Pamela Tracy - Once Upon a Cowboy

Best place to be, safest place to be, thought Joel, would be the parking lot and inside his stepfather’s minivan. He pushed open the school door and almost ran Billy down.

Joel recognized many of the adults, parents now, starting to gather in front of the school. His name floated on the air and a few scattered greetings sounded.

Nothing like what he had expected. What was wrong with Roanoke? Eight years wasn’t that long.

“I thought I’d pick you up at the hospital,” Billy said. Careful not to jar the small boy whose hand he was holding, Billy took Joel by the arm and drew him close so his words couldn’t be heard by others. “Mind telling me what brought you to the school?”

“The hospital released me at noon and I took the truck to Tiny’s garage. I had some papers to gather up and found Beth Armstrong’s cell phone on the floorboard of my truck. Boy, she’s really grown up to be—” Joel began.

“Mr. Staples,” Patsy said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a minute.”

Joel clearly and somewhat comically interpreted the look Billy shot him as, Look, you’ve gotten me in trouble, too.

Billy switched Caleb’s hand to Joel’s and then tossed him a set of keys. “Keep an eye on Caleb. Ryan and Matt will be out in a moment. Get them in the car and have them wait. I’ll just be a minute.”

Before Joel could protest, the chubby three-year-old tugged his fingers, looked up and said, “Let’s go, Unca.”

Unca?

At least Caleb was able to go with the flow. At Billy’s nod, Beth released Matt, who walked toward Joel as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Ryan, old enough to make his own exit, left his teacher and joined them. He didn’t look too pleased about Joel’s presence, either.

Not even twenty-four hours in town and Joel had managed to annoy everyone except Caleb. Joel figured he’d just broken a record, but knew there’d be no applause.

Ryan led the way to a minivan parked toward the back of the parking lot. To get to the car, Joel had to walk by people he’d once called friends. Most looked surprised. Some taken aback. Once his nephews—all little replicas of Jared—had stowed backpacks and secured their seat belts, Joel took his place on the passenger side.

With his truck needing repairs, Joel couldn’t leave. With Joel himself needing repairs, Jared couldn’t turn him away. Add to that the fact he had just enough money to get to the next town, some twenty miles away—well, no matter how you looked at it, storm clouds were gathering.

“So,” came the beginning of a conversation from the backseat, “why did you take the money?” Oh, yes, Ryan was definitely his older brother’s clone. Arms crossed, wasting no time, eyes accusing, Ryan wanted answers.

“What?”

“Some of my friends say you’re a thief, that you stole money before you left town. Is that why you never came back? Is that why we don’t know you? Why are you back now?”

Joel’s experience with kids was almost nonexistent. He was pretty sure, though, that Ryan was a bit more mature—and cynical—than most eight-year-olds. Even so, Joel doubted that Ryan would understand that half of Solitaire Farm had, at one time, belonged to Joel, and that as a young, stupid kid, he’d wanted his share right then, in cash.

“I didn’t steal any money. I took what was mine.”

Ryan made a psst sound as Billy opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. Wow. Joel was curious to know what Beth’s mother had wanted to say, and why—as the school secretary—she had a right to say anything. Instead, he looked at the little men in the backseat and shelved his questions. Billy, looking a little annoyed, took advantage of the lull.

“What did the doctor say?”

“The doctor said the accident did not make things worse and that I feel better than I deserve after hitting that fence last night. He recommended a good physical therapist.”

“You hit that fence really good.” Ryan suddenly forgot his annoyance and sounded impressed. “Trey says it will cost a pretty penny.”

“Trey?”

“Max McClanahan III,” Billy explained.

The McCreedys’ nearest neighbors were the McClanahans. Joel had spent his childhood chasing after Maxwell McClanahan II, who must be married and a dad now, with a son also named Max. One who was about Ryan’s age. Joel suddenly felt a little humbled by all he didn’t know.

“Joel never does anything halfway,” Billy said before turning to face Joel. “I’m looking forward,” he said glumly, “to hearing what’s really wrong with you and what made you come back now.”

“You have to go to a therapist because you hit a fence?” Ryan questioned. “I hit fences all the time. You do walk funny. Is that because you hit the fence?”

“Joel doesn’t walk funny,” Billy said.

“Just slow and careful,” Joel agreed.

“Mommy couldn’t walk at all,” Matt finally added to the conversation, “right before she died.”

“Okay,” Billy said quickly, “who wants ice cream?”

To Joel’s way of thinking, it was the perfect time to change the topic of conversation. Matt’s comment was a bit too deep for an errant uncle to elaborate on. Looked like it was way too deep for a grandfather to deal with, too.

“Dad’s not with us,” Matt pointed out.

Ryan wasn’t about to let that interfere with the possibility of getting ice cream. “We can take him something.”

“It will melt.”

Billy, who’d mastered the art of keeping kids happy during his forty-year stint as the principal, said, “He’ll be eating plenty of ice cream tomorrow during Caleb’s party.”

“I’m three,” Caleb chattered. “’Morrow.”

Matt sat back, satisfied that his father wasn’t being left out.

Joel had to admire him. He was the gatekeeper of the brothers. Ryan, it looked like, was the mouth. Caleb was the comic relief.

Jared didn’t know how lucky he was.

Watching the boys sit forward on their hands, anticipating an ice cream stop, triggered some memories. Of course, back then, Jared had been the gatekeeper. Joel had been the comic relief. The one who had jumped over the gate, landed on his head and got all the attention.

They shared mouth duty.

Or tried to share.

Sometimes it had felt like the farm—make that the town of Roanoke—wasn’t big enough for two McCreedy boys.

Since his release from the hospital Joel had caught glimpses of his hometown and the people who made it special. In many ways, it was just another small town with its inhabitants going about their day, doing their jobs, taking care of their families and making memories. Since leaving eight years ago, Joel had been in towns a bit smaller and cities a lot bigger. He’d never stayed long enough to know who owned the auto repair shop, or even who was the fastest grocery store cashier, or which little old lady at church gave the best hugs, or what flavor ice cream was ordered the most at the ice cream parlor.

All three boys wanted chocolate. Billy chose vanilla.

Joel joined the boys and had chocolate, minus the cone. They ate inside the Ice Cream Shack because, according to Matt, “We can’t drip in the car. Grandpa likes to keep his van clean.”

“Caleb drips,” Ryan agreed.

“I yike ice cream.” Caleb nodded vigorously and lived up to Ryan’s accusation. In just a matter of seconds, his ice cream cone was gone, but there was enough ice cream smeared on his face and on the floor to make another one. Ryan had just a bit on the side of his cheek. Joel took his last spoonful and looked over at Billy and Matt. Billy was making headway, but Matt was so careful not to drip or make any kind of mess that he almost had a full cone.