Ann Major - A Cowboy Christmas

Years ago Cassidy’s mother had planted a cherry tree in the small yard alongside their trailer. Today the tree stood twenty-five feet high and in April its pink blossoms added a touch of beauty to the stark neighborhood. Best of all, the tree provided much needed shade for the aluminum shed Cassidy used as a hair studio.

At half-past one in the afternoon the kids were in school and the neighborhood was quiet. She slowed the car as it passed over the first of two speed bumps and noticed the Millers had strung Christmas lights on their trailer. Cassidy took great pride in being the first Shady Acres tenant to decorate for Christmas. She’d made a habit of hanging her lights over Thanksgiving weekend. But her mother’s temperament had been more difficult than usual this holiday and Cassidy hadn’t had the energy to dig through boxes of decorations. After she parked next to the single-wide and got out of the car, her neighbor greeted her.

“Hello, Cassidy.”

“Hi, Betty.”

Betty’s cousin, Alice, appeared. “Sonja’s been inside the whole time you were gone.”

“Mom’s frosting Christmas cookies. We’ll bring a dozen over later today.”

The little old ladies had claimed to be related when they’d moved into the park eight years ago, but no cousins Cassidy knew held hands like her neighbors. She didn’t care what kind of relationship the women had. After Cassidy’s mother had been officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, Betty and Alice had offered to keep an eye on Sonja when Cassidy ran errands. She owed her neighbors a debt of gratitude.

When Cassidy entered the trailer, she found her mother exactly where she’d left her—sitting at the card table in front of the TV. Pieces of broken cookie littered the tabletop and smears of colored frosting marred her mother’s blouse.

“Who’s that?” her mother called, gaze glued to the TV.

“It’s me, Mom.” She approached the table and inspected the cookies. “I like that one.” She pointed at the snowflake coated with an inch of silver-colored sugar crystals.

“I made that for you.” Her mother smiled.

“Mmm.” Cassidy took a bite and choked on the sweetness. When her mother’s attention drifted to her favorite game show, Cassidy went into the kitchen, tossed the rest of the cookie into the trash and checked the clock. She had fifteen minutes to prepare for Mrs. Wilson’s hair appointment. “I’ll be in the salon if you need me, Mom.”

Cassidy went outside to the shed, propping the doors open with potted plants. She’d saved her paychecks from a chain hair salon she’d worked at in Midland for two years to buy the aluminum building and beauty-shop equipment. Then she’d paid a fortune for a plumber to hook up a sink. She used extension cords and an outlet strip to plug in the hair dryers and curling irons and the two lamps she’d set on end tables. Between her mother’s social security checks and Cassidy’s income from styling hair they managed to make ends meet.

Her mother had been forced into early retirement because of health problems and so far Cassidy hadn’t had to touch a dime of her mother’s savings—money Sonja had set aside during the twenty-five years she’d worked at the fertilizer factory between Junket and Midland. Cassidy would use that money to put her mother in a home when the time arrived that she needed constant care.

Mrs. Wilson pulled up in her Lincoln Town Car. “Right on time, Mabel.” The retired schoolteacher was never late.

Mabel set her purse on the loveseat Cassidy had found in a secondhand store the previous summer. “How’s Sonja?”

“Mom’s doing well.” She refrained from discussing her mother’s worsening condition. If people learned how quickly Sonja’s disease was progressing they’d encourage Cassidy to put her in a home sooner rather than later.

“Go a little darker on the rinse, dear. I don’t want the color to fade before the Smith’s party on the eighteenth.”

After months of pleading with the older woman to experiment with a different hair color, Cassidy had given up. Mabel insisted on using old-fashioned blue hair rinse. Cassidy draped a cape across Mabel’s shoulders. “How’s Buford?” Her husband had retired from the state highway patrol this past summer.

“He’s being an ass.”

“What’s he gone and done now?” Listening to her customers vent was part of the job. Cassidy mixed the hair color, then cleaned her trimming scissors while Mabel droned on.

“He’s refusing to allow Harriet and her new husband to join us for Christmas dinner.”

“I thought Buford liked your sister.”

“It’s husband number four he hates.”

Harriet exchanged husbands as often as women switched lipstick colors.

“Mitchell’s a lawyer.” Mabel twisted in the chair and said, “You know how much Buford hates lawyers.”

Poor Buford. He’d earned a reputation of having the highest percentage of nonconvictable arrests during his tenure on the force. Cassidy changed the subject. “How do you like teaching Sunday school?”

“Aside from a few rambunctious boys the kids are well-behaved. They need a substitute teacher for the first-grade class if you’re interested.”

“Not right now, Mabel.” Cassidy had stopped attending church months ago after her mother had stood up in front of the entire congregation and announced that if she didn’t go to the bathroom right then she’d pee her pants.

While Mabel chatted about the children’s holiday play, Cassidy slipped on a pair of latex gloves and worked the blue dye into Mabel’s hair, then set the timer for an extra ten minutes and placed a magazine in her lap. “I need to check on Mom.”

When Cassidy entered the trailer and peeked around the kitchen doorway, she discovered her mother fast asleep in the recliner. Relieved, Cassidy poured a glass of lemonade for her customer, then returned to the shed.

“Thank you, dear.” After a sip, Mabel said, “I hear there’s a new doctor in Midland who specializes in brain problems like your mother’s.”

“Really?” Old people were afraid if they spoke the word Alzheimer’s out loud they’d contract the dreaded disease.

“I’ll find out his name before my next hair appointment.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” Her mother’s insurance didn’t cover experimental tests or medicines. Cassidy had spent hours on the phone with insurance representatives, each call ending with “I wish there was more we could do, but unfortunately…”

The timer dinged and Cassidy rinsed the dye from Mabel’s hair. Next, she trimmed the ends, then retrieved a pink plastic tub of rollers from the storage cabinet. She’d put in the final roller when a truck pulled alongside the Lincoln.

“Why, it’s Logan Taylor,” Mabel said.

The cowboy sported the same somber expression he’d worn earlier in the day when Cassidy had stopped by his ranch.

“How long have you been cutting his hair?” The gleam in Mabel’s eyes warned Cassidy not to say too much, lest she give the woman the idea that she and Logan had a thing going—which they didn’t.

“Logan isn’t one of my clients.” Mabel opened her mouth, but Cassidy cut her off. “Time for the dryer.”

“Hello, Logan.” Mabel wiggled her fingers in the air.

Feeling Mabel’s eyes on her, Cassidy offered a weak smile.

Logan cut through the yard, stopping outside the shed doors. “Mrs. Wilson,” he greeted the older woman. Then his gaze shifted to Cassidy. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” She tucked Mabel’s head under the dryer, flipped the switch to high and lowered the hood. Hoping the noise would drown out whatever Logan had to say, she stepped outside the shed.

His shadow fell over her like a dark, menacing storm cloud. He didn’t speak, which gave her a chance to study him—shaggy, dark hair, cheeks covered in beard stubble and dark smudges beneath his brown eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed his unkempt appearance earlier?