She’s Gone Country Read online

“You know that’s why she was here last week.”

  I look at him, surprised. “Was it?”

  He nods. “She’s having a hard time accepting that Cody’s gone. She told me she keeps having dreams where he’s alive and she just has to find him and everything will be okay.”

  I feel a stab of guilt for not being more patient with her. “Poor Mama,” I say, opening the refrigerator once more to retrieve a bottle of ranch salad dressing. Suddenly I remember my conversation with Dane. “Oh! Guess who I bumped into at the Brief Encounter Café in Mineral Wells?” I ask, drizzling the dressing over the torn-up greens.

  “Dane Kelly.”

  My head jerks up. “How did you know?”

  “Ricky saw him at Miller’s Feed and Grain today.” Ricky is Brick’s foreman and has worked on the ranch for over ten years. “Apparently Kelly just got back from Brazil, where he’s been working with a breeder there.”

  “I thought he was in Houston rehabbing.”

  Brick shrugs. “I honestly wouldn’t know. We don’t stay in touch anymore.”

  Brick sounds strangely detached, especially since Dane was once his best friend. I shoot him a swift side glance as I grab the tongs and begin tossing the lettuce. “How’d he get hurt?”

  “In the ring.”

  “Ah.” The questions bubble up. There’s so much I want to ask Brick about Dane. About the accident. About his wife. About his life. “Why don’t you talk?” I persist, knowing that Dane and Brick met on the first day of kindergarten and had been tight ever since.

  Brick doesn’t answer immediately, and I can tell he’s picking his words with care once he does. “Dane and Blue got into a feud. It turned ugly and eventually forced me to take a side.”

  I pause, salad tongs in midair. “Blue and Dane fighting? I can’t believe that. Blue always looked up to Dane—”

  “Twenty years ago. Things have changed. Dane’s just a rancher now. Blue’s a big city developer. And they blame each other for what happened to Cody.”

  I shoot my brother a quick glance, thinking he’s joking. But his blue eyes aren’t smiling. He looks tired and dead serious. “How are either of them responsible for Cody’s problems?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I grab pot holders from the drawer and lift the simmering scalloped-potato casserole out of the oven and set it on the stove. “That’s the same thing Dane said, but I have time and I’m interested.”

  Brick goes to the fridge and retrieves a beer. He pops off the cap and takes a quick drink. “Blue tried to get Cody help a couple years ago—it was kind of a tough love program for addicts—but Dane didn’t agree with the tough love approach, got involved, and scared Cody off. Now Cody’s dead.”

  I freeze. “You don’t blame Dane, do you?”

  “Dane should have minded his own business,” Brick answers gruffly. He’s not comfortable with conversations like this. He’s never been able to criticize our parents, his family, or his friends. It’s disloyal, and Brick’s loyal to a fault. “And now the bad blood between Blue and Dane has spilled over into other things, like Blue’s development of the McCurdy property. Folks around here are taking sides, and quite a few have taken Dane’s side…”

  His voice drifts off, but I hear what he doesn’t say. Out of family loyalty, Brick has taken Blue’s side.

  I lift five plates from the painted cupboard. “I guess I’ve been gone too long. What’s Blue doing with the McCurdy ranch?”

  Brick takes a long time to answer. “Blue’s company bought McCurdy’s property and is developing it into fifty ranchettes. Ten houses have already been built. Forty more are to come.”

  I’m just reaching for glasses and stop. Appalled, I face him. The McCurdy ranch was one of the bigger ranches in the area and had been family owned all the way back to the 1880s, when the first McCurdy moved here and established his sheep and cattle ranch. “The McCurdys sold to Blue?”

  Brick nods.

  “And Blue’s putting fifty home sites on the property?”

  He shrugs. “Blue got the zoning. The county thought it’d be good for the economy, what with the population still shrinking. But Dane’s property lies next to McCurdy’s, and he hates the development right next to his place.”

