If Wishes Were Horses (28 page)

She thought that she was in a very strange place, sitting in a crowded grandstand, a baby kicking up a storm inside her, while she thought about a horse and a man, one who was not her husband.

Two races had been run and a third was about to start, when Johnny returned. “He’s up against eight horses,” he told her. “I bet at five to one odds.”

Etta thought of her fifty dollars. Maybe she should have bet more. She didn’t want to lose more, though, which was why she didn’t bet. It was just too nerve-wracking.

“Little Gus has stamina,” Johnny said, easing down on the seat, relaxing his bad leg. “That’s his edge, and this race is gonna go four hundred forty yards. That’s why I entered him in it.”

The old man in the overalls sitting next to Johnny picked up on that comment and struck up a conversation with Johnny, and in the process learned Etta’s name. “I knew your husband, Roy. He owed me for a ton of alfalfa,” he said flatly.

Etta told him to see Leon Thibodeaux about it. She thought this sort of thing might continue to happen for the rest of her life.

For his race, Little Gus was lined up second from the inside. Etta was about to ask Johnny who decided the positions, when the horses were off and running. She watched them all, then kept her eye on Little Gus. Four horses went out in front of him. She thought maybe he would catch up, but told herself it would be all right if he did not. She struggled to keep calm.

Then there he was, catching up, and then he was catching up to the lead horse ridden by a man in a blue plaid shirt and not wearing a hat. Woody’s big brown hat and the other man’s head were side by side, and then Woody was ahead, Little Gus just flying.

What Etta had thought too much to ask had happened.

She looked at Johnny. His eyes were soft with wonder and emotion. And she knew in that moment that the entire thing was for Johnny. That he had needed Little Gus to win, and that for some reason the day would always be there to bind them together, no matter where each of them went.

“He won, Etta,” Johnny said, a grin blooming on his face. “By damn he did it, just like I said he could.”

Then he took her face between his rough hands and kissed her in a way that a woman treasures until her dying day.

Johnny brought the winning check and the cash from her bet to Etta at the truck. She took the money, then watched Johnny fold his own winnings and tuck them into his boot. He obviously had made quite a bit, which meant he had bet quite a bit.

“It’s a good thing Little Gus won,” she said, “or you would be broke.”

But Johnny shook his head. “No, ma’am. I always save some back.” He cast her a crooked grin. “I know when to bet, and when not to.”

His cockiness both perturbed and charmed her, although she didn’t think she should let on how much he charmed her.

Etta put her money deep into the bottom of her purse, closed it securely, and tucked it way behind the seat. For an instant she thought of Roy and more clearly understood his weakness for gambling. Self-control was perhaps the biggest problem for a human being, and everyone had weaknesses in this area. Poor Roy had been overcome with it in all areas, and it had broken him, she thought.

Johnny touched her elbow. “Etta?”

His voice seemed to demand she return to him. She looked into his eyes and was so very glad he was there.

“Would you like to watch the rodeo from the truck?” he asked. “The view won’t be as good, but the seat will be more comfortable. And you know, now that your horse is gettin’ to be worth a lot, we might not should leave him alone.” He smiled with that.

Johnny was able to position the truck nearer the arena, although their view was obstructed by the railings and occasionally by men and children climbing on the railings. They watched the bronc riding, the bulldogging, in which Woody competed and took first place, and the barrel racing. Sissy Post ran the barrels on a stocky bay and came in second place with a time of twenty-two seconds, which Johnny said was not bad and might have won at some rodeos.

Etta had seen barrel racing a number of times before. After the first run, she got out and climbed up on the fence for a better view, while Johnny hovered behind, as if ready to catch her.

She got very excited when the barrel racer came charging into the arena and rounding the barrels. Her heart beat wildly, and she cried with others, urging the horse and rider on. At one point during a rider’s go, however, Etta got so excited that she lost her hold on the fence and toppled backward, right into Johnny’s arms.

Breathless and shaking, she hung on to Johnny, pressing against his strong chest.

He looked down at her and said in a husky voice, “I think we need to get you sittin’ back in the truck.”

He carried her back to the truck and sat her in the seat. Etta, whose thoughts had been absorbed with barrel racing, found herself a little dazed. She watched Johnny walk around the front of the truck and then slip in beside her. She looked down at her belly. How she thought and felt did not seem to match her pregnant state. She felt suddenly frustrated and tired and told Johnny that she was ready to go home.

