jacket still held the heat of Jimmy’s body, and she shivered. It held his smell too, and, God, how she’d always loved that.

  When the El Camino pulled away, the darkness, held at bay by headlights, took over. Char tugged on the rope, and Tricks followed, Jimmy walking on the other side of her head. Char kept the pace
slow, so the spindle-legged calf could keep up. The going got easier when they left the muddy, tromped-down area.

  The sky had cleared. The moon painted the wet meadow in brushstrokes of silver: the edges of grass blades, the shine off a hunk of quartz, the branches of a dead tree they passed. The storm had shushed the night birds and crickets. The only sound was the wet grass brushing their jeans.

  His deep voice came from the dark but somehow was a part of it. “You sure you don’t want me to carry you?”

  She remembered. A hot, humid night, shortly after they’d moved back to the ranch. Neither of them could sleep on the sticky sheets, so they’d snuck out of the house, Char in her nightgown, Jimmy in sweats, giggling like kids. Jimmy’d stopped to pull on boots, but she was barefoot. He’d scooped her up and carried her all the way to the edge of the pond.

  She shook her head, to break off the rest of the memory—the skinny-dipping part. She glanced up to see the moonlight flashing off his smile.

  You can accuse James Benton Denny of a lot of things, but a lack of courage isn’t one of them. Before she could clamp down on it, a giggle slipped out. She ducked her head and slowed, dropping back to check on the calf. “I remember.” She’d almost whispered it, but knew he’d heard when his chuckle drifted back to her.

  By the time they’d gotten Tricks and her calf settled in the pasture, the adrenaline Char had been running on ran out. She stood in the circle of the security light on the barn, looking across the field, not knowing where she’d get the energy to make the trip back.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Charla?”

  Jimmy’s worried expression told her she must have looked as bad as she felt. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve got to get the truck.”

  “I’ll go fetch my truck and drive you to the house. Tomorrow I’ll pick up a battery in town and bring it out.”

  “Jimmy, I’ll be fine. I can do this.” She took a deep breath and started walking.

  In two of his long strides, he’d caught up to her. “I know you can, Charla Rae. After tonight, I wouldn’t wager there’s anything you can’t do.” He took her elbow to help her navigate the uneven ground. “The thing is, you shouldn’t have to.”

  They walked across the moonlit field.

  She knew she should step away from his touch, but his hand was warm and comforting. This kind of endearment reminded her of how close they once were, how much he’d cared.

  He felt solid, like she could lean on him, depend on him. He felt like her Jimmy.

  Lord, how she missed him.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing.

  —Marcus Aurelius

  JB had left the coat closet packing for last. Dropping to his knees, he dug through the flotsam on the floor: a bowling ball, worn-out shoes, and dust bunnies as prolific as their breathing namesakes. When sweat blurred his vision, he sat back on his heels, scrubbing a hand over his beard stubble. “Where is the danged thing?”

  He’d spent all morning packing. He’d promised the landlord he’d be out by noon. But he couldn’t leave without his championship cap. He stood and felt blindly on the top shelf. Winter gloves, stocking caps. “Ah, finally!” He tugged a navy baseball cap from under an umbrella. “How the heck did it get—” He read the familiar logo emblazoned across the front:

  JUNIOR’S FEED & SEED

  IF WE DON’T HAVE IT, YOU DON’T NEED IT.

  “Crap.” The kitchen clock, ticking loud in the silence, chimed twelve times. He crammed the contents of the closet into the last two boxes. The cap wasn’t in the apartment. At least that narrowed the choices.

  Thank God for Wiley. Good to know he had at least one friend. After hearing about JB losing the apartment, Wiley invited JB to come live with him, his wife, Dana, and the baby.

  Saved my bacon, that’s for sure.

  He took a last tour of the apartment to be sure he hadn’t left anything else. Funny, the place didn’t look much different with his stuff gone. A bit less cluttered maybe.

  His life, on the other hand, looked more like the Grand Canyon. At night.

  Traveling alone to events had become strange. Sure, he had traveled alone when he and Char were married, but that was different. He’d gone straight to the hotel after the events. Everyone knew he had a wife at home.

  When he was with Jess, they were the center of the social scene. He’d tried to keep that up after they broke up, but everyone at the bar looked past him, as if he no longer belonged.

  How could he not have known? Those kids weren’t his friends, they were Jess’s.

  Being alone with Little Bit last night brought it all back. How much he missed being her husband, the man by her side looking out for her, taking care of her. How much he missed the love and trust in her eyes. Touching her made him miss her, like a piece of him was gone.

  He shook his head, snugged Junior’s gimmie cap over his hair, balanced the last two boxes in his arms, and jerked the door open.

