Cowboy Take Me Away (3 page)

Hey, anything for a buck.

Luke got back into his truck, and as he drove, a light sprinkling of rain intermittently pattered his windshield. But by the time he approached the city limits, it had stopped completely. He drove along the ribbon of highway carved into the hillside, surprised at how much he remembered about this place he’d wanted so much to forget. The memory of every curve unfolded in his mind seconds before he reached it, like a song he would never have remembered unless it started to play. When he’d driven this road as a teenager, he’d been behind the wheel of a rust and blue 1986 Mustang he’d held together with sweat and duct tape, smoking a Marlboro and dreaming of the day he’d never have to return there again.

He checked his watch. It was nearly noon. If he pushed hard, he could make it to Las Cruces tonight and drive the rest of the way to Phoenix tomorrow. That would put him in a day ahead so he could rest up before competing.

He swung his truck around a gentle curve, and the Pic ’N Go came into view. It was the same beige brick building trimmed in green and red with two gas pumps out front. Signs in the window included an ad for foot-long hot dogs and a multicolored poster advertising the Festival of the Animals.

He drove on, and soon he saw the entrance to the Rainbow Valley Animal Shelter. Animals lucky enough to end up there got a whole new life. When he was younger, he’d fantasized about a place where a kid like him could go for a second chance, too. Then he got older and realized that second chances for people like him came only with their own blood and sweat.

Forget all that. Past history. Keep on driving.

Then a twinge of foreboding ran along the back of Luke’s neck. If he was passing the shelter, it meant he was only a short distance from the gravel road that led to his father’s house.

Seconds later, he saw the property. The rickety metal gate hung open, and the rusted-out mailbox sat on the same wobbly four-by-four it had over a decade ago. A dilapidated barbed wire fence surrounded the acreage, its posts encircled by tall, thick-bladed Johnson grass.

He found himself pulling to the shoulder of the road. A crumbling concrete pad was the only thing left from the gas station that had been torn down decades ago. He stared down the long gravel road, trying for a distant glimpse of the house, but the overgrown foliage blocked it.

Was it really as bad as he remembered?

He didn’t know. Maybe he’d elevated the wretchedness of it in his memory, letting it run rampant in his nightmares and allowing it to have far more power over him than he ever should have.

He touched the gas pedal and turned onto the property, inching down the gravel drive and rounding the bend. The moment he saw the house, his hands tightened involuntarily on the steering wheel. He swallowed hard, only to realize his mouth had gone dry.

It was even worse than he remembered.

Overgrown shrubs grew halfway up the windows, one of which had a starburst crack, as if somebody had smacked it with a brick. The roof was shot. One side of the iron porch railing leaned at a crazy angle, looking as if a solid gust of wind would knock it down. Sunburned paint peeled away from the trim in irregular chunks. The old live oak tree out front was so dry its limbs had turned a dull, lifeless gray, sending dying leaves to their final resting place on the brittle grass beneath. Only one kind of person lived in a place like that.

The kind who had already died inside.

For a moment, he wondered if the front door would be open. Then he realized he already knew the answer. His old man had never locked it. What was the point when he had nothing anybody would want to steal?

Luke killed the truck’s engine and stepped out. He started toward the house, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The porch decking was shrunken and weathered to ash gray, and as he walked up the steps and across it, the boards moaned and squeaked. No doubt they were chewed halfway through by termites.

He put his hand on the doorknob, only to stop short. He stood motionless for several seconds, his heart hammering in his chest.
Just go inside. Have a look around. No big deal.

He closed his eyes, gathering conviction, telling himself that seeing inside this house again would put everything into perspective and drive the memories from his mind once and for all.

But then he remembered other things. Things he didn’t even realize had been lodged in his subconscious. Days of misery. Nights of heartache. Years of despair. All of it as fresh in his mind as if it had happened yesterday.

He gripped the doorknob. As he turned it, he heard the raspy squeak of old metal, tripping a memory that sent a chill snaking between his shoulders.

