Batteries Not Required Page 2
“I’m doing the best I can, old man!” Tristan yelled back.
The trailer was big. Just the same, I would never have guessed it could hold that many cattle. They just kept coming, like the critters bailing out of Noah’s Ark after the flood, except that they didn’t travel two by two.
Before long, the road was choked with them. There was dust, and a lot of cowboys on horseback, yelling “Hyaww!” I concentrated on staying out of the way, and wished I hadn’t worn linen pants and a white blouse. On the other hand, how do you dress for something like that?
Tristan came down the ramp, at long last, and I let out my breath.
He wasn’t going to plunge to his death in a cattle truck.
I found a tree stump and sat down on it.
I lost track of Tristan in all the fuss. The cattle were trying to get away, fanning out over the road, trying to climb the hillside, even heading for the steep drop on the other side of the road. The cowboys yelled and whistled and rode in every direction.
All of a sudden, Tristan was right in front of me, mounted on a big bay gelding. A grin flashed on his dusty face. “Come on,” he said, leaning down to offer me a hand. “I’ll take you into town. It’ll be a while before the road’s clear.”
I cupped my hands around my mouth to be heard over the din. “What about my car?”
“One of the men will bring it to you later.”
I hadn’t ridden a horse since the summer of my American Cowboy, but I knew I’d get trampled if I tried to walk through the milling herd. I went to stand up, but my butt was stuck to the stump.
Tristan threw back his head and laughed.
“What?” I shouted, mortified and still struggling.
“Pitch,” he said. “You might have to take off your pants.”
“In your dreams,” I retorted, and struggled some more, with equal futility.
Grinning, Tristan swung down out of the saddle, took a grip on the waistband of my slacks at either side, and wrenched me to my feet. I felt the linen tear away at the back, and my derriere blowing in the breeze. If I’d had my purse, I’d have used it to cover myself, but it was still in the rental car.
My predicament struck Tristan as funny, of course. While I was trying to hold my pants together, he hurled me bodily onto the horse, and mounted behind me. That stirred some visceral memories, ones I would have preferred to ignore, but it was difficult, under the circumstances.
“I need my purse,” I said.
“Later,” he replied, close to my ear.
“And my suitcase.” I’m nothing if not persistent.
“Like I’m going to ride into town with a suitcase,” Tristan said. “It could spook Samson.”
“Why can’t we just borrow one of these trucks?”
“We’ve got a horse.” I guess he considered that a reasonable answer.
Tears of frustration burned behind my eyes. I’d hoped to slip in and out of Parable unnoticed. Now, I’d be arriving on horseback, with the back of my pants torn away. Shades of Lady Godiva.
“Hold on,” Tristan said, sending another hot shiver through my system as the words brushed, warm and husky, past my ear.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. When he steered that horse down into the ditch—one false step and we’d have been in free fall, Tristan, the gelding, and me—I gripped the saddle horn with both hands and held on for dear life. I would have closed my eyes, but between clinging for dear life and controlling my bladder, I’d exhausted my physical resources.
We bumped up on the other side of the trailer and, once we were clear of the pickup trucks, Tristan nudged the horse into a trot.
I bounced ignobly against a part of his anatomy I would have preferred not to think about, and by that time I’d given up on trying to hold the seat of my slacks together. He was rock-hard under those faded jeans of his, and I sincerely hoped he was suffering as grievously as I was.
Parable hadn’t changed much since I’d left, except for the addition of a huge discount store at one end of town. People honked and waved as we rode down the main drag, and Tristan, the show-off, occasionally tipped his hat.
We passed the Bucking Bronco Tavern, now closed, with its windows boarded up, and I felt a pang of nostalgia. Mom and I weren’t real close, but I couldn’t help remembering happy times in our little apartment behind the bar, with its linoleum floors and shabby furniture. My tiny bedroom was butt up against the back wall of the tavern, and I used to go to sleep to the click of pool balls and the wail of the jukebox. I felt safe, knowing my mother was close by, even if she was refereeing brawls, topping off draft beers, and flirting for tips.