  He was going to have to get used to being alone, somehow. Char made it very clear she didn’t need him anymore, and that cut him deep. He reckoned she had a right to feel the way she did, but it didn’t make things any better.

  When he walked out of the apartment for the last time, the snick of the latch echoed in the empty hallway.

  “We’ve missed you in church, Charla Rae.” Reverend Mike’s deep voice wasn’t accusatory, but she felt caught, just the same. That would teach her to pick up the phone without checking the caller I.D.

  “It’s been crazy here lately, Rev. There’s Dad to care for, and I’ve taken on more responsibilities around the ranch.” She switched the phone to her other hand, scrubbing her sweaty palm on the leg of her jeans. “You know, to stay busy.”

  “I’m glad, Charla Rae. Busy hands can soothe a troubled heart. I want you to know that the congregation and I are praying for you.”

  “Thank you, Rev. It’s been nice talking to you.”

  “You know that it’s natural for a person to be angry after what you’ve endured, don’t you, Charla?”

  Her fingers tapped a drumbeat on the kitchen counter. She didn’t need this right now. “Rev., I appreciate your guidance, but Jimmy—”

  “I wasn’t speaking of Jimmy, Charla Rae. I’m referring to anger at God.”

  The soothing voice did nothing to stop the tremor in her fingers as she reached for her coffee cup. “Oh. Well.” She gulped cold coffee to give her time to come up with something to say.

  “I was at Saint Luke’s last week, visiting Ms. Gansvoort. Her diabetes is progressing, but, thank the Lord, they’ve managed to stabilize her.”

  “Rev., that’s wonderful. But I need to get out and feed—”

  “I ran into Toby, the grief counselor of their community outreach.”

  Her mother’s china cup chattered to the saucer and overturned. Char’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The fact that she hadn’t been prepared for the punch made it worse, though she should have been.

  She was sure the whole town knew about her meltdown at the grief group by now. She couldn’t believe she’d screamed in the face of another human being, much less a grief-stricken old woman. One more shame on her long list.

  Coffee spread on the counter.

  “Charla, won’t you tell me what happened? Talking about it may help.”

  The phone chirped in her ear. She pounced on the excuse. “Rev., I’m so sorry. I’ve got to take this call. It’s business.” She didn’t know why God would take her side over the reverend’s, but she wasn’t about to question the reprieve.

  “All right, Charla Rae. I’ll call some other time—”

  The joyful beep interrupted once more.

  “—just know that there are many who care for you, and that you are in our hearts and our thoughts.”

  “Thank you for the call. I’ll talk to you soon.” She blew out a breath, then clicked to the next call. “Denny Bucking Bulls, Charl
a speaking. Can I help you?” Oh poop. She’d been so flustered she’d forgotten to thank the reverend for referring the nurse!

  “Hi, Little Bit.” Jimmy’s upbeat voice reminded her, once more, that God was not kind. “How’s Tricks?”

  The hot flash of anger felt good. Anger she could deal with. “James B. Denny, just because you chose to hang out with foul-mouthed children doesn’t mean you can talk to me that way.”

  His wry chuckle burbled on the line. “Char, I meant the cow.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Grabbing a sponge from the sink, she mopped up the coffee. A shadow stain remained. “She and Dirty Tricks are both fine.” She pulled Bon Ami from under the sink and tapped it onto the stain.

  “Well, you did a great job, Char. With those bloodlines, he’s going to be a winner. I’ll see about getting him registered with the ABBI.”

  “Okay, good. Listen, Jimmy, I’ve got to get ready, so I’ll talk to you later.” She reached for the “off” button.

  “Wait! Char. Char?” Jimmy’s tiny tinny voice drifted up from the receiver. Sighing, she put the phone back to her ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Look, Char. I don’t want to make you mad. But we have to talk about the business. The young bulls are in the pasture eating their fool heads off. If I don’t start getting them used to the bucking chutes and the trailer, we’re going to lose a whole season with them. Kid Charlemagne and the Mouse aren’t going to buck forever, and—”

  She sighed. Eight a.m., and she already had more to worry about than she had brain cells. “I know, Jimmy, I know. I need some time to think about it, okay?” And she sure couldn’t sort out her feelings with him on the other end of the line.

  “Yeah, Charla, sure.” He hesitated, a sure sign he was marshalling arguments to launch an attack of reason.

  Yet reason had nothing to do with the boiling in her gut. “I am running seriously late, Jimmy. I’ll call you later. Bye.” She mashed the “off” button before he could get a word in and dropped the phone on the counter.

  Jimmy was right. She knew it. The business couldn’t survive without good buckers to advance the ranch’s reputation. Not to mention the price of their semen. The thought of having him on the property again…