Cutter Mountain Rendezvous (2 page)

Chapter Two

In the rearview mirror, Kate watched the cowboy rush out to the middle of the road like a stray dog left without his dinner. She felt awful not to help. Being a Good Samaritan with Lindsay in the car was out of the question, no matter the code of the mountains to be helpful. Or that the cowboy was devilishly cute. Leave it to Cousin Jeff to dig up a down-and-out carpenter and send him her way.

She called her childhood friend, Bobby McAllen, to take his tow truck and go pick up the cowboy. “If he can’t pay, tell him the tow is courtesy of Bear Creek and send me the bill.”

Once Bobby agreed to shake a leg, she hung up and grinned. The cowboy was more than appealing with his unkempt all-American good looks. She’d seen the playful look in his eye before he realized she wasn’t giving him a lift.
That boy’s full of mischief
. Mischief she didn’t need pounding nails at her place.

Half awake, Lindsay crawled over the center console to plop herself in the front seat. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye. “Was that a cowboy?”

“Buckle up.” She smiled at Lindsay. “He kinda looked like one, didn’t he? But I think he’s a carpenter Cousin Jeff sent to help finish the inn.”

“Oh. He looked Kentucky blue.”

Kate laughed out loud. She had written the song before Lindsay was born and given it to an unknown who riddled it with a rockabilly beat. It had flopped big time. Amidst doubt and rejection, she met Lindsay’s father when country star Trace Patton recorded the song. Kentucky Blue hit the top of the charts the same week she married Dr. Tremont Benson in a small, private ceremony.

The honeymoon wasn’t even over when he informed her she was a respectable doctor’s wife now not a musician. Trey’s out-East upbringing and education never embraced the Nashville community’s love and respect for country musicians. She shook away the thoughts. “Bobby will help him.”

“But he looked sad.”

“I’m sure he’s sad because his truck broke down.”

As she approached her turnoff she saw Bobby’s bright orange tow truck. They stopped alongside each other.

“Hey, Kate.”

“Hey, Bobby. You can’t miss him. He’s straight ahead near Cutter Lookout about to freeze to death, I imagine.”

A man of few words, Bobby dipped his head to acknowledge he understood.

“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you one for breaking into your dinner. Don’t forget. If he can’t pay, send me the bill.”

“I’m not forgetful or dense, Kate.” Bobby hit the gas, the chains on his truck jangled at the lurch. She sighed, sorry to have offended her childhood friend, someone who painfully mooned over her throughout their school years.

“Do you love Bobby?” Lindsay asked.

“Not like you think. We’re good friends. I’ve known Bobby since I was your age.”

Lindsay’s eyebrows came together. “He must be old too.”

“Hey, young lady. I’ll have you know thirty is not old.”

“Daddy’s old.”

“No he isn’t.”

“Yes he is. Grandma said so.”

Here was an interesting revelation courtesy of the mouth of babes. Trey was forty when they married. It hardly made for a man with one foot in the grave. What it made in Trey’s case was a man too set in his ways to enter marriage for the first time.

“Did Daddy move away because you wouldn’t get new boobies?”

Kate about choked. “Whatever made you think that?” Was this kid really seven? Lindsay had her father’s steel-trap mind and Kate’s creativity. It was proving to be a challenge.

Lindsay’s shoulders moved up and down, melting Kate’s heart. She knew her daughter was trying to figure out the changes. To lighten the mood, she puffed out her chest and said with whimsical self-importance, “I prefer my body as God made it. Like Nature. Did you ever see a gnarled up tree and think it was the most beautiful thing you ever saw?”

Lindsay gave her the “huh” look and dropped the subject. Okay. Kate felt better. Her daughter was seven.

“Is Daddy mad because you don’t like his last name?”

“No, Lindsay. It’s complicated.”

Kate held her breath. What was going on here? Although Trey had been an absentee father, she wondered if his moving to Los Angeles to join a prestigious plastic surgeon’s group prompted the questions. For Kate, his move provided a solution. It meant she could move back home to Bear Creek, and Lindsay wouldn’t be divided up like a pile of laundry. “Daddy and I love you very much,” she said with sincere emphasis and took a jab at honesty. “We just can’t live together.”

“Because you fight?”

“Yes. That’s part of it.”

Kate braced herself when Lindsay twisted in her seat to look her in the eye. “I’m hungry. Can I have SpagettiO’s?”

The muscles in Kate’s shoulders relaxed. “Sure. SpaghettiO’s I can manage.”

****

Colton pulled a pack of Camels from the breast pocket of his T-shirt. An impulse buy at an Indiana Gas Mart when he came face-to-face with baseball cards bearing his image. Leaning against Bessie’s door, he hung a heel of his cowboy boots on the running board and lit up from the first pack of cigarettes he had bought since a teen. A deep drag about brought tears to his eyes. The taste was so bad he thought he might as well go lick Bessie’s radiator. The cigarette was tossed to the ground and crushed beneath the toe of his boot.

Damn
it was quiet.

Chilled by a cool breeze, he reached through the window of the truck cab to pull on a buttery soft leather sports coat. Here was some irony. He looked like one big phony heap of contradiction with his dad’s tattered straw cowboy hat, rag pile T-shirt and broken down truck. Add the fine leather jacket and six-hundred dollar lizard boots meant to impress, not kick shit, and even he saw confusion.

“So, Bessie.” He rapped his knuckles against her door then hung his thumbs in his pockets. “You think a tow truck will show? I think she had a passenger in the back, watching us. That’s what I think.” Dark windows at the back of the Lexus made it impossible to tell. When he tried to get a better look, she inched the car forward and drove off.

He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes ticked by like hours. No radio. No TV. No sounds other than birds and the occasional rustle of leaves.

