CHAPTER FOUR ╱ Cowboy, Take Me Away

I was right, Mama did have a feast prepared for Pearl and I by the time we arrived. Southern Braised Pot Roast with all the fixin's, a freshly brewed pitcher of Sweet Tea, and an Apple Crisp tucked away in the oven on low. By the time supper was over, my belly was stuffed and pooling over the hem of the blue jean shorts I'd stowed away in my childhood bedroom.

Perched beneath the willow out back, I watch Pearl through steady eyes. If I could freeze this moment in time, imprint it to memory, and replay it whenever I wanted to, I would. I'd keep the memory flashing for the rest of my life on repeat.

Her hair in two pigtails, plaited to her scalp and curled at the ends. An ankle-length, cotton dress swaying along with the wind as she dances through the prairie fields.

            I fix my eyes behind her small frame, focusing on Daddy and Mama sitting in their handcrafted rockers sheathed behind the screened in back porch. Sawyer and Miles had left some time ago after dinner, much to Pearl's dismay. She adores her baby cousin and her Uncle Soy.  She still isn't able to pronounce his name correctly, bless her.

Sawyer hadn't been subtle when bidding me a farewell, having leant down to whisper a firm, "You let me know when you want things settled. I'll draw up the paperwork. Just give the word, Bug, and it's done."

Sawyer works as a paralegal at Brick Bronsen's law firm, part-time. He was only able to squeeze in two years of college before Miles was sat at his doorstep, abandoned by his mother. As if tackling fires and tending to a toddler wasn't enough for him, but being a lawyer had always been his dream. Now, he says it was being a father.

  I was uncertain of what Spencer had tucked and hidden away up his sleeve, so I haven't taken Sawyer up on the offer yet. Spencer knows people, the big city type. He hadn't issued a prenuptial agreement when we were first married, but I recall him coaxing my signature out of me a time or two without allowing me to proof the documents. It sounds foolish, I know, but I trusted him at his word—he was my husband—when he'd assure me it was just for our home's appraisal, or that it was something work-related, just a matter of insurance.

My hands feel sticky all of a sudden. The back of my neck is certainly ablaze. My heartbeat can be heard in both my ears and chest. My stomach feels like it's plummeting toward a murky depth, the little butterflies thrashing around and fighting for air. It feels like my breath has been stolen from my lungs.

Splaying my fingers against my chest, I begin to breath inward and outward. I focus on Pearl again, watching her twirl and collapse within the weeds. Her little giggles act as echoes, encompassing and comforting me.

I spot Gust as he emerges from inside of the house, his grin so wide it cracks his face in two. Lucy must've told another wisecrack because she comes barreling out a few seconds later, her hands gripping his upper arm to steady herself through her fit of laughter. Ruthie appears next, her head shaking from side to side as she flicks her eyes between the pair.

I smile fondly at the scene so many feet away. I feel apart of it, yet so very disconnected all at the same time. It's as if it's all just a scene inside of a snow globe on a mantle. I feel a sting along the base of my thigh. Glancing down, I realize I'd been clawing at them, so much so that I'd drawn a bit of blood.

"Dadgummit!" I hiss. Scooping up the hem of my t-shirt, I brush the underneath along my bloodied skin.

"Mama, look! A cowboy!" Pearl's voice, shrill and eager cuts through the balmy air.

My eyes follow her line of sight until they surrender to the silhouette of—Pearl was exactly right—a cowboy. He's perched on a saddled Thoroughbred, its coat a deep mahogany shade, behind the fence line separating our land from the Sterlings.

The brim of his Stetson is lowered below his eyes, shielding his face from the descending sun. His hair, a dark blonde, is a little long and slicked behind his ears. Adorned in a black, Henley-style Carhartt t-shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans, and scuffed boots, he settles the reigns and tilts his chin upward.

"You think he'll teach me how to ride, Mama?" Pearl asks, her body now latched to my side. I hadn't realized I'd rose to a standstill. She tucks her tiny frame behind my legs while her arms loop around my thigh. I wince as she grazes my self-inflicted wound.

"I don't think so, Peach," I say softly. Her lip pokes outward so I crouch, brushing loose strands of hair from her fallen braided tufts. I smile the sweetest one I can muster, "How 'bout you go back inside. Tell Uncle Gust that Mama said it was okay to have the Triple Decker."

The Triple Decker is August and I's signature dessert. Three scoops of ice cream piled on top of Mama's Apple Crisp. Gust always added peanuts to his and I always settled for rainbow sprinkles.

Pearl's face brightens. She presses a kiss to my nose and races off. Lucy is eyeing me from the porch with a smirk. It's the last thing I see before I turn my back to amble off toward the horseman.

The closer I get, the more discernible his features become. Of course, I knew who he was the moment my eyes settled on him. You can't forget a man like that. Smith Sterling, Lucy's older and only cousin. She considers him a brother, bereft of any siblings of her own. They'd always been close-knit, the two of them, having been raised together after the loss of Lucy's mother who'd taken care of Lucy all on her own until the fatal car accident that took her life. Smith's mother became Lucy's legal guardian, having been her aunt and sole remaining family.

"I'd heard you were back, Junie Wren." he drawls, voice dipped in honey and soaked in musk.

The last I saw him, his face was clean shaven. He didn't have lines bracketing the outer corners of his eyes. And those eyes weren't so hollow, expression so . . . tired. Grief will do that to you. That, and taking over your late father's 150,000 acre ranch at the ripe age of twenty-three.

"Let me guess . . . Lu told you?" He laughs, all thick and airy. I bite back the flush it ushers. I turn my head slightly to stare out across the vast range of land opposite of my family's side of the fence and I add, "Not by choice though, I'm afraid."