  For a farmer or rancher, this is the worst thing that could happen. Land is precious. Land represents pasture, fields, crops, grazing, important acreage that’s lost once you build on it. “Has Blue’s development impacted Dane?”

  “There have been problems with ATV riders and hunters trespassing, riding off-terrain vehicles through fields and pastures.”

  “Wow.”

  Brick’s expression is grim.

  “You’d hate it if someone built a condominium right next to our place,” I add.

  Brick’s lips press tighter. “I hear that.”

  I lean against the counter. “So you and Dane aren’t talking at all anymore?”

  “He sent me a note after Cody’s death, but otherwise, no. We don’t have any communication.”

  “For nearly forty years he was your best friend.”

  Brick exhales, shrugs. “Blue’s my brother.”

  And blood’s real thick around here, I think, reaching for the glasses again.

  Chapter Four

  Brick leaves after dinner, and I finish washing up dishes while the boys scatter into different rooms. Kitchen clean and lights out, I crash on the couch to watch CNN news for an hour, and Cooper comes in to snuggle with me on the couch. He might be as tall as a man, but he’s still very much a sixth grader and hungry for love.

  “Can we see if there’s any bull riding on?” he asks. “They should be showing last night’s results from Nashville.”

  I hand him the remote, and he immediately pulls up the Versus channel, which is indeed replaying last night’s highlights.

  “Just another five weeks until the finals in Las Vegas,” he says a few minutes later as they go to a commercial break. “Wish we could go. Is there any way we could go?”

  “To Las Vegas?”

  “It’d be so cool, Mom. The best of the best will be competing. Guilherme Marchi, Kody Lostroh, Zack Brown, Chris Shivers, Ryan McConnel. They’ll all be there.”

  “What about J. B. Mauney?” I ask slyly, fully aware that J.B. is Coop’s favorite rider on the Built Ford Tough tour.

  “He’ll be there for sure. And he could win it all, too.”

  “It’d be fun, but expensive—”

  “I’ll save my money!”

  “Honey, we’re talking hundreds of dollars.”

  “What about for an early Christmas present?”

  “You already asked for your own horse.”

  “Oh. Right.” He slumps lower to rest his head against my shoulder. “But I really, really want to go,” he says in a small voice.

  I remember how I used to love attending the rodeo with Pop and my brothers. Mama never went, but Pop would load us all up in his truck and we’d head to Fort Worth or Weatherford or Beaumont for the weekend. If the weather was good, we’d camp. If the weather was bad, we’d stay in a little motel room. Dane would sometimes go with us, and those were my favorite trips. Even from a young age, I would watch him with equal parts fascination and adoration. But ultimately it was Pop’s love of the rodeo that got Brick hooked on riding roughstock, and now it seems my youngest has inherited the Callen love affair with broncs and bulls.

  “We’ll see,” I tell him. “No promises. But I will look into costs and the dates. Okay?”

  He flashes a huge grin up at me, and I hate how I fall for his killer smile every time. I’m such a sucker, I really am.

  Determined not to be late for the shoot, I leave the next morning as soon as Brick and Charlotte arrive to get the boys off to school for me. I hadn’t expected Charlotte, but she said she was better at handling sleepy boys than Brick. I give her a grateful hug good-bye on my way out the door.

  The sun is up and glowing pink and yellow as I head toward Mineral Wells. I driv
e with my window down, soaking up the still cool, fresh morning air, listening to the warble and cooing of meadowlarks, starlings, and rock doves. I love the early mornings best, when the earth still smells fragrant and the sky is washed in the sheerest shades of pink and yellow and blue.

  Pop’s favorite work truck, now a very rusty red, lacks power steering, power windows, and a fancy sound system, but it does have an old cassette player and an even older radio that no longer works. As traffic continues to get heavier now that I’ve hit U.S. 80, I drum my fingers on the open window.

  I don’t want to return to the photo shoot. I don’t like being made to feel incompetent. And I definitely don’t enjoy playing Grandma.

  But it’s a job, and it pays really good money, money I definitely need.