Behind the stores, huge pines jutted toward the supersized sky, and I caught glimmers of Preacher Lake. In the winter, Parable looks like a vintage postcard. In fact, it’s so 1950s that I half expected to blink and see everything in black and white.
I had reservations at the Lakeside Motel, since that was the only hostelry in town, besides Mamie Sweet’s Bed and Breakfast. Mom wouldn’t have booked me a room there, since she and Mamie had once had a hair-pulling match over a farm implement salesman from Billings. Turned out he was married anyway, but as far as I knew, the feud was still on.
Tristan brought the horse to a stop in front of the Lakeside, with nary a mention of the B&B, another sign that Mom and Mamie had never had that Hallmark moment. He dismounted and reached up to help me down.
I didn’t want to flash downtown Parable, but my choices were limited. As soon as I was on the ground, I closed the gap in my slacks. Tristan grinned as I backed toward the motel office, my face the same raspberry shade as my lace underpants.
The woman behind the registration desk was a stranger, but from the way she looked me over, she one, knew who I was, and two, had heard an unflattering version of my hasty departure on the four o’clock bus.
I bit my lower lip.
“You must be Gayle,” she said. She was tall and thin, with short dark hair. I pegged her for one of those people who live on granola and will risk their lives to protect owls and old-growth timber.
I nodded. I had no purse, and no luggage. I’d just ridden into town on a horse, and I was trying to hold my clothing together. I didn’t feel talkative.
Suddenly, she smiled and put out a hand in greeting. “Natalie Beeks,” she said. “Welcome to the Lakeside.” She ruffled through some papers and slapped a form down on the counter, along with one of those giveaway pens that run out of ink when you write the third item on a grocery list. “You’re in Room 7. It overlooks the lake.”
After glancing back over my shoulder to make sure no one was about to step into the office and get a good look at Victoria’s Secret, I took a risk and signed the form. “My stuff will be arriving shortly,” I said, in an offhand attempt to sound normal.
“Sure,” Nancy said. Then she frowned. “What happened to your pants?”
She’d probably seen me on the front of Tristan’s horse, and I didn’t want her jumping to any conclusions. “I—sat in something,” I said.
She nodded sagely, as though people in her immediate circle of friends sat in things all the time. Maybe they did. Country life can be messy. “I could lend you something,” she offered.
I flushed with relief, claiming the key to Room 7 with my free hand. “I would really appreciate that,” I said. There was no telling how long it would be before my car was delivered, along with the suitcase.
“Hold on a second.” Nancy left the desk, and disappeared into a back room. I heard her feet pounding on a set of stairs, and she returned, handing me a pair of black polyester shorts, just as a minivan pulled into the gravel parking lot out front.
I practically snatched them out of her hand. “Thanks.”
A husband, a wife, and four little kids in swimming suits got out of the van, stampeding for the front door. I eased to one side, careful to keep my butt toward the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Nancy grin.
“Heck of a mess out on the highway,�
� the husband announced, as he stepped over the threshold. He was balding, clad in plaid Bermuda shorts and a muscle shirt. The effect of the outfit was brave but unfortunate. “Cattle all over the place. We had to wait at least twenty minutes before the road was clear.”
“Where’s the pool?” one of the kids yelled. All four of them looked ready to thumb their noses and jump in.
Their mother, a harried-looking woman in a saggy sundress, brushed mouse-brown bangs back from her forehead. “There isn’t a pool,” she told the children, eyeing me curiously as I sidestepped it toward the door, still keeping my back to the wall. “You can swim in the lake.”
“Excuse me,” I said, and edged past her to make a break for it, the borrowed shorts clutched in one hand.
Room 7 was around back, with the promised view of the lake, but I didn’t bother to admire the scenery until I’d slammed the door behind me, peeled off my ruined slacks, and wriggled into the shorts.
