Love Drunk Cowboy

chapter 6

On Monday morning Austin awoke to the sounds of nothing in her house.

“Praise the Lord, and I’m not blaspheming, Granny,” she said aloud. She hopped out of bed and stuck her nose out into the short hallway. No coffee and bacon aromas wafted down the hallway. No pots and pans rattling or whistling. All of a sudden the house felt very empty.

She made a pot of coffee, stuck two slices of bread in the toaster, and decided to pack Granny’s room that day. Daylight filtered through the kitchen window and across the table in a wide streak while she ate a piece of buttered toast and drank two cups of coffee.

She looked around at all the junk and sighed. “Why didn’t Granny have a garage sale and get rid of this? I don’t know what to keep and what to get rid of.”

Your granny was sick and she wanted to leave this world with all her things around her. Look around. A whole lot of this crap is what you bought her because you knew she liked knickknacks. You think she would have given away a single hair from your hair that got left behind on the bathroom sink?

Then she felt guilty. She finished her toast and wandered into the living room. Used to be there was at least a spot big enough to set a coffee cup on the end tables but not anymore. An anorexic flea couldn’t find a place to land if it hopped off Rascal and tried to light on a table. She should have stayed home from the egg hunt and dinner at the O’Donnell’s the day before but that was water under the Red River Bridge.

The more she looked around at all the crap the angrier she got. There was no way in hell she’d bought all of that junk. She would have never bought that butt ugly duck wearing a grass skirt and sunglasses.

A hard knock on the front door startled her so that she sloshed coffee out on her pajama top. She dabbed at it with the kitchen towel on her way to tell Rye that she wasn’t interested in anything he had planned that day, but it was Felix and the other five hired hands standing on the porch.

“Miz Austin, I just thought I’d let you know that even though we always plant on the first Monday after Easter that I think we’d best put it off this year because it’s going to rain. Weather says we might get up to two inches today and tonight. The seeds would be washed away if we plant now and the tractors would be stuck in the mud,” Felix said.

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Then we will wait a week. The weatherman says it will rain most of this week. We’ll spend our time working in the implement shed getting the tractors tuned up and ready for next week’s planting.”

“You take care of it. I’ll use this week to pack up the stuff in the house and we’ll plant next week.”

“You want me to send Lobo in here to help you?”

“No, thanks, I can manage this part.”

“Okay, then we will talk each morning and start to plant next Monday.” He settled his straw hat on his head and barely made it to the truck before it started to rain.

She poured another cup of coffee and started in her grandmother’s room. Clothing that she had no interest in wearing went into a big black garbage bag with a yellow tie on the top. She slapped a strip of masking tape on the outside with a brief description of what was in the bag so she wouldn’t get it mixed up with the trash.

She found a half written letter to her father in one of the nightstand drawers. It was dated fifteen years before and mentioned how proud she was of Austin’s achievements in school that year. She put that in a box with a small snow globe she had brought her grandmother from a skiing trip to Italy and other things too precious to toss out.

The rain subsided and the sun came out in the middle of the afternoon. She opened the windows to let the sunshine and fresh air flow into the room. It was near midnight when she shook pillows down into fresh cases and finished re-making the bed. All total, she’d found four hundred dollars in ones, fives, and tens stashed in drawers, coat pockets, and stuffed down into boots. She’d have to go through every envelope and shake out every single piece of paper or she might actually throw away money.

***

Rye stood at the kitchen window and stared at the lights across the road. She was in Granny’s bedroom, no doubt cleaning it out in a fit of anger. He’d called her mother a hussy in a joking tone so why had she taken such offense? He hadn’t meant it to start a fight but she was so damn cute when she was angry.

At midnight the light went out and he picked up the phone and punched in the speed dial to the house phone. On the third ring she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Wishing you had Caller ID so you could hang up on me?” he asked.

“You must be psychic.”

“Still mad?”

“I’m too tired and sleepy to be mad.”

“Good. I’m slated to ride in a rodeo tomorrow night down in Houston. Want to go with me?”

“Rye, I’ve got to get this work done,” she said.