“Okay,” he said, clearly puzzled at her sudden change in attitude. “I guess if we go now, we’ll miss all the traffic anyway.”

As they were leaving the rodeo grounds, Sissy Post rode her bay mare up beside Etta’s open window and said, “I’ll give you two thousand dollars for that gelding.”

When Etta declined, as politely as possible, the other woman rode away mad, evidenced by the way she jerked on her poor mare’s mouth and spurred. Etta was glad she had not sold Little Gus to a woman with a temper, even as the thought of two thousand dollars echoed in her mind. Thinking of the money in her purse and Sissy Post’s offers for Little Gus, Etta pondered the fact that things were looking up.

“We’re gonna have to start keepin’ an eye on this son-of-a-buck now, Miz Etta,” Johnny said. “He’s gettin’ valuable enough to steal. It was simpler when everyone thought him a cob.”

He pulled onto the highway and headed in the direction of home. Etta rolled up her window. Johnny turned on the radio, and country music came softly: Kitty Wells singing “Making Believe.”

With the sultry song filling her ears, Etta looked at the blackness beyond the truck, then looked over at Johnny. Her gaze moved over his profile and lingered on his lips. She thought of how he had kissed her. She gazed at him and was swept with the pure passion that comes when a person is exhausted and can no longer keep a firm hold on common sense.

Taking a deep breath, she moved the picnic basket to the far passenger side and scooted herself across next to Johnny. She might have thought about what he might think, but she was too tired and knew only what she wanted to do.

He glanced at her, his eyebrows rising, then returned his gaze to the road. She waited, gazing at him, at his eyes that stared intently out the windshield. Slowly but deliberately, he put his arm along the back of the seat, brought it down to her shoulders, and drew her against him. She relaxed with a sigh onto his shoulder and let her heart start beating again. Her hand rested on his leg, the denim stiff and warm beneath it, while she looked at the silvery glow of the dashboard and how it reflected on Johnny’s legs. She thought, with the emotion filling her chest and slipping warmly through her limbs so that she felt fairly weak, that maybe she should tell him she didn’t expect anything, that this was no promise and didn’t require any, that she simply had not been able to resist tender emotions and needs at this moment.

Then all thought went flying as his hand came to her neck, and his thumb moved on her skin in little, tingling circles. With a silent intake of breath, Etta lifted her head and buried her face in his neck, pressing her lips ever so gently against his skin, tasting the wonderful saltiness, and rubbing her nose there, smelling the delicious warm maleness of him, in this almost innocent way pulling him into her.

She felt a tremor shake him. He kissed her forehead and rubbed his cheek against her hair. She closed her eyes and let herself drift on the sweet sensations like drifting on a cloud in the summer. Like riding that red flying horse up into the sunlit sky.

Thus swept away, Etta was only vaguely aware of Johnny taking the route that went through Chickasha. Then the truck began slowing and doing a peculiar chugging. Pulling herself out of her very pleasant lethargic doze, Etta saw they were turning into a gas station. Apparently unwilling to disturb her, Johnny had been letting the truck slow without shifting. She straightened, and he quickly shifted the stick and rolled the truck to a stop in front of the gas pump.

She raked her hands through her hair, while Johnny told the attendant to fill it up. With a bit of a grin at Etta, he said, “I guess I can afford to go around with a full tank now, thanks to your horse.”

His gaze lingered on hers and then moved all over her face, while a smoky expression slipped into his eyes, before he jerked them away and leaned out the window to tell the attendant to check the oil.

Now it was a little awkward, neither of them able to look at the other, while their bodies seemed to radiate desire for touch. Etta felt this, felt her body leaning toward Johnny, as she looked through the back window at Little Gus. She was fairly certain Johnny felt it, too. It did not seem that she could feel something so strongly, and Johnny not feel it.

The next instant Johnny said, “He’s settled down now that’s he’s tired,” and as he spoke, he reached for Etta’s hand, entwined his fingers through hers.

“Yes,” Etta agreed, gazing down at their hands.

Just then a car came speeding into the gas station, braking with a squeal of tires on the opposite side of the gas pumps. Etta and Johnny both looked that way. A black car, Etta saw, a Buick convertible, with white seats, and two women in the front. The car looked familiar.