Only then did I take a look around. Tile floors, plain double bed, lamps with wooden bases carved to resemble the chain-saw bears I’d seen in the gas station parking lot. There was a battered dresser along one wall, holding up a TV that still had a channel dial. The bathroom was roughly the size of a phone booth, but it was clean, and that was all that mattered. I wouldn’t be in Parable long. Sit in on the negotiations, sign the papers, and I’d be out of there.
I splashed my face with cold water and held my hair up off my neck for a few seconds, wishing for a rubber band.
Going to the window, I pulled the cord and the drapes swished open to reveal the lake, sparkling with June sunlight. There was a long dock, and I could see the four little kids from the office jumping into the shallow end, with shouts of glee, while their mother watched attentively.
I felt a twinge of yearning. The Bronco backed up to the lake, too, and Mom and I used to skinny-dip back there on Sunday nights, when the tavern was closed and the faithful were all at evening services.
I was tempted to call her, just to let her know I’d arrived, but I decided against it. There would be a charge for using the phone in the room, and my budget was severely limited; better to wait until my stuff arrived and I could use my cell. I had unlimited minutes, after all, and besides, she probably wouldn’t hear the ring over the roar of the Harley engine. My mother, the biker chick.
The lake was really calling to me by then. I would have loved to wander down to the dock, kick off my sandals, and dangle my feet in that blue, blue water, but I couldn’t bring myself to intrude on the swimming party. Anyway, I figured being at the fringe of that happy little family would have made me feel lonelier, instead of lifting my spirits.
I was sitting on the end of my double bed, leafing through an outdated issue of Field & Stream, when the telephone jangled and nearly scared me out of my skin.
“Hello?” I said uncertainly.
“Just thought I’d let you know your car is here,” Nancy told me. “It’s parked in the lot, and I have the keys here in the office.”
I thanked her and rushed to reclaim my suitcase and purse.
When I got back to the room, I took a shower, scrubbing the pitch off my backside, and put on clean jeans and a tank top. My cell phone, nestled in the bottom of my bag, was on its last legs, making an irritating bleep-bleep sound.
I turned it off, plugged it in for a charge, and peered out the window again. The minivan family was still in the water. The dad had joined them by then, but the mom still sat on the dock, smiling and shading her eyes with one hand.
I grabbed my purse, locked up the room, and stopped by the office to return Nancy’s shorts. I suppose I should have washed them first, but that seemed a little over the top, considering I’d worn them for half an hour at the outside.
Leaving the rental car in the lot, I set out on foot for the Bucking Bronco. I was hoping for a peek inside, though I don’t know what I expected to see.
Passing cars slowed, so the driver and passengers could gawk, as I walked toward the tavern. Strangers always get noticed in towns like Parable—if I could be considered a stranger. Most likely, people remembered me as the poor girl who thought someone like Tristan McCullough could really be interested in her.
I waved cheerfully and picked up my pace.
Reaching the Bronco, I noted, without surprise, that the front doors were padlocked. I tried looking through the cracks between the boards covering the windows, but to no avail. I went around back, hoping for better luck.
Here, there were no boards and no padlocks. I turned to scan the sparkling lake for watching boaters, but there were none to be seen, so I tried the door.
It creaked open, and I stopped on the threshold. I thought I heard music, soft and distant. The jukebox? Impossible. The Bronco had been closed for several years, according to Mom, and the electricity must have been shut off long ago.
Still, my breath quickened. I stood still, listening. Yes, there was music. And the familiar click of pool balls.
Ghosts? The only people who would have haunted the Bronco were Mom and I, and we weren’t dead.
I stepped inside, hesitantly, my heart hammering. I wasn’t scared, exactly, but something out of the ordinary was definitely going on. My curiosity won out over good sense, and I followed the sounds, swimming through a swell of memories as I passed through the little apartment. Mom at the stove, stirring a canned supper and humming a Dolly Parton song. Me, curled up on the ancient sofa, studying.