A stone the size of the Rock of Gibraltar replaced his heart. He’d hoped she’d drop everything and go with him. But that was a fool’s thinking.

“I’m leaving at sunup tomorrow morning. Have to be there to check in for the bull riding at six thirty. If you change your mind, be ready at six. I’m sorry I called your mother a hussy but I was only joking,” he said.

“I’m sorry I accused you of wining and dining me to get my watermelon farm. Be careful and call when you get there.” She rolled her eyes. Why in the hell had she said that? She sounded like his mother or worse yet, her grandmother.

He wanted to dance a jig right there in the kitchen. “I will do that. Good night, Austin.”

“Good night.” She held the receiver to her ear long after the dial tone said he’d hung up.

At six o’clock the next morning she awoke with a start and ran to the living room window. Rain was coming down in sheets, blowing hard against the window, but she could still see his pickup as it pulled out of the driveway. She watched until the tail lights disappeared and then she brewed a pot of coffee. After breakfast she started work in the garage. Granny had kept every scrap of paper that her father had ever brought home from school and they painted a picture of her father growing up.

She was having a midmorning break when the phone rang and she really did wish for Caller ID. “Hello?”

“Are you awake yet?” Rye asked.

“Of course I’m awake. I’ve been in the garage all morning.”

“Miss me making breakfast for you?”

She smiled. “My fat cells did.”

“You don’t have any fat cells.” He pictured her in those cute little pajamas and swerved over into the wrong lane. A loud car horn jerked him into the present and he pulled off onto the shoulder and stopped.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Car horn. Someone was angry at someone else. So what did you find in the garage?” Anything to keep her talking. Her voice was rye whiskey, all fire and warmth with an aftertaste that lasted all day.

“I found four hundred dollars stashed away in the bedroom last night so now I have to go through everything a piece at a time so I don’t throw away money,” she said.

“Our grandparents are Depression kids. They hid money because they were still afraid of banks.”

“Well, in today’s economy I got to admit I’m about ready to hide it in fruit jars in the cellar too. Where are you?”

“South of Dallas a hundred miles. Got caught in the morning traffic and that held me up but I left in plenty of time to allow for it.”

“My cell phone is ringing and it’s Mother’s ring tone. I’d better go.”

“Talk to you later,” Rye said.

“Okay. Be careful.”

It hadn’t been a dial-up-sex call but Rye felt like a teenage boy who’d hacked into the 900 numbers and had free access to them. He went over every word she’d said all the way to Houston.

Tuesday evening she had to make a run to town for milk and bread and missed his call before he settled onto the bull’s back. The bull came out of the chute with both hind legs off the ground, his horns practically touching the dirt in front of him and twisting and turning like a whirlwind. Rye hung on for eight full seconds and qualified for the Thursday night ride, but it was the toughest ride he’d ever done. Not because of the bull but because the whole time he had one hand in the air and the other around the rope, he kept wishing he’d thought to ask for Austin’s cell phone number before he left.

He tried calling the house several times but got no answer. He was ready to get in his truck and drive all night back to Terral when at ten o’clock she finally picked up.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Hello,” he said in his slow Texas drawl.

“I’m so glad you called. Didn’t know if you’d try to call tonight but I hoped you would. I laid the phone down on the kitchen counter after we talked this morning and went to get my cell phone to talk to my mother and forgot about the other phone and the battery went dead. I spent the day cleaning out the garage and why in the hell didn’t you get my cell phone number before you left…” She sucked in a full lung of air and started again, “…what if you’d been killed on that bull and why do you ride those mean things anyway and…”

“Whoa!”

“Don’t you whoa me, Rye O’Donnell!”

He slapped his thigh and turned around three times in the motel room. She cared enough to worry about him!

“I’ve got a pen in my hand. What is your cell phone number? I’ll program it in and put it on speed dial. And if you were so worried why didn’t you call me?”

“How could I? Granny didn’t have Caller ID and I don’t have your cell number.” Her tone was pure frustration.

“Two things. It’s programmed on her phone. Your cell phone is star number one. Mine is star number two. And it’s on a piece of paper on the refrigerator. Those last couple of weeks her memory was bad so I wrote it down and stuck it to the refrigerator door with a magnet.”