  I draw a deep breath and exhale slowly, then do it again. I’m marginally calmer. I can do this. I’m good at this. No reason to stress.

  My phone rings just then, and I think it might be Blue, finally returning my call. Instead it’s my husband, calling from New York. “Morning, John.”

  “You got a minute?” he asks.

  “At least sixty of them,” I answer as traffic slows to forty. “I’m driving into Dallas right now. I was booked for a shoot yesterday and we wrap up today.”

  “That’s great. Good for you. Did Liza find you work?”

  “No, I’ve signed on with a Dallas agency. It’s the first time they’ve done anything with me since I arrived. So, what’s up? Everything okay there?”

  “Fine. I was just curious about Thanksgiving and Christmas, wanted to nail down the kids’ plans and book their airline tickets if you haven’t.”

  Thanksgiving without the boys. I’ve never not been with them during the holidays. “I haven’t. No.”

  “They are still coming to see me, aren’t they?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll go ahead and make the travel arrangements, then. I’m going to use Erik’s miles, and I can get a better deal if they fly out Saturday before Thanksgiving and then back on Sunday following Thanksgiving.”

  “That’d be nine days, and they’ll miss school—”

  “I haven’t seen them in six weeks, Shey.”

  I bite my lip, chagrined. He’s right. “They can miss school. That’s not a problem. They’re coasting here.”

  John hesitates. “I was going to talk to you about that. They’re not real happy in Parkfield, and Hank’s worried about not getting into a top university if he stays there.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe they should come back to New York. Live with Erik and me—”

  “No.”

  “Erik and I are looking for a bigger place—”

  “No! No. You can’t take the boys from me, John. Absolutely not.”

  “You took them from me! You moved them to Timbuktu.”

  “Because you left. You left our home, our marriage—”

  “I left the marriage. I didn’t leave the kids. And I’ve always been a good father, a hands-on dad, and you know it.”

  Emotion rushes through me and I hold it back, my left hand gripping the steering wheel for all it’s worth. I do know it, but it doesn’t change the way I feel, and I feel betrayed as well as abandoned. “You and I made these kids, John, not you and Erik, and I won’t have you and Erik raising them.”

  “Then come back to New York—”

  “With what money? We have no money. You have no money. If it weren’t for Erik, you couldn’t afford to be in New York either!”

  He doesn’t immediately answer. John’s not a hot-tempered guy, and he and I weren’t ever fighters. But then, when we were together we didn’t need to fight. We always agreed on everything.

  “But I do have Erik,” he says finally, “and Erik was the one who suggested we have them come live with us—”

  “Of course he would. He’s not a parent. He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose your kids—”

  “Shey, I miss them.”

  The sadness in his voice makes me feel guilty, which just makes me angry. “These are things that should have been considered before you turned our world upside down, John.”

  “So you’re never coming back to New York. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  I want to punch him. I do. He makes it all sound so simple. Just come back to New York and everything will be fine. But it won’t be fine. I won’t be fine. I’ll be surrounded by constant reminders of the life we had and the life we lost. “I loved you, John. I loved being married to you and sharing a home with you. And maybe you’ve moved on, and maybe you’re okay, but I’m not! I’m still struggling to figure out what the hell happened to my life. Never mind what happened to you.”

  “I’m gay—”

  “Hooray. So glad we found that out.”

  My bitterness silences him. Finally he sighs. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I wish I hadn’t, wish I hadn’t ever had these other feelings, or doubts…” His voice drifts away. I guess there’s not much else he can add, because he did have the other feelings, the ones that made him desire a man instead of me.

  I still don’t understand it. I don’t know how he could be with me, attracted to me, make love to me, live with me, and then realize it was all wrong, that he wasn’t heterosexual but homosexual and that Erik was his true soul mate. “I’m sorry, too.” He’s trying to make me feel better, but I actually feel worse. It’d be easier to accept this if we hated each other or we weren’t happy together. It’d be easier if he’d fallen in love with another woman. Then I could rage properly. I could shout and throw things and feel victimized. But the way it is now, with John miserable for hurting me and lost without the kids, I feel like the bad guy.