He follows my line of sight, grumbling a low response back at me, "Well, Spencer Beckett's always has been a fuckin' idiot."

I whirl my head around and his eyes catch mine. There's fire behind them and it's pointed straight at him, "He graduated on the Dean's List at Cal Tech."

A hint of a smirk tugs at the ends of his lips and he issues a scoff at my expense. I narrow my eyes, quirking my brows with a determined intensity, "What?" I snap.

"Nothin', I just . . ." he scrapes along the nape of his neck. His forearms bulge, veins pumping and fueling the action. I wield my eyes away. My wedding ring sears the flesh on my finger, "I just figured loyal to a fault had its restrictions. Ones that don't call for the defense of cheating, lyin' sons of bitches."

I swallow so harshly that my plunging spit feels as if I'd just swallowed a handful of glass.

A bitter laugh passes through my lips. I can feel the water returning to my eyes. I was saving it for later, after a shower and when I was cuddled beneath the bedsheets that smelled like Mama. But, dangit, they were about to cut loose in front of a boy I once knew.

An honest one at that. A little too honest for comfort. And a little too gorgeous. God, I'm really starting to loathe men!

I rub a sweaty palm along my forehead and let it all go, tears and words all at once. "I'm sorry," I croak, motioning toward my hoard of tears.

Pulling in a sharp breath, I fold my arms over the fence railing, practically collapsing against it, "God, I feel like such a fool. Truly. Here I am, thousands of miles from home. From my husband. My cheating, son of a bitch husband. I have no money to my name, no degree, no career path, no fucking sense of what I'm going to do next. I-I just knew I had to come back here, back to the place where . . . God, just any place that wasn't back home. I couldn't let Pearl . . . I couldn't—there was nothing—God, I am such a fucking idiot! What am I even doing here?! I should be home, mending and fixing, home doing something."

As I rambled, Smith had began to dismount and edge toward me. He didn't interject, just let all of the thoughts and feelings flow from my lips and out of my eyes. Just like when we were kids.

When I finish, I tilt my head backward and blow out a breath. I feel his skin graze my own, marking mine in gooseflesh at the mere contact. I lower my head and meet his softened gaze with my chin still tilted upward due to our height difference. From afar his eyes looked so muddy, almost brown, but up close they're a dusty emerald shade.

"Your home's not back in San Francisco. It's not with him, June. It's always been right here," he murmurs, "Right here in Graceland. And it's been waitin' for you since the moment you left it in the rearview. Now, I don't think it'll let ya leave, not again . . . not if it can help it. Home called, June, it's just a shame it took you so long to finally answer."

Suddenly, it feels as if we aren't talking about this little old town. It feels like we are talking in parables, little unspoken riddles. I swim in those jade pools of his. A match ignites my darker ones. We stand, bodies pressed against either side of the wooden fencing, not saying a word.

Finally, he empties his throat, tearing his eyes away from mine. I keep on looking even though I shouldn't. My ring was burning my flesh again, "You'll figure everything out, June . . . you always do. Your mama said she was hopin' you'd consider helpin' Ruby out at the salon. At least for a little while."

I quirk a brow, "You've been talkin' about me with Mama?"

He shrugs, keeping his lips drawn in a firm line. There is a split second when the ends of them tip upward, but it diminishes almost immediately.

"Did she mention why Gran needs the help?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, between you and me, she doesn't. I'll never bullshit ya, June. They just want to help you, y'know with everything that's been goin' on." His hand flails about the air casually as he speaks.

I swallow, "I see . . ."

I finally let my eyes wander, just to feel his pierce straight through me. Watching. Studying.

"I think the salon is the last place I should consider working. I bet this whole town's seen that segment, every woman coming in and out of Gran's salon. I don't want pity, or prayers, or I told you so's. I just—I-I want . . ."

"What do you want, Junia?" he rasps, his voice all husky and damn near tantalizing.

His eyes lock me in place. With a working jaw, he peruses every facet of my face. I grip the jagged railing in an attempt to focus on anything but my rattling heart. He is just too close, too familiar.

Breathless, I force the words from my lips in the form of an airy whisper, "I want to go to bed."

"Then go to bed, sweetheart. Rest. Leave the worryin' for tomorrow."

On a sigh, I pull my limbs from the fence and back away from him on unsteady feet. He remains slouched over the wooden slats, watching me as I go. Before I was too far out of earshot, he calls out to me, "It was good seein' you again, June."

Peering back at him over my shoulder, I nod and keep my words clipped, "You, too."

I bound forward. Abruptly, I still. Pivoting on my heels, I spare him one final glance, "Smith?"

He hums a response. I toy with the frayed ends of my shorts just to give my perspiring fingers something to do. I creep toward him again, but keep him at a safer distance this time. I draw a breath and release the words I should've said years ago, "I'm sorry about Buck, and about the funeral. I should've called. I should've been there."

A stoic expression robs him of the bliss that once brightened his features at the mention of his late father.

"It's not me you should apologize to, it's Lucienne."

"I have," I explain briefly. I lower my eyes, searching for the right words on the broken ground, "There's no excuse for not coming. I told Spencer to send flowers and our regards. I even gave Lucy a call, but I should've . . . I should've called you, too. Lucy never mentioned how bad it had gotten. Anyway, um . . . just know that I am sorry, and even sorrier that it took me this long to say it."

When I lift my eyes again, he is seated back on his horse. His hat is nestled in his lap now, unveiling a thick mane of hair that he'd ran a fresh set of fingers through. It is situated back against the crown of his head by the time I've parted my lips and blinked.

"Consider it forgotten, June."

He doesn't give me a chance to utter another word, before he is cantering away and out of sight.