“Well, hell’s bells, nobody told me that. How’d your rodeo go?”

“I racked up enough points to ride again on Thursday. I’ll be home Friday evening. Want to drive down tomorrow and watch me ride on Thursday?”

“Still got work to do, and I want to look at that wine business a little more. Do you have any idea what she means by fast yeast like Montrachet? She says in her recipe that watermelon juice has a tendency to spoil before it reaches a preservative level and to use this fast yeast and I need something called Campden tablets.”

“No, but I bet we can find out if we go to her suppliers. She had to have ordered it from somewhere because you sure can’t buy anything like that at the grocery store in Terral.”

He did a few fast moves of a line dance in happiness. She was intrigued by the wine. Would that keep her in Terral?

“I guess so. And she talked about putting the fresh squeezed juice in the refrigerator for the first twenty-four hours for the Campden to work. And to never use anything but pure juice. She said some recipes call for water but to ignore them. I feel like I’m groping in the dark but it’s all so interesting,” she said.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve seen her float a hydrometer in the juice to see how much sugar to add. She told me once she had to do it with every single recipe because the watermelon juice was different in every batch she grew. A good wet spring made for better juice. Drought years were horrible.”

“Guess I’ve got a lot to learn,” she said.

***

Wednesday, she kept her cell phone with her but by midmorning figured out that she had no reception down in the wine cellar so she left the door open and laid it on the top step. It rang ten minutes later and she scrambled up the stairs so fast she didn’t even see the granddaddy long-legged spider.

“Hello!”

“Well, that was a spicy greeting. Are you about to get that rat’s den cleaned up? Think you can come home a few days early? We could fly to the beach and spend a long weekend together. What do you think?” Barbara asked.

“Sounds like fun but it’s not going to happen, Mother. It’s coming along but not very fast and I’ll be here the full time. Right now I’m in the wine cellar.”

“You are where?”

“In the wine cellar. Granny made this wonderful watermelon wine that everyone rants about. She’s got a fancy setup down in the storm cellar. I’ve been learning about making watermelon wine and, Mother, she’s made a small fortune with it.”

Barbara laughed. “Well, that’s a business you can sell and build a nice little nest egg for retirement. Gotta run. There’s a salesman with a question about a used car. Talk to you later.”

She’d barely made it to the bottom of the steps when the phone rang again. She got it on the second ring and answered.

“Hey, what are you doing today?” Rye asked.

“I’m in the wine cellar. I tried the garage but all I could think about was wine so I’ve been down there reading over her notes and trying to figure out things. I found a place where I can buy that Montrachet yeast online and from the looks of it she bought it in pound packages. And Campden is sodium metabisulfite in tablet form and goes into the juice twenty-four hours before fermentation. It’s a process, let me tell you. I can’t wait to make my first batch.”

“Sounds like you are a fast learner. Granny told me the first time she decided to make a batch that it wasn’t any better than glorified Kool-Aid but you’ve got a head start with her recipes.” He wanted to be next to her, not all the way across the damn state, but the purse if he won tomorrow night would go a long way toward a bull he had his sights on buying for his own rodeo stock.

“I wish I had some good ripe melons to start on right now,” she said.

“Well, darlin’, you’ll have to wait until the end of June for that. Maybe even the first of July since you’re getting a week late start on planting. But they’re always ready by July 4 so you should have your hands deep in the juice by then.”

It hit Austin right then like a dump truck full of bricks falling on her head that on July 4 she’d be in Tulsa in a new office with a lovely view and at least a hundred people on her payroll full time instead of six until the middle of July.

“You still there?” Rye asked.

“Yes, I’m here. I was just thinking.”

“Well, go on back to your wine making business. I’m meeting a fellow with a good rodeo bull for sale for lunch. I’ll call you later tonight.”

“I’ll be right here,” she said and hung up with a heavy heart. She went back to the house, made a ham and cheese sandwich, put it on a paper plate with a pile of barbecued chips to the side, and carried it with a can of cold Diet Coke back to the cellar.

