Linda Lael - Cowboy Country

“Me, too,” Carolyn said, fastening her seat belt and sticking her key into the ignition.

“Friends?” he asked, with a wry grin.

“Friends,” Carolyn agreed.

Bill stepped back, waved and watched from the sidewalk as she drove away.

* * *

“WHO IS HE?” Tricia demanded eagerly, when she entered the shop the next morning.

She hadn’t even put away her purse yet.

Carolyn, smiling to herself, pretended a keen interest in unpacking the most recent delivery of goat-milk soap.

“And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Tricia warned, waggling a finger. Her eyes sparkled with mischievous affection. “Three different people called the ranch last night to ask about the hunk you had coffee with.”

Carolyn chuckled. “His name is Bill Venable,” she said, “and he fights forest fires for a living. Flies one of those airplanes that spray chemicals on the hot spots.”

“Like in that old Richard Dreyfuss movie?” Tricia asked. She was having a hard time bending far enough to stow her purse on its usual under-the-counter shelf. The baby bump seemed to get visibly bigger from one day to the next. “What was it called?” She stopped to stretch her back, her hands resting on either side of what had once been her waist. “I remember. It was Always. And Dreyfuss’s character went out in a blaze of glory, didn’t he?”

“I don’t recall,” Carolyn lied, still stacking neatly wrapped bars of soap on the counter. The truth was, being a classic movie buff, she’d long since picked up on the similarities.

“Did you meet him through that website?” Tricia persisted. “Friendly Faces?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, making a production of removing the now-empty carton the soap had arrived in and heading toward the storage room. It was company policy to recycle cardboard boxes, among other things.

Tricia was waiting when she came back. “Do you like him? Are you going to see him again?”

Carolyn laughed. “Yes, I like him,” she said, with exaggerated patience, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked me out at some point.”

Tricia’s beautiful blue eyes widened. It was hard to tell if she was excited or alarmed by the prospect.

Probably, she was both.

“Will you go? If he does ask you, I mean?”

“I haven’t really decided,” Carolyn said, with breezy nonchalance. She was looking up at the batik of the Weaver now, trying to absorb some of its serenity. “I must say, I was pleasantly surprised by how normal Bill turned out to be.”

“Normal,” Tricia echoed, her tone making it clear that she wasn’t planning on dropping the subject anytime soon. “What did you expect him to be like, Carolyn?”

Carolyn tilted her head to one side, studying the Weaver, wishing she could afford to buy the piece and keep it forever. There was something so soothing about the thing, about the figure of a woman drawn with indistinct lines, strokes of color and shapes that were hardly more than suggested.

“Carolyn?” Tricia persisted, standing beside her now, giving her a poke with one elbow. Since just about everything on Tricia’s body was rounded into soft curves, it didn’t hurt. “Talk to me.”

Carolyn sighed and turned to look at her friend. “I guess I thought there was the outside chance he might be another Ted Bundy,” she confessed.

Tricia rolled her eyes, and then laughed, and then looked serious, all in the space of a few seconds. “Brody isn’t going to like this one bit,” she said. Tricia wasn’t normally given to mood swings, but there were a lot of hormones splashing around in there.

A flash of...something—resentment? Triumph?—plucked at Carolyn’s heartstrings. “Too bad for Brody,” she replied.

Tricia studied her face. “Unless, of course, that’s exactly why you’re thinking about going out with this Bill person. To make Brody jealous.”

Carolyn’s mouth dropped open. She felt an indignant sting race through her, even as she recognized a disturbing quality of truth to Tricia’s words. She hadn’t set out to stir up Brody’s envy, not consciously anyway, but there was no denying, in retrospect, that the idea gave her a delicious little thrill.

She gasped, horrified by the insight, and put a hand to her mouth.

Tricia smiled. “Oh, relax,” she said, patting Carolyn’s upper arm briefly, in a demonstration of feminine solidarity. “I know your intentions were honorable.” She paused, looked speculative again. “But what were your intentions, exactly?” she asked, her tone and expression kind.

Carolyn sighed, her eyes burned and she swallowed hard before answering, in a small voice, “I just want to—to get over Brody Creed. Move on. Have a home and a family of my own.”

Tricia gave her a quick, impulsive hug. Awkward business, with that pumpkin-shaped tummy of hers. “Listen to yourself, Carolyn,” she said. “You want to get over Brody? You still care for him. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“It means I’m dysfunctional,” Carolyn replied briskly, swiping at her cheeks with the back of one hand even though, as far as she knew, she hadn’t actually started to cry. “Codependent, a basket case—whatever.”

“Poppycock,” Tricia said, with a dismissive wave. “Dysfunctional. Codependent. Those are just labels, buzzwords, and in my opinion they are overused in our society. You’re a smart, strong, talented woman, Carolyn, not some psychological train wreck of a person. Give yourself a little credit, will you?”

Carolyn gave a wavering smile. “And you, Tricia Creed, are a very good friend.”

“I’m also right,” Tricia said, smiling back.

Having tacitly agreed on that, they both went to work then.

After an hour or so, two vanloads of middle-aged women sporting red hats and purple outfits showed up, and a shopping frenzy ensued.

One of the ladies seemed particularly taken with the Weaver. “That’s lovely,” she said, looking up at the batik.

Carolyn, busy ringing up purchases at the register, heard the remark even over the cheerful din of oohs and ahhs bubbling up around the shop as the other red-hats examined the merchandise.

So, apparently, did Tricia.

A glance flew between her and Carolyn.

“Isn’t it?” Tricia said, edging over to stand alongside the woman who’d spoken first.

“I can’t see the price from here,” the woman said.

“I’m afraid the piece is already spoken for,” Tricia replied quickly, a pink flush rising to her cheeks. “The artist is very prolific, though. I’d be glad to give you her contact information if you’d consider commissioning something—?”

Carolyn frowned. The Weaver was spoken for? Since when?

Several people had admired the batik, but they’d all sighed and shaken their heads when they were told how much it cost.

Tricia gave her another look, as if she thought Carolyn might contradict her.

Carolyn pointedly returned her friend’s gaze, though she didn’t speak up. She simply turned her attention back to the task at hand.

It was almost lunchtime when the red-hat ladies climbed into their vans and left, leaving the shop pleasantly denuded.

Carolyn was about to ask Tricia why she’d said the batik was sold when the shop door opened again, and Conner strode in, with Brody right behind him.

Carolyn’s breath caught, though she tried to look as though she hadn’t noticed the man.

Not noticing Brody, she reflected, was like not noticing a meteor big enough to wipe out the dinosaurs.

Still, she had to try. It was a matter of principle.

Conner greeted Tricia with a resounding kiss and then picked her up and swung her around once, in a small, gentle circle, making her laugh ring out like church bells on Easter morning.