Shelley Galloway - Austin - Second Chance Cowboy

Luckily, all he saw was a Hanes T-shirt long faded to a dingy gray and a wrinkled button-down. Not a pair of panties or a lacy bra in sight.

By turns disgusted with his behavior and bolstered by the evidence that he hadn’t completely gone crazy, Austin cleared his throat and went about lying with the best of them. “Stacy, I’m fine. Real fine.” Suddenly worried, he added, “And you?”

A light laugh fluttered through the phone. In another time, it would have stirred up his blood pressure. “Oh, I’m fine, Austin. I enjoyed every moment of your company,” she purred.

He almost relaxed. Maybe he hadn’t been that big of a jackass?

“That is, I was just super—until you cashed it in all over my Ariats.”

Cashed it in? It took a half second, but he finally figured out what she was referring to. Ah. He’d vomited on her boots.

Way to connect the dots, Austin.

Damn. Sitting up straighter, he ignored his pounding head, his sour stomach, the dry feeling around his tongue. Ariats were nice boots. Easily over a hundred a pop. “Listen, Stacy, about your boots. I’ll pay—”

“They were just my old ropers. You and I know I’ve had worse than that on ’em,” she said with a laugh. “Nothing to worry about.”

He exhaled in relief. Because, well, he didn’t have a spare dime to pay for a new pair of boots.

Because you had to go buy the whole bar a round of tequila, the voice said nastily.

“Austin, I didn’t call to give you grief about my boots. I just wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?”

“Well, yeah. I was worried. I just wanted to make sure that you were, you know…okay?”

Alive, she meant. His shame was reaching new levels. She’d called to make sure he’d made it through the rest of the night. “Don’t worry about me, sugar. I’m always fine.”

“You sure?” she said a little hesitantly. “Because by the time we got you cleaned up and the clock struck three…you were sounding a little blue…” Her phone clicked. “Oops. I gotta go. That’s Daddy. Church today, you know.”

She hung up before he could respond to his blue mood or Sunday services. After clicking off his cell, too, he gripped it hard in his hand. For a moment, he was tempted to toss it across the room, but all that would do was ruin a perfectly good phone.

And he’d already ruined plenty over the past year.

His cotton mouth got drier as memories flashed. The times he’d driven home drunk, the times he’d woken up beside women he didn’t remember meeting.

The time he’d lived on ramen noodles for two weeks because he’d had to borrow money for gas in his truck. Because he’d spent every last dime at a rowdy bar in Sheridan.

With a groan, he pulled off his sheets and made himself put both feet on the floor. It was time to greet his new day.

Padding to the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. Caught himself in all his naked glory. He paid no notice to the lean muscles of his arms or the light line of hair that ran from the middle of his pecs to his belly.

He ignored the scars on his side and hands and forearms from too many falls and a whole lot of idiocy.

Instead he concentrated on the greenish-gray pallor of his face. His dry, chapped lips.

Then he looked beyond the bloodshot eyes to what he saw in them—the complete look of hopelessness.

He’d hit rock bottom, at least as far down as he was willing to go. He knew all about living with a drunk and a disappointment. He had become his own worst nightmare, and he didn’t know how he was ever going to recover.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he padded back into his bedroom, grabbed his jeans and pulled out his wallet from the back pocket.

And there, sure enough, was a business card of a tire distributor. But that wasn’t what was important. Flipping it over, Austin stared at the name and phone number scrawled in a black felt-tip marker. The guy, who’d only said his name was Jack, had been in Austin’s store shopping for gear, said he’d known Buddy, Austin’s dad.

Further conversation revealed that Jack was a family man. He’d shown off a photo of him, his wife and two young boys posed in front of a Christmas tree. Austin had been wondering what the heck Jack had in common with him until Jack relayed that he’d almost lost it all—his business, his wife…even his kids.

When he’d handed the number to Austin and told him about the weekly meetings held right in Roundup’s Congregational Church, Austin had been stunned. Never would he have guessed that this guy had ever had a drinking problem. Actually, the guy had looked as though he had more together than most folks.

Austin had copped an attitude when Jack had started talking about how the hour-long meetings had changed him. About how he’d meant every single word of that Serenity Prayer.

But long after Jack left, when no one was looking, Austin had put the card in his wallet. Just in case he was ever so weak to dial the number.

You mean brave, idiot, his conscience whispered.

“Yeah, I mean brave,” he said. He sat on the edge of his mattress, picked up the phone and made himself dial before he lost his nerve. Before he turned cowardly all over again.

Finally, it was time. Finally, he was ready to do what he’d been pussyfooting around for the past three years. He was going to get some help.

“Hello!”

“Hey, Jack—”

“I’m not available right now, but leave a message. I’ll call you back—I always do.”

Austin didn’t want to leave a message. But he wanted help more. Thinking of his father, and the way no one gave him a moment’s time, he forced himself to talk.

“Jack, it’s, uh… It’s Austin Wright. You gave me your number a couple of months ago when you stopped by my store. In case, you know, I ever wanted to talk to you. I guess I do. Call me back.” He left his cell-phone number and clicked off.

Then practically ran into the shower, needing to clean off last night’s trouble. And the doubts that were surfacing all over again.

Bracing himself for the pain, he stepped under the showerhead and turned on the water, taking the cold blast of H2O against his skin as rightful penance.

It was no less than he deserved.

* * *

“HEY, DINAH,” DUKE CALLED out. “What’s shaking?”

She laughed. It had taken a while, but she and her deputy, Duke Adams, finally had the sheriff’s office running smoothly. Actually, Duke was more than her deputy; he was also her cousin.

And her friend.

Truth was, Sheriff Dinah Hart needed Duke’s good humor to help her get through the days in Roundup. In their small town, they got all sorts of calls. Anything could happen—from letting people into their locked cars, to directing traffic on Sundays at noon when the folks got out of church, to their current project: figuring out who in the world was involved with the recent outbreak of thefts in the area.

“Not too much is shaking right now,” she said wearily. “I’m exhausted.”

“What kept you up this time?”

“Too much fun at the Open Range on the weekend.” She shared a look with Duke. And though there had been more than one man letting off too much steam at Roundup’s biggest bar, she let herself fixate on the one man she could never ignore. “I tell you what, sometimes I’m this close to wringing Austin Wright’s neck.”

Leaning against an old metal file cabinet, he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s he done this time?”

“Nothing illegal, just made a mess of the place. Again.” Remembering her first call of the day, she shook her head. “Ted was fit to be tied when he called me bright and early this morning. Seems Austin puked his life out in the middle of the place on Saturday night.”