It was almost seven when Rye called again and she was shocked to see that it was dark when she hustled to the top of the stairs for the phone.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“I’m turning out the light and leaving the cellar. Where are you?”

“Fixing to walk into the rodeo and see how my competition looks. If I win the purse tomorrow night I’m buying the bull. We agreed on a price and he’ll be a great addition to my stock for the summer.”

“Purse?” she asked.

“The money for being the best,” he laughed. “You ever been to a rodeo?”

“No.” She pulled the string on the light and closed the cellar door with one hand.

“What was that noise? Did you fall?”

“The cellar door got away from me,” she said.

“First bull is fixing to come out of the chute now. I’ll call you before I go to sleep,” he said.

“I’ll still be here,” she said.

How long could she say that? The idea of never trying her hand at watermelon wine was weighing heavy on her mind. Maybe she’d keep the farm and hire a foreman, take the best of the melons to Tulsa, and make Lanier Wine up there.

She carried that idea into the house but it didn’t last until she’d run a bath. “Granny would jinx it and make it all go bad. Then I’d have nothing but gallons of glorified Kool-Aid.”

***

Thursday, he called twice in the morning, twice in the afternoon, and just before he got on the bull. Then he called her five minutes later to tell her his score and things were looking really good for buying the new rodeo bull.

“That’s great! So you’ll be home tomorrow evening?” she asked.

“That’s right and you’d better be ready to go on our very first real date. How about a picnic down on the riverbanks?”

“What if it rains?”

“Then Chinese and a movie in Duncan?”

“That sounds like a plan,” she said.

“I miss you,” he said softly.

Why was it that as long as she was talking to him on the phone she was fine? Sure, she visualized his cute butt in those Wranglers and his smile and that dimple in his chin. And she dreamed about him kissing her again and again. But when they were together she felt like her world was falling apart at the seams. Maybe it was because they’d started out with a phone relationship and that’s where she was comfortable.

“You going to answer that?” he asked.

“I’m sorry. I was thinking about that picnic.” She told a white lie. “What would you like me to bring?”

“A bottle of Granny’s wine. You. A pizza from down at the Mini-Mart. You. Don’t bother with napkins. Did I mention bringing you?”

“Why no napkins?”

“If you get pizza on your face or hands, I’ll lick it off,” he said.

A delicious shiver raced down her backbone and settled low in her gut. “You are a rogue, talking to me like that when I’m a thousand miles away.”

“You mean you would like it?” he teased.

“Good night, Rye. I’m hanging up now.”

She heard his husky voice chuckle as she flipped her phone shut.

***

Friday morning she forced herself to do some work in the garage but her mind kept going to the cellar and Rye. She’d think about making wine and that would bring on a tasting session with Rye which would trigger a hot feeling on her lips thinking about kissing him after tasting watermelon wine. She almost popped the cork on a bottle of Lanier Wine just to see what it did taste like but she wanted to share that moment with Rye.

After lunch she took a bath, washed her hair, and went to Ryan to cash the hired hands’ checks. She’d promised to buy the ice cream that week and she looked forward to seeing her grandmother’s old friends again. They did not disappoint her. They were waiting at the same table when she pushed inside the drugstore.

“Hey, you showed up which means you stayed a whole week?” Molly said.

“So how are things with Rye? We know you did the Easter egg thing. Verline would’ve been happy about that,” Greta said.

“Haven’t seen him all week. We went to dinner at his folks’, had us a big old fight, and he left the next day for a rodeo in Houston.” Austin pulled out a chair and sat down.

Greta smiled. “I heard that he won the purse. I think it’s funny as hell that they call it a purse even though big old tough men win it.”

“How do you know so much about him?”

“It’s like this. Oma Fay is Kent’s momma and she’s Pearlita’s cousin so Kent tells his momma stuff and she tells Pearlita and Pearlita calls one of us nearly every day.”

“Small towns.”

“Yep, don’t you just love ’em? What have you got done in the packing area?” Molly asked.

“I got a tiny little dent put in the garage and Granny’s room all cleaned out. Y’all know where the nearest Goodwill store is?”

