Along Came a Cowboy (18 page)

He drops a kiss on her forehead. “How's my favorite granddaughter?”

A grin spreads across her face. “Fantabulous.”

“Em,” he yells toward the kitchen, “she's making up words. He'd better get here soon.”

“Who'd better get here soon?” I ask, suspicion making my voice edgy.

Jenn shrugs, her eyes wide.

“You girls come on in the kitchen,” Mom calls.

“What is he talking about?” I hiss at Jenn as we walk to the kitchen.

Jenn ignores me and steps back to let me go in first.

Mom looks up from the stove, and a frown creases her brow. “Rachel, I told you there was no need to bring anything.” Her gaze lights on the plastic gallon jug of tea with the store label. “You bought ready-made tea? I've never tried that.”

Ouch. But I'm not going to let her put a chip in our bridge. I find a tough smile, slide the casserole dish onto the counter, and plop the jug down beside it. “You always taught me not to go anywhere empty-handed.”

She looks over my shoulder. “What is this?” she says playfully, pointing to the plate Jenn is carrying.

“I made some brownies for dessert.”

“How sweet!”

“They definitely are,” Jenn says with a saucy grin. “Aunt Rach
almost had a heart attack when she saw the sugar content.”

“Good thing we had those nitroglycerine tabs handy,” I pan.

Mom jerks her head to look at me.

“Just kidding,” I mumble.

Why is it a crime for me to bring something, but Jenn can offer death on a plate and suddenly I'm the bad guy? “She might be exaggerating a little, but they
are
loaded with sugar.” Really, they should be warned, right? But back to the subject at hand. “So who was the
he
Dad was talking about?”

Mom and Jenn meet each other's gaze then instantly look away, but not before I see.

“When did your father say, ‘Who'?” Mom asks.

Apparently I'm in the old Abbott and Costello routine. “Let me spell it out for you. Who is the ‘he' that had better show up soon?”

Mom purses her lips as if I am a difficult child. Which, come to think of it, I guess I am. “Jenn, why don't you set the table, honey? The plates and silverware are already in there.”

Jenn casts me a worried look, and suddenly I know
exactly
who's coming to dinner. No guessing needed.

“Mom!”

Jenn skitters out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

“Now look here. She just suggested that I might enjoy inviting Dirk for lunch. And I agreed. Your dad and I have visited with him many times and always find him to be good company. He loves my lemonade.”

“Well then, by all means, let's bring him into the family if he loves your lemonade.”

“You don't need to shout, Rachel.”

“I'm not shouting.”

The kitchen door swings open, and Dad walks in, still clutching his paper. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” we snap at the same time.

He holds up his hand. “Doesn't sound like nothing.”

“Are you in on this. . .matchmaking?” I sputter. “Good grief, she's only fifteen!”

His brows draw together and, inanely, I notice again the touch of gray in his hair. Where has the time gone? “A dinner invitation doesn't constitute matchmaking.”

“Again, did you hear the
fifteen
part?”

He looks puzzled. A pang of worry interrupts my outrage. Why is he acting so confused? Is his memory so dim that he's forgotten what happens when you turn an impressionable girl loose with a cowboy?

Or, apparently, they think that Jenn is not me, that she won't make my mistakes.

Yeah, well me, too. But I'm not going to tempt fate.

“Alton”—Mom puts a hand on Dad's arm and one on mine—“you should go on out and be ready to answer the door. I'll handle this.”

I jerk away from her as Dad leaves the room. “You'll handle this? This? I'm a person, Mom.” I lower my voice to a terse whisper. “And living proof that teenage girls don't have good judgment when it comes to boys.”

“Dirk's a nice Christian boy,” Mom says. “We should have had him over before now, actually.”

“He's a
cowboy
. They know how to be whatever they need to be to get the girl.”

Mom frowns. “You're making much too much of this, Rachel. You'll see.”

Tears prick my eyes. “You know what? I've lost my appetite. I'll be out in the barn when Jenn's ready to go.”

Mom looks at me, shock on her face as if she can't believe how I'm overreacting.

I'm not overreacting.
I slip out the back door and let it slam behind me. A shuddering sob racks my chest. In every other area of my life, I'm successful. Why am I such a failure at being a daughter?

She doesn't come after me. Not that I expect her to. I escaped to the barn many times after that night with Brett, and she didn't come after me then, either. Of course she didn't know what was wrong, but she didn't ask.

Sweetie nickers with surprise when I walk up. Horses are creatures of schedule, and she knows as well as I do that I'm not supposed to be here right now.

I run my hand across her mane. “Your mama dried a lot of my tears that autumn,” I whisper.

Her ear flicks as if she understands.

Odd how my rebellious teen times started with that night at the rodeo and ended when I decided to give up the baby to Tammy and go to chiropractic college. From that day forward, I've been the picture of steady and easygoing. But when I'm with my parents, it's like the defiant girl never left. I'm a stupid, irresponsible teenager all over again.

I've read all the scriptures about forgiveness. I've prayed for God to forgive me, for my parents to forgive me, and for me to forgive them. But so far, nothing. I know that God can forgive me, but will He as long as I hold a grudge against Mom and Dad? I drop down against the wall of Sweetie's stall and close my eyes.

Lord, You know how many times I've been here, in this painful place in my heart, over the years. How many times I've asked You to take this whole thing away. What am I doing wrong? I don't want to cause my parents any more pain than I already have. And I don't want to see Jennifer get hurt like I did.

Suddenly, my eyes pop open. If Jennifer did the same thing
I did, would I be able to forgive her? In a heartbeat. Without hesitation. I love her that much. For the first time in years, cleansing tears spill down my cheeks as I continue praying.