Cursing his own weakness, he let go of the doorknob and stepped backward. All at once, one of the rotted boards he stood on gave way beneath his foot. He tried to grab the doorknob to keep himself from falling, but it slipped from his grasp. As he fell, his knee slammed against the jagged opening. Then more of the board broke and his leg slid the rest of the way through, scraping against the shards of wood, twisting as it went.

Then came the pain.

It was as if lightning had struck his knee, sending shockwaves up and down his leg. With a strangled groan, he righted himself, then put a palm on either side of the opening and hoisted himself up until he was sitting on the rickety porch. Slowly he eased his leg back through the rotted boards, gritting his teeth against the pain that rocketed through his knee. He paused for a moment, breathing hard, and then he swung his weight over to his uninjured leg and stood up. But the instant he put weight on his other leg, he almost collapsed all over again.

He leaned against the door, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Walk it off. Just walk it off.

He tried. One step, two. But the pain was so intense that he limped to the porch stairs and lowered himself to sit. He dropped his head to his hands for a few seconds, trying to get a grip on the pain. Then he pulled off his boot. Eased the leg of his jeans up. When he saw his knee, the sickening sense of impending loss he felt almost drowned out the pain. He fell limply to one side against the porch railing, closing his eyes, imagining the worst.

This had been his year, the year everything finally came together and he seemed to be able to do no wrong. After spending his entire adult life getting tossed around like a rag doll by two-thousand-pound animals hell-bent on killing him, he was finally going straight to the top. He’d racked up so much prize money that it would qualify him for the World Championship even if he never rode another bull until then. The championship had been his to lose.

And he had the most gut-wrenching feeling that was exactly what had just happened.

He slowly opened his eyes again and looked at the landscape beyond. The view of the valley had always been perfect from this porch, another irony that had never escaped him. The rainstorm had cleansed the air, sharpening and enhancing the beauty of the valley as if he were looking through a high-definition lens.

And there it was. A rainbow.

A fucking rainbow.

And he swore he could hear his father laughing.

Shannon pulled her truck to a halt in front of the small farmhouse that served as the office of the Rainbow Valley Animal Shelter. True to its Victorian roots, it was painted a creamy yellow with dark rose trim. Intricate scrollwork framed the front steps, with paired Doric columns supporting the wraparound front porch. Hanging baskets full of pink periwinkles swayed lightly in the breeze.

She thought about the downtown loft she’d owned in Houston, with its soaring ceilings, exposed duct work, and stair railings made of industrial pipe. It had been the height of chic and trendy, a perfect place to entertain clients who were equally chic and trendy. But now it seemed as if the woman who’d lived that life was seeping out of her body one breath at a time, soon to be gone forever.

Shannon got out of her truck, and Goliath leaped out after her. He followed her through the front door, then slinked over to his favorite spot in the corner behind her desk.

Freddie Jo sat at her computer, her fingers flying over her keyboard. She wore a shirt that was working overtime to harness her ample chest, and she’d stuffed the lower half of her plus-size figure into a pair of jeans that hugged every bump and bulge. She said the best day of her life was when they’d started putting Lycra in blue jeans.

“So how was lunch?” she asked, never looking away from her computer screen.

“Good,” Shannon said. “Rosie has a new avocado and bacon burger. Try it next time you’re there.”

“Rita okay?”

“Yeah. She’s going to pop by in a few days to say hi.”

Freddie Jo hit one last button on her keyboard and her printer began to hum. She kept the business end of the shelter running with a smooth efficiency that had always astonished Shannon. But because Freddie Jo wrapped every word she spoke in a heavy backwoods Texas twang, a lot of people were lulled into thinking she couldn’t possibly be as competent as she was. Big mistake. Beneath that pile of Texas big hair was more than just a set of false eyelashes and mammoth turquoise earrings. There was also a brain that never slept.

“So what did you decide?” Freddie Jo said.

“About what?”

“The funeral.”

“Oh. That.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “I decided it would be better if I didn’t go. After all, we didn’t really know each other all that well, so…”

Her voice trailed off. She opened her lower desk drawer and deposited her purse inside it.

