Читать книгу Long Way Home - Gena Dalton - Страница 11

Sunday night Monte stretched out his aching body flat in the sweet-smelling grass and stared up at the stars. It was weird. It almost felt as if he hadn’t seen the night sky since he left home all those years ago. When he used to look at it with Jo Lena.

He slammed his mind shut against the memories. He wasn’t going to think about her, much less be around her anymore. He’d already enjoyed more of that than he could stand—especially with little Miss Mouth, Lily Rae, putting his personal life right out there on the breakfast table for everyone to see.

No, the reason being outside after dark was strange territory to him was the road. With all those weeks and years on the road, at night he was either riding in some indoor arena, falling exhausted into a motel bed, or driving or flying to the next place, readying his mind to get on the next bull.

Or else he was just so caught up in going down the road that he never even thought to look up.

The river murmured along over its rocky bed a few yards away. Monte listened to it and let his gaze wander from star to star.

He himself had been a star. The commentators had talked about him on ESPN, the announcers had loved him and the crowds had chanted his name as soon as he’d climbed up the wall of the chute and started getting ready.

Monte! Monte! Monte!

Now he was nothing but a has-been.

A broken-up, broken-down has-been.

His only comfort was he wasn’t broke. He’d been shrewd with his winnings, unlike ninety percent of the other guys on the circuit and he wouldn’t have to ask his brothers for anything. Plus he had invested his inheritance from Grandpa Clint.

He grinned. Delia had always said Monte was wild in every way but with his money.

The Big Dipper blurred suddenly and he closed his eyes. Once again, he listened to the river run.

It was good to be on the Rocking M again, it was great to see his family again. But all of them, at different times, had been in and out of the big house, talking to him, asking him questions, expecting him to talk to them.

He had to have some space. He had to have some silence. He had to have a chance to get a grip on himself.

His life was gone. Life as he knew it, barring a miracle, could never come again.

Ever since he’d barely been a grown man he’d been a wild, wandering bull rider, living on the challenge, living on the danger, living on the satisfaction of staying on one of the crafty beasts until the whistle blew. The thrill of beating a bull somehow felt, every time, like one more little bit of revenge against the ugly, vicious one that had gored Scotty Speirs to death.

That had been a night with no stars, even though they’d been riding in an outdoor arena. That had been the night God turned his back on Monte. Monte had done the same to Him, and even Dad couldn’t make him turn back again.

The thought of his father and his old friend stirred up grief and guilt that made his mind as bruised and sore as his body. It was too much to deal with tonight. He couldn’t wait any longer for the oblivion of sleep.

Slowly, carefully, he rolled over onto his elbow and pushed with the other hand against the ground until he was in a sitting position. Laboriously, he inched on up to his feet and started toward the bunkhouse.

Good thing he’d told his mother he was going straight to bed. After the fit she’d thrown because he wasn’t sleeping in the main house, she’d never get through scolding him for exposing his battered muscles to the dew-damp ground.

Which had been a major mistake.

Well, just as long as Bobbie Ann didn’t see him right now, he was okay. Just as long as she and his sisters let him have a little peace, he might be able to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

They did let him sleep until he woke up on his own.

But they must’ve been peeping in at him every fifteen minutes because he had no more than pulled himself up and out of that last dream of being stomped by a bull and staggered out of bed to the bathroom than he heard the door to the bunkhouse bang open.

It was Delia and LydaAnn, judging by the giggling voices.

He did not feel one bit like giggling. Or listening to it, either.

“Throw me my jeans,” he yelled through the closed door. “Looks like y’all could at least let a man get his pants on before invadin’ his privacy.”

“Looks like you could at least be pleasant to the women who brought your breakfast,” LydaAnn yelled back.

He heard the slap of the rivets against the door as they hung his jeans on the knob. He opened it and reached around to get them.

“You didn’t used to be so modest,” Delia said. “I remember when you never would wear a shirt, even in the wintertime.”

“When I was six years old!”

Carefully, very slowly, he began to lift one foot and try to fit it into one leg of his jeans. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and nearly scared himself with his scowl. This was insane. If he didn’t want to see his family, why had he come home?

Because he’d wanted a place to heal, not a party.

“Go on and wash up and try to pull yourself together,” Delia called. “We took a thermos cup for ’em to put your coffee in, so it’s still good and hot.”

He heard rustling noises.

“I think your main surprise is still warm, too,” LydaAnn said. “Can you smell what it is?”

He couldn’t, but he realized then where they’d been. They were happy he was home and this was another welcome—they’d gone down the road to Hugo’s to get the cinnamon rolls he had always loved. He ought to be ashamed of himself for being such a sorehead.