“Sure, but we got a clothes place in our church if you’re just wanting to donate them. Bring them next Friday and I’ll take them to the church,” Greta said.

“Thank you.”

“Sure you don’t need any help down there? Verline was the worst pack rat in the world. I can’t imagine you going through that place all by yourself,” Molly said.

“If I could stay out of the wine cellar, I could get more done, but it keeps calling my name. I’d love to try my hand at making it.”

The waitress set their ice cream in front of them and Austin had her spoon halfway to her mouth when Greta said, “So one week down and you still haven’t got a chance to get Rye into bed. That’s too bad.”

Molly shook her finger at Greta. “Stop it! You’ll embarrass her. Besides, I’ll bet you twenty dollars she sweet-talks him into the bedroom before she goes back to Tulsa.”

“I’ll take your bet but she has to be honest with us and tell us that she did or didn’t.”

“You two are crazy,” Austin said and her cell phone rang. She pulled it out of the pocket of her grandmother’s jeans and answered it without looking at the Caller ID.

“I’m stuck in traffic. An accident happened up ahead. I won’t be home before eight. How about I just slap a steak on the grill and we eat at my place?”

“That sounds fine to me,” she said. “I’ll bring dessert.”

“Bring a bottle of Lanier Wine and you can be dessert,” he laughed.

“Hold that thought,” she giggled as she hung up.

“You are going to lose your money,” Molly said. “Was that Rye?”

Austin dug into her ice cream. “It was.”

“Hold what thought?” Greta leaned over and whispered.

“He said I was dessert.”

“Yep, you might as well pay up now.”

Austin smiled. “Who says I’ll be honest and tell all? You’d best hang on to your money.”

***

She found a pair of denim capris in her grandmother’s closet and a blue and white checkered shirt that she tied at waist level. After trying on four pair of shoes, she tossed them all aside and wore a pair of Verline’s rubber flip-flops. At least they were blue and matched the shirt.

Once she was in the wine cellar she had no idea what bottle to take. Did she take last year’s vintage or 2006, which was the oldest label in the cellar? Since she had no idea which were good and which weren’t she picked up a 2006, 2007, and 2008. Surely Rye would know enough about them to pick the right one to compliment his steaks.

It seemed senseless to drive such a short distance so she walked down the short driveway and across the road. The first step on his property made her antsy enough to consider turning tail, kicking off the flip-flops, and running all the way back home. They’d talked and flirted on the phone and all was well but what would happen when he opened the door? She reminded herself that she was thirty years old, but it didn’t stop the jitters.

***

Rye got home at seven o’clock. He threw two steaks into the microwave and pushed the thaw button, rushed to the shower, shaved, nicked himself in that same place he had when he was in a hurry to get to the Peach Orchard to see her the first time, applied cologne, and tried on four shirts before he put on a soft blue plaid cotton.

He cut up two large potatoes and wrapped each one in a foil packet with real butter, salt and pepper, and a quarter-inch slice of onion, and put them on the grill to cook while he prepared a salad and put it in the refrigerator to chill. He pulled down two plates and carried them out the sliding glass doors to the deck.

The sound of the doorbell made him jump. He rolled his neck on the way through the house but when he swung the door open he was tense all over again. She was damn beautiful standing there with three bottles of wine cradled in her arms.

He opened the door. “Come on in. I’m about to put the steaks on. The potatoes are cooking and the salad is chilling. Want me to put a bottle of that on ice?”

“I don’t know anything about watermelon wine so I brought three bottles and thought you might help me decide which would go better with supper.” She held all three out to him as she stepped inside the cool house. There was no way he could take them from her without brushing against her bare skin.

She managed to keep from visibly shivering.

He wanted to gather her up in his arms and hold her forever, kiss her, make love to her, wake up the next day with her in his arms. But he took the wine and set it on the cabinet and said, “I’ve got the steaks ready to slap on the grill. Hope you are hungry.”

“Starved.”

“Make yourself at home.”

The awkwardness was back. On the phone they were fine. Off, well, that was a different matter.