With a little planning, this trip could have been good for him. Instead, he stomped off after the pushy broad from Wham Sports followed him clear inside his brother’s construction trailer where Colton was helping out with paperwork for a few days.

Then Miss Wham Sports hit him with drivel about karma before he could down his first cup of coffee, comparing his tangle with a dirt bike to an ornery bull that ended his dad’s career. He had shown her the door. But not before he let her know his career wasn’t in the crapper just yet. Speculation the news media fed his fans to distraction.

Minutes later, he and Mason were in a fight over a misplaced materials list.

All of which led him to this very place.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to write his own list. Maybe that would get this insane trip moving in the right direction. As far as he was concerned, lists were for girls, but someone other than Mason held a fascination for jotting things down. Who?

He scratched his jaw. Oh, right. His shrink. The guy loved lists and journals and making you think of problems you would prefer other people have.

Grabbing a greasy burger sack from inside the truck, he scrounged around for a pen and came up with a pencil. Against Bessie’s windshield he wrote:
Colton Gray’s Freedom List—
whatever the hell that was. He grinned. This was entertaining.

The smell of the truck’s meltdown strong in his nostrils, he scratched two lines beneath the words. “The doc will love this one, Bessie.”

1. Don’t ride a lady too hard.

2. Get off meds.

3. Call Mason.

4. Walk.

It was a start. One, three and four could be marked off the list immediately. Pleased with his progress, he punched three on speed dial and got a quick reply. “Mason—”

“Colton,” his brother barked. “Where the hell are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m staring at a stack of papers that says it does.”

“I quit, remember.”

“Very mature.”

“Felt good at the time.”

“Not from where I sit. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Strained silence beat between them. “Look, Mason. I’m sorry I walked out. Called you an asshole. Although you are at times. And you’re bossy as hell.”

“It’s a birthright. I’m older.”

“Yeah, and you don’t let me forget it. Look, I appreciate you tried to keep me busy to get my mind off things but it didn’t work. I’m not cut out to be a pencil pusher stuck in a construction trailer.”

“Come push wheel barrows full of wet cement. That’ll work off your anger.”

Colton walked out onto the empty road and stood in the middle, toeing the white line. His brother’s perceptive jest meant Mason did recognize his need to do things other than sit on his ass. “You’re not listening, man. Why do you do that? You’re trying to make me into something I’m not. I was born to be a ballplayer not some—”

“
Was
might be the operative word here. You’re on what dad called a slippery slope. I think you should retire at the top of your game and not spend it on the injured list every few months or years.”

Colton ground his teeth. “I’ll pitch again this season
and
stay healthy. Mark my word.” He reached for the cigarettes then pinched the bridge of his nose instead. There it was. Retired at thirty-two. Everyone except the press tiptoed around the subject, including Colton. Leave it to Mason to bring the demon front and center. “Ease up, okay? You’ve no idea what I’m dealing with here and that’s the honest-to-God truth.”

“Then deal with it. You didn’t make the majors being a candy ass, and you won’t beat depression wallowing in front of the TV.”

“I’m not depressed. I’m pissed I dumped the bike.”

“There’s a difference? Listen, you know I’d do anything to help you out. Hell”—Mason’s voice cracked as he sucked in a shallow breath—“I wish I’d dumped the damned bike, not you. But that’s not how it played out so how about I swing by your place, we grab a bite and talk. Like Dad would have done.”

“Can’t,” Colton said around a lump in his throat. His brother’s comment was the closest thing to outward love the two had shared in eons. “I’m out of town.”

“Out of what?”

“Town. You deaf?”

“You blind? Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. Judging by endless trees and the lack of humanity, I’d say lost somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains.”

Air hissed through Mason’s teeth. Colton held the cell away from his ear to let his brother explode like his radiator.

While Mason ranted, he bent over to pick up the crushed cigarette butt and tossed it at a bag of garbage inside the truck cab. With his string of luck, Smokey the Bear was sure to come lumbering over the ridge to make a citizen’s arrest.

Mason heaved a sigh. “All right. Have it your way. Take some time to yourself. But call your agent so I don’t have to deal with the press. And call Mom before she discovers you’re gone.”

“Consider it done.”

“You take the new Mustang?”

“No. Dad’s beater.”

“You have got to be friggin’ kidding me,” Mason punched out the words. “That bucket of bolts can’t climb a hill let alone a mountain.”

Colton watched a fading trail of smoke make a lazy curl from under the hood like a tired dragon. “It doesn’t very well. Should have taken the Mustang, but wanted to travel incognito.”

That was only half true. He wanted to be close to his dad, and the old truck was all that was left of those days. That and the fact the vanity plate on the Mustang read COL-TRAIN. The nickname his fans tagged to him because he was unstoppable once the win was in sight.

“Serves you right,” Mason said with a huff of resignation. “If the thing breaks down, abandon it and fly home. Before you do that, call Mom. Then your agent.”

“I told you consider it done. And Mason, I’m turning my cell back off. Text if there’s something important. I’m going to take a couple of weeks to get my head screwed on straight.”

Colton snapped the phone shut.

He needed a shower and a plan—one that told him what to do with the rest of his life should he not make his way back to the pitcher’s mound. He added a fifth and sixth line to his list.

5. Game plan.

6. Carpentry for the cute little mountain gal. Route X. Crockett.

7. Retire.

Colton scratched out line seven so hard the bag tore. Crumpling it into a ball, he tossed it inside his truck. Nope. He wasn’t ready to quit believing in that miracle.

Moments later a bright orange truck rattled and churned its way to the top of the mountain. Big black letters ran across an extra wide bumper that read Orange Crush Tow.

“That truck just got you a deal you can’t refuse, Miss Crockett.”