But the hard knot in his stomach only tightened and he took his time with his morning ablutions. He didn’t have a choice about how long it took, did he? He couldn’t move fast enough to catch a snail.

Finally, he raked his hands through his hair, tried to contort his face into some semblance of pleasantness and went out to meet them.

The sight did make him smile. There sat his sisters, each cross-legged on either end of his bed with a picnic of cinnamon rolls and coffee set out between them on a towel spread between the paper wrappings and the bare mattress. Bobbie Ann’s daughters. No, if they truly were, they’d have brought a tablecloth and the good silver from the house. Then he noticed that they had real mugs for the coffee.

They’d dragged one of the old straight chairs out of the bunkhouse kitchen for him and set it on the floor halfway between them, facing the bed.

“So,” he drawled, as he limped toward them, “I’m supposed to sit here in the hot seat?”

“Relax,” Delia drawled back at him. “We won’t jump on you too hard yet—we’ll wait ’til you’re able to defend yourself.”

“Well, that’s mighty good of you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“Everybody at Hugo’s said to tell you ‘hey,’” LydaAnn said. “Bill Ed Traywick wants to talk to you about when you rode The Twister.”

Monte’s scowl came back.

“What about it?”

“Bill Ed rode him, too, one time at the Mesquite Rodeo.”

“Rode ’im or got on ’im?”

Both girls laughed.

“Got on him,” Delia said. “Bill Ed said he never knew a man could spin so fast and not have his head torn off his body.”

That made Monte laugh, too. A little. But he wasn’t going to start hanging out at Hugo’s, jawing with the boys. The very thought made him want to crawl in a hole.

Delia, who like Bobbie Ann was able to read a man’s mind, watched him as he carefully sat down.

“Don’t worry, Mont,” she said, “we told them all that you aren’t receiving visitors at this time.”

“I don’t know if Jennifer Taylor will exactly respect your wish for privacy, though,” LydaAnn said, grinning widely. “She was remembering you fondly to everyone there. Something about a nighttime swim in the Guadalupe River.”

“Jennifer Taylor was married before I ever left here,” Monte growled.

“Well, she’s not married anymore. And she told us twice to tell you ‘hey.’”

Delia nodded.

“Jennifer would love even just one date so everybody could be talking about it,” she said. “Her sister, Carrie, has gotten all the attention for so long.”

“How’s that?” Monte asked, just to be halfway polite.

But as long as his sisters were talking, he didn’t have to.

“The money,” LydaAnn said. “Did you hear about that embezzlement scandal at the courthouse? A year ago. Lots of people think it was Carrie who got the money, but if she did, she let Larry Riley go to prison for it.”

“Yeah, Monte, surely you heard about that,” Delia said. “The trial was on TV all over Texas. Remember—Carrie was married to Larry’s cousin, Steve. That’s how she got the job in the first place.”

Monte got that swimming feeling in his head again. He reached for the coffee mug LydaAnn was filling.

“Too much gossip,” he said. “Y’all’re makin’ me dizzy. Give me a break, okay?”

They both frowned at him.

“Don’t you even care?” LydaAnn said.

“No! And how come you even told everybody I was here?”

Delia shook her head and gazed at him with pity in her eyes.

“I could’ve kept you undercover if you’d called me to come and get you,” she said. “But appearing out of nowhere at the Bandera sale and hitching a ride home for you and your horse did sorta put you in the public eye, brother dear.”

He took a great gulp of the steaming strong coffee and immediately felt a little bit better.

“My mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “What was I thinking?”

“We’d love to know,” said LydaAnn.

The silence grew as she poured another cup of coffee and handed it to Delia.

“For the last six years we’ve wondered that very thing,” LydaAnn said.

Monte’s gut turned to concrete but he kept on drinking coffee.

“Hey, I thought y’all said I could get my strength back before I had to defend myself.”

“We did,” Delia said with a sharp glance at her sister. “And we will.”

She folded back the foil that covered each huge cinnamon roll and passed them out with handfuls of napkins. Then, to his great amusement, she did hand around the good silver forks with the Rocking M brand on them. Monte relaxed a little and set his coffee on the towel so he could eat.

“A little bit of a social life will be good for you, though, Mont, whenever you’re feeling a little better,” LydaAnn said encouragingly.

He just let that slide. No way was he arguing with them about that now. These two were into music and barrel racing and cutting horses and fun of all kinds. They knew everything about everybody for miles around, and they’d be trying to drag him into all of their lives, too, just to make him feel at home.

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.

What he had to do was feel human again.

In the middle of the morning, he was out in the pen behind the bunkhouse brushing Annie when his mother appeared at his elbow. He startled.