The door between the apartment and the bar stood open.
The music brought tears to my eyes. Tristan and I used to dance under the stars to the song that was playing. For a moment, I was transported back to our favorite spot, high on a ridge overlooking his family’s ranch, with that old, sentimental tune pouring out of the CD player in Tristan’s truck. I felt his arms around me. I remembered how he’d lay me down so gently in the tall, sweet-scented grass, and make love to me until I lost myself.
I took another step, even though everything inside me screamed, Run!
There was a portable boombox on the dusty bar, and Tristan stood next to the pool table, leaning on his cue stick. He was wearing the same dusty clothes he’d had on before, and his hat rested on one of the bar stools.
“I knew you’d show up,” he said.
My throat felt tight and raw. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and couldn’t have gotten the words out even if I had.
He hung the cue stick on the wall rack and walked toward me.
I was frozen in place, temporarily speechless, just the way I’d been on the road outside of town an hour or so earlier.
Tristan pushed a button on the boombox, and our song began to play. “Dance with me,” he said, and pulled me into his arms.
I stumbled along with him. He used the pad of one thumb to brush away my tears.
I finally found my voice. “I didn’t see your horse outside,” I said.
He laughed. For all that he’d been herding cattle, he smelled of laundry detergent and that green grass we used to lie down in, together. “Gramps took him back to the ranch,” he said. “I walked over here from the office. Left my truck there.”
“How did you know I’d come here?”
“Easy,” he said. “This was home. I knew you couldn’t stay away.” He kissed me, a light, nibbling, tasting kiss.
I should have resisted, but the best I could do was ask, “What do you want?”
“We have some unfinished business, you and I,” he said, and caught my right earlobe lightly between his teeth.
A thrill of need went through me. “We don’t,” I argued, but weakly.
I felt the edge of the pool table pressing against my rear end. That was nothing compared to what was pressing against my front. “You cheated on me,” I murmured.
He kissed me again, deeply this time, with tongue. The floor of the tavern seemed to pitch to one side, like the deck of a ship too small for the waves it was riding.
“You cheated on me,” he countered.
Tristan slid a hand up under my tank top, and I didn’t stop him. I don’t know why. I just didn’t. I groaned inside.
He pushed my bra up, cupped my breast, chafing the nipple with the side of his thumb, and kissed me once more.
I am not a loose woman, but you’d never have known it by the way I responded to Tristan’s kisses and the way he caressed my breast. I was wet between the legs, and I could already feel myself opening to take him inside, even though I had no intention of letting him get into my jeans.
He unsnapped them, pushed the zipper down, then tugged my tank top down to bare my breast. When he took my nipple into his mouth, I cried out, buried my hands in his hair, and held him close.
I felt his chuckle of triumph reverberate through my breast, but I still didn’t stop him. Just a minute more, I remember thinking. Just a minute more, and then I’ll push him away and slap his face for him.
“Oh, God,” I said instead.
He hooked a thumb in the waistband of my jeans and panties and pulled them down, in one move. Without releasing my breast, he hoisted me onto the pool table, eased me back onto the felt top, and reached inside to find my sweet spot.
I gasped his name.
He pushed up my top, and my bra, took his time enjoying my breasts.
My vision blurred. Just a minute more . . .
“Remember how it was with us?” Tristan asked throatily, kissing my belly now. My jeans and panties were around my ankles by then. “Remember?”
I’d tried to shut the memory out of my mind for ten years, but I remembered, all right. At a cellular level.
Tristan stopped long enough to pull off my shoes and toss my pants aside. Then he was nibbling at my navel again, and I felt his fingers glide inside me.
I wish I could blame him, but I was the one who lifted my heels to the edge of the pool table and parted my legs.
I held my breath, waiting. There was a debate going on inside my head.
Tell him to stop.