“I heard he was a real hell raiser when he lived here before,” Freddie Jo said.

“Who did you hear that from?”

“Just about everyone who lived here back then. Soon as his father died, the gossip started.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shannon said. “He’s gone now.”
Thank God.

Shannon turned to find Bridget sitting in her chair, as usual. And, as usual, when she tried to lift the hefty calico tabby, she protested by turning onto her back and transforming herself into a spineless two-ton weight.

“
My
chair,” Shannon said, grunting with the effort of picking her up and depositing her on the floor. The cat looked back over her shoulder with extreme kitty displeasure, then sauntered away.

“I think she just flipped you the bird,” Freddie Jo said.

“Hey! Do I curl up on her rug? Pee in her litter box? Play with her toys? No, I do
not
.”

“You’re forgetting cat psychology. What’s hers is hers, but what’s yours is up for grabs.”

Which was why Shannon had once found Bridget sleeping inside her open purse, with nothing but her head, her tail, and one paw hanging out. How she’d managed to cram her colossal feline self in there, Shannon didn’t know. She was still picking cat hair out of her purse.

Shannon had adopted Bridget as a kitten from a shelter in Houston, and she’d been the queen of Shannon’s townhome. But now she knew Bridget would be much happier wearing that crown at the office rather than being home alone all day. Here there were plenty of people coming and going to give her all the attention she was entitled to.

“Anything happen while I was gone?” Shannon asked as she sat down.

“Uh…yeah,” Freddie Jo said. “I opened the mail.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Which do you want first? The good news or the bad news?”

Shannon cringed. “I hate it when you say that.”

“Your choice.”

“Better give me the good news first. That way I can enjoy it for a whole ten seconds before the bad news comes.”

Freddie Jo handed her an envelope. “You remember that grant we applied for from that pet pharmaceutical company? Check this out.”

Shannon took out the letter and scanned it quickly, feeling a rush of pure joy. Times were tough, and grants were competitive. But this one had come through. Five thousand dollars wouldn’t go very far, but every little bit helped.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, putting her hand on her chest. “This gives us a little breathing room.”

“Don’t take that breathing for granted just yet. You haven’t heard the bad news.”

Freddie Jo handed her another letter, and when Shannon saw who it was from, she felt a horrible sense of foreboding.

“No,” Shannon said. “No, no,
no
. Don’t you dare tell me Henry Stockton is the bad news.”

“Just take a look at it.”

Shannon opened the letter, and as she read, her body grew weak with disbelief.
Bad economy…difficult times…maybe next year…

“He’s giving us
nothing
this year?” Shannon said, feeling as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. “Not a crying
dime
?”

“The guy is made of gold,” Freddie Jo muttered. “He could singlehandedly keep this place running and never miss the money.”

Shannon closed her eyes, feeling more dejected than she had in months. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault?”

“I didn’t make a good enough case this year. I didn’t explain how much we needed his contribution. If only—”

“Now, you stop right there,” Freddie Jo said. “You turn yourself inside out going after donations, and that man knows quite well what things are like around here. Stop beating yourself up.”

But it was her responsibility to ensure the financial health of this organization, and she had the most terrible feeling she was falling down on the job.

“Don’t worry,” Freddie Jo said. “The festival’s coming up soon. We always see a bunch of donations then. And a lot of animals get adopted. It’s like this every year.”

No. This was worse. Shannon wanted desperately to be the savior these animals needed, but with every day that passed, she felt less and less certain she was living up to that.

When she’d left her job in Houston as an accounting manager at Marks, Wentworth and Halliday, she’d been on the fast track to a partnership. When she told her boss she was quitting to return to her hometown to take a pitifully low salary at a struggling nonprofit, he had literally questioned her sanity. But she’d been full of hope. Confidence. Audacity, even, thinking that if she could handle the accounts of multimillion-dollar clients, surely she could keep a place like this in the black. But she hadn’t counted on a depressed economy, runaway pet food prices, and an out-of-control population of homeless animals that seemed to expand before her very eyes.