“If I’d been a snake…” she said, her smile bright.

It made him smile back at her, even though he didn’t want any company—not even his mom.

“If you’d bit me, you’d have a bad taste in your mouth,” he said. “I’m pretty sour.”

“You’re a sweet sight to me,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

He liked to hear it but it made him feel guilty, too. And trapped.

“The place looks good,” he said, and walked around the mare to work on her long, tangled mane.

As always, his mother sensed his mood.

“Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy the sunshine and your new horse,” she said, stroking Annie’s neck. “I just came out to get your dirty clothes and put a load on to wash before I run into town. Can I bring you anything?”

It made him mad for her to start doing his laundry. Meddling in his business. Smothering him half to death. But he hated to hurt her feelings.

“No, thanks,” he said, setting his jaw against telling her to let him take care of his own stuff. “I’m fine.”

“When I get back, want me to help you move your things into the house?”

It sent a new jet of hot resentment through him. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone?

“No, Ma,” he said shortly, “the bunkhouse is great. I need some time to myself.”

“Well, I don’t want you to just sit out here and brood,” she said. “Plus you shouldn’t be alone right now. You’re just starting to heal, Monte. You might get down and not be able to get up.”

He gave a short bark of a laugh.

“Don’t waste any of your worry on that. I’ve got so many visitors I can’t get dressed in the mornings. I’m gonna have to start sleeping in my clothes.”

She didn’t say anything. Finally, even though he didn’t want to, he met her searching, blue gaze.

“It’s all right, Ma. Don’t worry about me.”

“We–ell,” she said, “okay.”

She turned to go.

“Sure I can’t bring you anything?”

“Can’t think of a thing I need,” he said with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. “Thanks, anyway.”

“All right,” she said. “If you change your mind, call me on my cell.”

With a final pat for Annie, she left.

Monte moved the currycomb in dust-raising circles along the mare’s back. He might as well get ready for it—Bobbie Ann would never give up. She’d be after him again, later in the day, to move to his old room.

His resentment grew. Wasn’t it enough that he’d come home? Did he have to live right in the family’s pocket every minute, so they could make him feel guilty every second?

By noon Monte was in the main barn, hunting for his favorite old saddle while Annie stood tied to the hitching post right outside the door. It had to be somewhere in one of the narrow tack/feed rooms built off the main aisleway, but Daniel didn’t know where and Monte wasn’t going to ask anybody else. Daniel could be counted on to answer a direct question and go about his business. Clint or Jackson would have to hassle Monte awhile.

Saddles were stacked two and three deep on some of the racks, but he managed to lift them off each other and move them around until he found the one he’d always favored. He picked it up, snagged a pad to go under it, stepped awkwardly out into the aisle and headed toward the door.

He set his jaw against the pain. No way was he going to sit around and get so stiff and stove up that he couldn’t do anything. No way was he going to let his body crater until he couldn’t ride anything at all.

Bulls were one thing. He’d admit that. He might never be able to ride bulls again.

But horses were something else. And he had ridden Annie bareback in from the road yesterday, so he could certainly ride her in a saddle.

In a saddle, it might not hurt so much.

He made it to the door after having to stop and rest only once, and stepped out into the sunlight. Right into the path of Clint and Jackson.

“Well, hey, here’s Monte,” Clint said. “Up and at ’em at noon.”

His tone was light, though, not derisive, and it held a note of… Was that pity?

Monte kept going, trying not to limp as much, hoping they wouldn’t notice that the simple effort of carrying a saddle was making him break out in a cold sweat.

“Gonna ride your new mare?” Jackson asked.

He came straight to Monte and reached for the saddle. Clint glanced around, saw Annie and veered toward the hitch rack to get her.

That made Monte’s gut tighten.

“I’ve got it,” he said sharply. “I don’t need any help.”

His voice sounded weak, even to himself, and slightly out of breath. Too much, too soon. He ought to sit down for a minute, but he’d been hurt worse and done more, and he could do it again.

Especially to avoid accepting help from his brothers.

Especially Jackson, who was more permanently injured than he was.

Jackson took the saddle anyway, even though Monte tried to hold on to it, and limped toward the mare with it. Clint led her to meet him and they met just as Monte reached them with the saddle pad.

“Look, guys, thanks,” he managed to mutter, around the knot of fury and humiliation in his throat. “I can take it from here.”

“Hold on,” Clint said, saddling the mare with swift efficiency. “You tryin’ to put us crossways with Ma? Daniel’s over there by the indoor seeing every bit of this. We don’t want him telling Bobbie Ann we let you saddle your own horse.”