Recognition came over Etta like a cold splash of water. She instantly sat back against the seat, jerking her hand from Johnny’s and barely even realizing, wanting to hide, even casting her eyes about, as if looking for a place of shelter.

Corinne Salyer. Etta had seen Corinne drive that car on numerous occasions. Fleetingly she thought she might duck down in the seat, if Corinne got out. Then it came to her that Corinne would not expect to see Etta in this unfamiliar truck, was not likely to pay the truck any attention at all. And what further drew Etta out was hearing sharply spoken words.

Peering cautiously at the car, she saw Corinne was behind the wheel and her mother, Amy Salyer, sat on the passenger side. They appeared to be arguing.

Her eyes glued to the car, Etta turned down the radio. Johnny cast her a puzzled look. He started to speak, and she waved him quiet.

The women’s angry voices came in snatches: “That’s not true, Mama.” “You and your father . . . humiliate . . . married" “Rest . . . Oh, good Lord . . .

The next second Amy Salyer turned, and her door flew open. “You don’t know any of it, what I have to put up with your father flyin’ around with that piece of trash . . . and then you . . . You both hate me.” Then a woman’s legs swung out, feet in dainty black open-toed shoes. Head bent, with a rose-colored pillbox hat over silvery hair. “I’ve tried with you, and your father, but you two never have appreciated any of it!”

“Mother, get back in the car.” Corrine’s voice was commanding.

Then Amy Salyer got back in the car, more or less collapsing on the seat, crying.

The attendant came to get his money, cast a frown at the convertible, and said, “I see all kinds of stuff in this job.”

Johnny pocketed his change and gave Etta a curious look.

She said, “That’s her—the woman Roy died with. The young one with the brown hair. That’s her mother with her, the woman who was gettin’ out.”

He turned his head to the car, then swung his gaze back to Etta. She sat back in the seat and looked straight ahead and fought a ridiculous surge of shame. The harsh voices, murmuring now, continued from the Buick.

After several seconds, Johnny started the engine, but no sooner was he pulling away from the pumps than the convertible started forward, too. Johnny had to brake to keep from hitting it. The convertible lunged ahead and squealed tires as it pulled onto the street, Corinne’s dark curls flying all over her head. Etta wondered how Amy Salyer managed to keep her hat on.

“Well,” Johnny offered, “she isn’t much of a driver.”

“She no doubt has other talents,” Etta said, feeling great sadness.

Then she took hold of herself. She was not going to let the appearance of Corinne spoil a very special evening, she thought. And since she wasn’t moving away, likely she would see Corrine from time to time in the future—a thought that made her sick to her stomach—and she might as well get used to it.

Johnny put his arm up on the back of the seat, as if in invitation, and Etta returned to the hollow of his shoulder and tried to return to the sensual lethargy she had been experiencing, where there existed only herself and Johnny. It helped that he slipped his hand down her arm.

Etta kept peeking through her lids, seeing the trunk of the Buick and the two women’s heads ahead of them, as if to torment. At last, at the edge of town, the convertible pulled rapidly ahead and was swallowed up in the darkness. Etta breathed a deep, lovely sigh and enjoyed feeling the warmth of Johnny against her side and the sensation of his rough hand on her arm.

Timidly, hesitantly, she brought her hand to his stomach, a very flat, hard stomach, and encircled him with her arm and thought of how it would feel if he were naked. Tormenting herself now, she thought.

Some ten minutes later, Johnny braked. Etta opened her eyes. There was the convertible again, ahead, its rear shining brightly in the truck’s headlights. It veered sharply left, over the line, then came back. Johnny said something under his breath, quickly removed his arm, and downshifted.

“Good heavens . . . what is she doin’?” Etta said.

“Looks like they’re havin’ a fight.”

More exactly, Amy Salyer was attacking Corinne, beating her with her patent leather purse that caught the gleam of Johnny’s headlights every time she raised it. Corinne put up a defending hand, and the Buick went all over the road, and it all kept unfolding like a moving picture rolling ahead of them. Amy Salyer lunged at Corinne, flailing at her head and arms, and Etta heard a scream. The Buick went off the road, came back on, then went off and, rather gently, it drove down the embankment, its headlights flitting like a moth on the siderails of a bridge, brush, and trees, just before it seemed to drop headfirst off the earth.