  “Go ahead and book the Thanksgiving tickets,” I tell him, desperate now to just get off the phone. “I’ll work on Christmas.”

  “The twenty-sixth to New Year’s Day, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Hope the shoot goes well.”

  I hang up and brake yet again as traffic thickens. My head pounds, my hands shake, and I’m dangerously close to throwing up.

  I shouldn’t have taken his call. I shouldn’t try to have these horrendous conversations where he’s pleasant and I’m not.

  The car in front of me has come to a dead stop. I apply the brake hard, jerk to a halt. Hear brakes squeal behind me, pray I don’t get hit.

  Highland Park is still fifty miles away, which means this is going to be a very long day.

  Turns out my day isn’t as long as I’d thought it would be. In fact, the modeling part is very short. I arrive in Highland Park at nine, go to check in with DeeDee, and discover I’m not needed after all. The model I was substituting for is back—apparently recovered from her flu or food poisoning or whatever ailed her—and I’m free to go home.

  I’m seriously annoyed, but this is the business. So instead of protesting, I simply present my voucher book to DeeDee. She looks down at the basic information I’ve already filled in. Three-hour minimum. Five hundred dollars an hour. Additional four hours’ travel time, although that’s prorated at 50 percent of my hourly rate.

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars?” DeeDee says, jaw dropping.

  I don’t even bat an eye. “Yes.”

  “We don’t pay five hundred an hour—”

  “It’s my rate—”

  “For models we don’t use.”

  I smile serenely as I fish into my purse for my phone. “Let me give Joanne a call at the agency. You two can sort this out.”

  Once I have Joanne on the line, I hand over the phone and walk away, heading to the catering table, where I pour myself a big Styrofoam cup of coffee and add several packets of sweetener. I calmly stir the Splenda into the coffee as DeeDee’s voice grows louder. She’s not happy. She’s been ripped off. This isn’t New York. I can’t charge New York rates here.

  Joanne must be speaking because DeeDee falls quiet for a long time, and then it’s a low, tight “Mmm-hmm” from DeeDee and then sil
ence.

  A moment later, DeeDee walks my phone back over to me. “I’ll sign your book,” she says tersely, not even looking at me.

  I hand the book to her, knowing she’ll never request me, never want to work with me again. Knowing that no one might want to work with me again. But I don’t bat an eye as I watch her scribble her name and signature in the book, because rates are rates and business is business and I’m not a nineteen-year-old on a first job. This has been my career for nearly twenty years, and I’ve earned my rate and earned my success.

  “Big New York model,” she mutters, ripping out a copy of the voucher to keep for their files.

  My silence must frustrate her further, because her head jerks up and she gives me a withering look as she shoves my book back into my hands. “This isn’t New York, you know.”

  “I know,” I answer as gently as I can, “because in New York stylists and creative directors are professional.”

  And then I take my voucher book and my coffee and leave.

  It’s not until I drive away from the tree-lined neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes that I realize it’s only nine-fifteen. And even after paying my agency’s commission, I’ve just earned two thousand dollars. Not bad for a day’s work.

  Once again, I debate whether I should stop by Blue and Emily’s house. It’s strange that Blue never called me back yesterday. That’s not like him. He’s definitely more materialistic than Brick, but he shares my older brother’s values in terms of family and loyalty. He and Emily haven’t had the easiest marriage, but he never complains and he dotes on his daughters, Megan, sixteen, and Andrea, fourteen. His daughters, interestingly, don’t dote on us. They’re beautiful girls—already as polished and sophisticated as their mother—but they treat the boys as if they’re country hicks.

  Maybe it’s because my boys are a bit in awe of their glamorous cousins.

  Or maybe it’s just that my boys aren’t movie-star beautiful. They’re pimply and gangly and geeky… well, not Hank. Hank so far has escaped zits and ghostly pale skin. But let’s face it, boys at this age aren’t as cool as girls. Girls mature faster, and they never let you forget it.