Susan Floyd - A Cowboy For Clementine

A large hand slid under her thigh.

“Off you go,” Dexter said as he boosted her leg over the saddle horn. With his arm still around her waist, Clem was gently set down on the ground. From this perspective, Dexter Scott was enormous. He swung himself out of the saddle and led the horse to one of the stables. The horses in the corral tossed their heads in greeting. Clem stood for a moment, looking around, trying to get her bearings. Then, even though he didn’t invite her, she followed him.

Dexter Scott was sliding the door with one hand, and just as she’d suspected, it opened with a quiet swish perfectly balanced on its rails like a finely made dresser drawer. She followed him as he led the horse to an empty stall. Yes, a man who kept his stables so clean could be an elite cowboy.

“So,” Clem began. She climbed up on the lowest slat of the stall in order to see him better. “I need your help.”

“Grab that hard brush for me, will you?” he asked her as he untied the leather knots of the saddle. He tended to his horse with practiced, methodical movements. With an easy heft, he put the saddle on a stall rail before he folded the horse blanket. Then with complete absorption, he ran his hand up and down the horse’s back, up and down his legs, feeling for small stickers or other irritants.

A moment later Clem got the brush and handed it to him. With even circles, he began to curry the horse, getting rid of the dirt, gravel and bits of desert sand that had worked their way up under the saddle. After a protracted silence, Clem wondered if he’d actually heard her.

“I need your help,” Clem repeated, mesmerized by his movements. His right hand brushed, while his left hand followed behind, lightly. Every so often, he paused to dig through the coarse hair to investigate before continuing. The horse stretched with the care and Clem could see the muscles ripple on its withers. With each stroke, Clem felt even more certain that this was the man she wanted, the man she needed.

After he finished one side, he moved to the other and as if synchronized, Clem picked up a softer finishing brush and went to work. The horse whinnied softly. Dexter Scott just kept brushing and feeling, feeling and brushing. Clem wondered if he paid attention to his wife the same way he paid attention to the horse.

“It’s taken me a month to find you,” Clem remarked, trying another way into the conversation. “I’ve driven all night from Los Banos.”

His hat obscured everything but his mouth. “I know Los Banos.”

Clem took that as an opening. “My dad has a ranch southwest of the city, right up against the Diablo range.”

After another extended silence, Clem tried again. Maybe he was waiting for her to finish her thought.

“We have a few cows roaming up there I need to get down.”

“A few?”

If she could see his face, she’d probably watch one of those dark eyebrows arch up.

“Well, six hundred.”

He didn’t say anything.

Finally, he pushed back the brim of his hat and asked, “What kind?”

His eyes were moss-green now. Clem looked away and brushed her side more vigorously, trying to cover the flush that was working its way up her neck. She muttered, “Don’t really know.”

For the first time, he stopped what he was doing and evaluated her. “How can you not know?” Curiosity tinged his voice.

DEXTER SCOTT HAD TO ADMIT he was interested. By the way she rode and brushed, she knew her way around horses. She also knew her way around gates. Some of his gates were constructed more than a hundred years ago, though the one closest to the property was new. That one he locked.

He took advantage of the fact that she wouldn’t look at him. On closer examination, she didn’t resemble Joanna so much. Her hands, for instance. Joanna’s hands were like a basketball player’s and since she’d never wore gloves, they were as weathered as old leather. But this woman’s hands were smooth, soft, just showing signs of wear. Joanna would also have been able to tell the breed of a cow a hundred yards away. Who was she? Dexter realized he didn’t even know her name.

“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded, appalled that his voice sounded as if it erupted from his belly.

She stopped currying as the flush spread from her slender neck to her ears. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. Clem. Clementine Wells.”

Clementine.

“The song or the orange?”

She made a face, then shrugged slim shoulders and smiled a smile that revealed white, even teeth. “I think the song, but I know my mother is partial to tangerines.”

Dexter couldn’t think of anything to say, but he was grateful that her name wasn’t Joan or Jo or Jess.

Clementine. Clem.

They continued to brush.

“I’d be indebted if you’d just come to the ranch to look at my problem. See if there’s anything you could do. There’s a fortune waiting for anyone who can do this.”

Dexter didn’t need a fortune. He had more than enough money to exist.

“I’d offer you, er, forty percent of what you bring in.”

Dexter, against his will, wanted to laugh. She wasn’t a tough negotiator. In fact, she looked so hopeful Dexter thought that if he was a different kind of man, he’d take the forty percent and then some. But as it was, forty percent, fifty percent, a hundred percent meant nothing. He didn’t need the money. Rather than prolong her misery, he said, his voice as abrupt and definite as he could make it, “I told you, I’m retired.”

She blinked and Dexter noticed her eyes were the same color as the blue horse blanket he’d just removed. He didn’t want to see the hope there dull, but it was necessary. He didn’t work anymore and that was all there was to it.

There was another silence.

Finally, she said, still hopeful, “I have more than six hundred cattle out there, all weighing more than a thousand pounds. You’d have enough money to fix up your house.”

Dex flinched at her insinuation that he was struggling financially. He had plenty of money to fix up the house. The cans of paint that Joanna had bought for the exterior were still in the basement, dusty, untouched. He was glad the pick in his hand didn’t falter as he used quick, short movements to clean New Horse’s back right hoof.

“It’s a beautiful house.”

He ignored her, wondering why this woman didn’t seem put off.

“It’s a shame that it should be so run-down. I imagine it was quite a showpiece in its day.”

She stopped talking, but the barn wasn’t silent to Dexter. He could hear the blood rushing through his head, New Horse’s breathing, the woman’s movements as she put away the brushes. He worked his way through the other three hooves, concentrating on a grooming ritual that he’d completed a thousand times.

CLEM WATCHED THE MAN straighten from his chore.

“No.” The single word bit into the stillness.

“What?” Clem asked, pretending to play dumb. Maybe it had been wrong to make a remark about his house, but it was the truth. And she just couldn’t accept “no” for an answer.

“No,” he enunciated, and straightened. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m retired. You have a safe drive back, ma’am.”

She watched him look around as if he’d suddenly realized he’d finished the grooming, then stride out of the stall, having to wait impatiently for Clem to exit before he could shut the door. He walked out of the barn, heading for the house.

Clem stood there, her mind whirling as she sought a solution. It wasn’t going to end this way. It wasn’t. There must be something that he wanted that she could give him. She hadn’t driven all night to be flicked away like a fly on the potato salad. His long stride had already taken him to the Victorian, where he climbed up the creaking steps, his arm extended to open the screen door.