Welcome Home, Cowboy. Karen TempletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
came onto the porch, snuggling up against Emma’s hip. “What was that all about?”
Good question, Emma thought on a sigh, fingering her daughter’s soft, tangled hair. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
Although what was there to figure out? she mused as they went back inside. Wasn’t like she’d ever see Cash Cochran again. And thank God for small favors.
Because some aggravations, a body does not need.
Chapter Three
Still breathing hard fifteen minutes later, Cash stomped through the front door to the secluded adobe on the other side of Tierra Rosa he’d impulsively bought a few months before, when coming home had—for whatever reason—seemed like a good idea. When, despite how screwed up his past had been, at least it’d been simple.
Or so he’d thought.
Stacks of still-unpacked boxes silently jeered as he strode toward the recently remodeled, no-frills kitchen and a cold Coke; seconds later he stood on the deck off the dining room, overlooking the village tucked up in the valley below.
He took a swig of the soda, forcing air in and out of his lungs until the brisk spring breeze siphoned off at least enough of the tension so he could think. Sort through the hundred thoughts and images ping-ponging inside his head, some real, others imagined: of Lee, the last time he’d seen him, his brown eyes shiny when he clapped Cash on the shoulder and wished him well; of his father, crying—crying?!—as he listened to the CD; of the contradiction of compassion and intolerance, of patient reserve and brutal honesty, that was Emma Manning, her steady, funny-colored eyes seared into his brain.
Cash gave his head a hard shake, trying to dislodge the image. Images.
Had he really been looking for answers, or justification for the resentment he’d been hauling around like a worn-out suitcase for the past twenty years? And now that he had those answers … what, exactly, did he intend to do with them?
About them?
About Lee’s request?
Gritting his teeth, Cash parked his butt on the deck railing to lean against a support post, one booted foot on the railing. Now the breeze skimmed his heated face like a mother’s touch. Except instead of soothing, it only further stoked his anger, that by making it impossible for Cash to stay, his father had stolen from him the skies and forests and mountains he’d loved so much.
His home.
His identity, when you got right down to it.
Not that it mattered, really, once his career took off, and Cash had figured he’d be tethered to Nashville for the rest of his days, anyway. Well, except during those years where he was on the road more than he wasn’t. “Home” became whatever stage he was on in whatever city, his “family” his band, the crew. His fans, to a certain extent.
A turn of events he’d been okay with, for a long time. Especially since focusing all that energy on Cash Cochran, The Star, let him basically ignore the messed-up dude behind the name. Until Cash eventually realized that he and his music were becoming obsolete, save for those few diehard fans still clinging to country’s grittier roots.
What came next, careerwise or lifewise, he had no idea. But a few months ago—about the time he’d stumbled across that letter from Lee—it occurred to him returning to his roots might give him breathing space to figure it out. Coming to terms with why he’d left, what’d happened between him and Lee, was supposed to have been an added benefit. Who knew that instead of a quick get-in, get-out, get-on-with-your-life scenario he’d be facing a dilemma he never in a million years thought would even be an issue.
There’d been no excuse for what his father had done to him … except maybe there was. Just like Cash had been more than justified in holding a grudge against his best friend, in using the hurts done to him as an excuse for being a lousy human being … except maybe he wasn’t. Justified, that was.
He finished off his Coke and crushed the can, banging the mangled aluminum shell against the deck railing as it dawned on him that, in this case, getting answers wasn’t the end of the journey, but only the beginning.
“Emma! Emma!”
Moving as fast as the balled-up human being inside her would let her, Emma hauled herself out of the kitchen, drying her hands on the tail of one of Lee’s old denim shirts. A blur of excitement or anxiety, Emma couldn’t quite tell which, Annie stood at the living-room window, her quilted robe buttoned wrong. Outside, Bumble was doing the guard-dog thing. Inside, cats perched on the window sill and backs of chairs and sofas, ears perked and eyes huge.
“For heaven’s sake, Annie, what—”
“You got company.”
Frowning, Emma joined her grandmother-in-law at the window.
Oh, for pity’s sake.
She tromped to the front door and hauled it open, thinking only an idiot would pay a woman an unexpected visit before 8:00 a.m. Not that she was particularly surprised that Cash’d returned. Well, once the dust—or in this case, mud—had settled and she’d had a chance to mull things over. Something about the way he’d torn out of here yesterday, leaving all those loose ends dangling. But would it have killed him to have held off until she’d at least had a chance to comb her hair?
Then again, why should he care what she looked like? Or more to the point, why should she?
It was a mite warmer than when she’d fed and checked on the goats a half hour earlier, although that wasn’t saying much. Huddled inside the soft, worn shirt, Emma stepped outside, just far enough onto the porch to see Cash give last year’s flower beds the once-over.
“It’s okay, Bumble,” she yelled at the dog, who was circling and whining, worried. The dog shot her a “You sure?” look, but trotted a few feet away to lie in the dirt, keeping watch over the man surveying what even Emma had to admit was a sorry state of affairs. Shame and frustration washed over her as she saw Cash take in the pile of wood for the new raised beds she had no way of making, the greenhouse in sore need of repair, the three still-unplowed fields that by rights should at least be under cold frames by now, before his gaze swung back toward the spot on the roof where wind had ripped off a patch of loose shingles a few weeks back.
At last he looked at her, eyes narrowed in a face that was all unshaved cragginess underneath a cowboy hat, the shadow like his own personal cloud that tagged along wherever he went. The morning sun glanced off a belt buckle that on anybody else would’ve looked ridiculous.
“Who’s gonna help you fix all this? Get your fields planted?” He nodded toward the goats. “Stay up all night when these gals start having their babies?”
I’ll manage, she nearly said, because that was how women were programmed, as if a double dose of X chromosomes somehow endowed them with magical powers to make everything right. To make the pieces fit, no matter how jagged the edges might be.
Except as the sun climbed relentlessly over the horizon, rudely highlighting all the undone stuff blowing raspberries at her, it hit her upside her uncombed head that sometimes the pieces didn’t fit. Like when your husband suddenly dies and leaves you with all his work to do, besides yours, except you were already going full tilt before he died and now you’re pregnant and the economy sucks and your choice is somehow make it work or give up. But this is your home and, dammit, you don’t want to give up. You want to be strong and invincible—
“How bad is it?” Cash said.
—and here’s this man standing in your yard who in less than ten minutes has figured out what’s taken you months to realize:
That, basically, you’re screwed.
Emma sucked in a deep breath, shoving aside the panic that always hovered, looking for the weak spot. “Bad,” she said, feeling