She busied herself taking a look at the living room. One look around said that Rye O’Donnell was a neat freak. The living room was furnished in mahogany colored leather furniture arranged in front of a fireplace. Not a speck of dust was visible on the heavy oak coffee tables or the end tables. She didn’t even see a skim of dust on the rungs of the oversized rocking chair. No doilies. No frills but good serviceable furniture that begged to be sat on and tables with enough space to set a cup of coffee or tea without knocking over a ceramic duck or elephant. A bar separated the living area and the kitchen which was spick-and-span. Carpet was a light neutral shade of sandy brown, tile on the kitchen floor and cabinet tops were the same shade of mottled brown. All in all, a man’s house.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“It’s temporary. My goal is to build a big house like Mom and Dad’s about a quarter of a mile back on the property by the time I’m forty. Buying a prefab worked at the time and it’s serviceable but it’s not big enough to raise a family.”

“So you’re thinking of a family?”

“Sure am. Gemma says I’m grown up enough to start thinking about one. Matter of fact, she’s insisting I think about it. How about you?”

“I’m not nearly grown up enough yet and I don’t have younger sisters to pester me about it. Actually, it’s the opposite in our family. I’ve got two aunts who would put out a hit on any man I got serious about.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Really?”

“No, not really. But they’ll be very disappointed if I marry anything other than my career.”

“What about your mother?”

“In her words, she doesn’t need grandchildren to fulfill her life.”

“That’s strange to me. I came from this big loud family. I can’t imagine not having one just like it. What about you? Leaving aside your aunts and mother, what do you want?”

“Well, when I grow up…” she pondered the issue. “I’ve been so busy getting to where I am that I never gave it much thought, to tell the truth.”

He put the wine into a galvanized milk bucket, dumped two trays of ice in on top, and motioned for her to follow him through sliding doors out to a deck. The sun was starting to slide down toward the western horizon and the new leaves on the elm tree danced in the cool evening breeze.

“Got to take advantage of the pretty days and nights. Pretty soon it’ll be so hot that we’ll be hugging the air-conditioners like them folks who hug trees,” he said.

“It’s beautiful back here.”

The cantilevered deck offered an octagonal picnic table that would seat eight, with a bright red umbrella tilted just right to prevent the sun from shining in their eyes. Adirondack chairs were placed up close to the grill where the delicious aroma of onions almost, but not quite, obliterated that sex-in-a-bottle shaving lotion he’d used.

“By the way, you look beautiful tonight,” he said.

And you smell so good I could forget the steaks and have you for supper, she thought.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You like your steak well done or—?” He let the question hang and raised one eyebrow.

“Medium rare. Pink in the middle. Scorched on the outside.”

“I like a woman who knows how to eat steak right.”

The awkwardness was fading now that they were talking.

“So that’s the way you like yours too?”

“Wipe the sorry old slobbers off its face. Shoot it. Slap it on the grill long enough to get a burn mark on the outside and flip it over for a minute then put it on my plate. And don’t be offerin’ me any sauces or ketchup to drown it in. I like the flavor just like it comes.”

“So you don’t marinade it for hours in all kinds of secret sauces?”

“Nope, I just slosh a little watermelon wine on it ’bout the time it gets done and serve it up. If I don’t have any of Granny’s wine, I pour beer on it. You want a glass of wine while we wait? It won’t be real cold yet, but I’ll swish it around in the ice a few times. That 2008 bottle is good right off the rack. It’s the best she ever made.”

“I’d love a glass of wine. I’ve been waiting for you to get home to taste it. I didn’t even know which bottle would be the best or if it went with fish or steaks or what.”

He opened a bottle and filled two stemmed wine glasses. “It goes with anything in my books.”

“Wow, all fancy!”

“Don’t get too excited. They’re plastic and from Walmart down in Bowie. I only have two and they’re for special times.”

“Oh, so I’m a special time.”

He touched his glass to hers. “Yes, ma’am, you sure are. To Austin and her first taste of watermelon wine.”

The wine was sweet and smooth with just enough kick to taste good. She finished the first glass and poured another, which was colder than the first. She sipped it while he grilled the steaks and decided that she could probably drink watermelon wine with dinner every evening. It was doing a fine job of mellowing her out.