Oh, Father, how could I be so blind? I've heard the sermons, I've read the scriptures, but all I could see was my own unworthiness and pain. How much more do You love me than I love Jennifer?

My heart thuds against my ribs. I pull my knees up to my chest and drop my head onto them.

Am I wrong about my parents, too? Please help me find the truth, once and for all.

A truck door slams out front. Dirk, no doubt. I take a shaky breath and push to my feet. If I hurry, I can get in the kitchen door before anyone has to make excuses for my absence.

Be good, Rachel.

I will, for Jennifer's sake. For all our sakes.

Maybe this bridge
is
salvageable.

I slip inside the kitchen just as the doorbell rings at the front of the house. Mom looks up from the stove, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Forget something?”

“Yes.” I cross over to her and put my arm around her shoulders. “I. . .uh. . .I forgot to tell you I'm sorry for overreacting.”

Her blue eyes soften, and she reaches up and covers my hand with her own. “Believe it or not, I understand. I'm sorry, too. We should have told you—”

“Since I'm a bit of a control nut, it usually helps me to have advance notice of things.” I flash her an apologetic grin. “Gives me time to wrap my mind around something.” I walk over and grab the casserole dish. “Are we ready to put the food on the table?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well then, let's go see if this cowboy is as nice as you two—make that you
three
—think he is.”

“You need to—”

“Don't worry, Mom. I really am going to give him a chance.” I rush out the door into the living room–dining room area before Dad has a chance to tell Dirk I'm not here.

And bump right into my own cowboy.

Whoa. I need to get a serious grip on my thoughts. Jack is definitely not “my own” cowboy, nor is he supposed to be here. But for a second, no, a long moment, all I can do is gape up at him, caught in the vortex of my mixed emotions.

I shouldn't be this happy to see him. Should. Not. Has my good sense completely disengaged?

Jack has a grip on both my elbows. I guess to stop me from smearing broccoli casserole down the front of his nice red shirt. “Where's the fire?”

He smiles at me, and my heart pounds as my gaze meets Dad's over Jack's shoulder.

Dad's face reddens. “Rachel, how are things coming in there?”

“Fine.” I force a smile and extricate myself from Jack's grip. “We're getting ready to put the food on the table.” I look over to where Dirk and Jennifer are sitting on the sofa talking. “Hope y'all are hungry,” I say, with about as much warmth as an Ozark mountain winter.

So much for my newfound determination to make peace with my parents. Apparently our lives are rigged with land mines. I should have seen this one coming, though. It all makes sense now—even Dad's puzzlement about what I was mad about earlier. He assumed I'd found out that Jack was invited. That they were matchmaking on
my
behalf. And in the kitchen just now Mom was trying to break the news to me.

I'm going to be gracious if it kills me.

A
few minutes later, as we all sit down at the table, I'm thinking I might choke on graciousness.

“So, Rachel,” Mom says as she passes me the rolls, “Allie's wedding is next Saturday? I guess everyone is excited.”

I stare at her and nod. Mom barely knows my friends. My choice, but still. . . “Yes, they are.
We
are.”

“Are you taking anyone?”

Taking. . .anyone?

Dirk and Jennifer stop their murmured conversation, and everyone at the table is suddenly watching me. “I'm taking Jennifer,” I say quickly and pass the rolls to Jack.

“I mean a date.”

Of course I knew exactly what she meant the first time, thanks to the thinly veiled matchmaking efforts of this dinner. Still, my face reddens. I concentrate on buttering my bread. “Dates aren't required. I'm a bridesmaid.”

“Why, I know they aren't required.” Mom waves her napkin in the air as if to wipe away such a silly notion. “But you don't have a date, even for the rehearsal dinner?”

“No, ma'am,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Jack, you know Daniel, don't you?”

I set my butter knife down. Okay, that's
e-nough
. “Mom—”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jack answers.

I give him a “Don't encourage her” look, but he ignores me. “We rode the same bus in elementary school.”

She smiles at me as if everything is oh, so simple now that Jack has a childhood connection to the groom.

“And of course I know him from Coffee Central, too,” Jack continues. Stop, please, Jack.

Mom nods. “Such a nice place.”

“You've been to Coffee Central?” I can't hide my surprise.

“Our scrapbook club meets there once a month. I noticed he named a drink after you. Rachel's Special Soy Latte. I even ordered it.” She twists her mouth with distaste. “Once.”

Everyone—except me—laughs.

“Aunt Rachel's taste buds are psycho,” Jenn explains to Dirk. “She doesn't do sugar, and she's always eating tree bark and stuff like that.”

“I like sugar,” I say a little defensively. “For special occasions. And I don't eat tree bark.”

I hear a little hiccup or something from across the table and catch Jack in midchoke. He's coughing and my mother is slapping him on the back.

I love Sunday dinners.

Somehow we manage not to discuss my dating—or lack thereof—or the wedding for the rest of dinner. I quietly listen to my father's inquiries about Jack's unofficial rodeo school and Dirk's enthusiasm about his improved bull-riding skills. But the question of the wedding date lingers, like a bean casserole no one wants to touch.

Considering that the last time I saw Jack he was out with Blair, I'm not inclined to invite him anywhere. Not that I have
a right to be mad. I'm just annoyed. Which I don't really have a right to be either.

Mentally I stamp my foot. There has to be some emotion that's on the approved list when you see a man who has been trying to sweep you off your feet out with a blond bombshell.

“Jennifer, would you and Dirk mind helping with the dishes?” My mother's voice yanks me out of one dilemma right into a new one. “It's such a beautiful day out. A lovely day for a walk.”