Cowgirls Don't Cry(9)

                                      Three

                “Did you see that idiot? He could have killed us!”

                “City folks drive a bit faster, sugar. That’s all. We didn’t wreck.” Boots turned his head and spit out the window.

                “You shouldn’t chew, Uncle Boots. That stuff’s bad for you.”

                “It’s the only vice I got left, Cassie, and I ain’t gonna live forever. Give an old man some peace.”

                She ground her back teeth together but held her tongue. The seat cover—an old horse blanket—made her back itch through her cotton turtleneck. She’d shed her heavy jacket as soon as she’d stepped out of the terminal. Compared to Chicago, the fifty degree temperature in Oklahoma City felt positively balmy. The Australian shepherd sprawled on the bench seat between them yawned, and she absently scratched his ears.

                “I want your life, Buddy. Nothing to do all day but nap in the sun and chase squirrels. And you don’t have to put up with the stupid people of the world. You can just bite ’em or piss on ’em.”

                “You watch your mouth, Cassidy Anne Morgan. I won’t have you corrupting this poor dog with such language. Ol’ Buddy here is sensitive.”

                She rolled her eyes but reached over to pat Boots on the shoulder. “Yessir.”

                They rode in silence for several minutes. The old man cleared his throat but didn’t speak. A few blocks later, caught by another red light, he glanced at Cassie. “I’m gonna miss him, sugar.” Buddy whined softly and shifted to lay his head on the man’s thigh, as if to say he’d miss Ben, too.

                Cass pressed her lips together and lost the battle with her tears. They streaked her cheeks even as Boots pulled a faded red bandanna from his pocket and offered it to her. She took it and dabbed at her runny nose, but the tears continued. She leaned her head against the window.

                “Why didn’t you tell me?”

                “Tell you what, Cassie? I asked you to come home lots of times.”

                “You could have told me he was dying.”

                “I told you he was sick.”

                Her temper flared. “There’s a big damn difference between sick and dying, Boots!” Her tears stopped as her anger surged.

                “And there’s a big damn difference between being too stubborn to come home and make amends and being too busy to worry about your daddy.”

                “He started it.” She winced. That sounded so petulant. But it was true. Her dad had fought her plans the whole way. If she had to go to college, why wasn’t one of the local universities good enough? Why did she have to go traipsing off where he’d never get to see her? She’d saved her barrel-racing money and made straight As to get an academic scholarship. Even so, she’d had to wait tables to make ends meet while in college. Then she got a job with the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Granted, she was far from rich, but she didn’t have to haul her butt out of bed at the crack of dawn to do barn chores. She didn’t have to muck the manure out of stalls or round up cattle too stupid to seek shelter in a storm.

                Boots made a choking noise so she glanced over at him. His face shone with tears and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel indicated how upset he was. She leaned over the dog and placed her hand on his.