She’s Gone Country (6 page)

For a moment, I feel only the warmth of his fingers against my skin and my pulse leaps in response. He’s always had this effect on me, has always stirred me up, made me feel hot and sharp and bright. My head jerks up and I look into his eyes. They’re so very green and full of anger.

“He says he asked Brick to teach him how to fight,” Dane adds, “but Brick said you and your husband don’t believe in fighting. That’s a nice sentiment, Shey, but your boy has to be able to protect himself.”

I don’t like his tone or his expression, and I pull my wrist from his grasp and press it to my side. The skin at my wrist is so hot and sensitive, it feels as if I’ve just burned it again on sizzling bacon grease. “I didn’t know he needed to protect himself,” I say roughly.

“Maybe you need to spend more time talking with him—”

“I talk to him every day!”

“—because he’s not a happy kid.”

Hurt washes through me. Hurt for my son and hurt for the young Shey who fell in love with this beautiful, hard man.

“Like I said, he reminds me a lot of Cody,” Dane adds gruffly, before tipping his head and walking to his truck.

His words echo within me, making me ache. Dane glances at me as he climbs into his truck, the sunlight turning his thick honey hair to bronze and burnished gold. Our gazes meet, lock, and he looks at me so long that my chest grows tight and my throat seals shut.

How can he make me feel so much? I haven’t seen him in eighteen years, yet I’m right back where I was when in high school. It’s those eyes of his. That energy he has. The way he looks at the world.

The way he looks at me.

Scared that I’m so open, scared that I’m still so attracted, I dash into the house to find my son.

Bo isn’t in his room, he’s in the boys’ small spare bathroom. I try the door. It’s locked. I knock lightly. “Bo, it’s Mom. Can you open the door?”

“No.”

His voice is low and muffled, but I can hear the tears. He’s been crying.

I tip my head against the door. “Honey, let me see you.”

“No.”

“Please, Bo.”

“Just go away, Mom.” But the harshness of his words is softened by the raggedness of his voice. He’s crying harder.

Bo never cries.

I press my palm against the door, wanting him, wanting to reach him, needing to comfort him. It makes me feel crazy that my child hurts and I can’t even help him. “What happened, honey?”

“I got beat up. I got my ass kicked. Okay? Feel better?”

No.

No, baby. You getting hurt makes me crazy. You getting hurt makes me want blood and vengeance.
“Why would it make me feel better?” I ask thickly.

He doesn’t answer, and my eyes burn so much that I squeeze them shut, will them to water. I wish I could cry. I want to cry. “Did you go to the office, honey? Did you tell anyone?”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“Just go away—” His voice breaks. “Please just go.”

I do, if only out of respect for his feelings.

In the kitchen I make a fresh pot of coffee, and my hand trembles as I pour the water into the back of the machine.

I want to call John. John’s a man. John would know what to do. But then I remember John saying this morning how he wants the boys to live with him, and I picture my sons being raised by Erik and John. I don’t pick up the phone.

These are my sons. I can figure this out. I can do this. I don’t need a man to fix this. I don’t need a man to fix anything for me.

Yet my heart is heavy as I pull the coffee can from the shelf. I think about calling the school. I should call the school. They should know. But I picture that call and am filled with fresh dread. School policy for fighting is a three-day suspension. Does Bo need the humiliation of being suspended on top of everything else?

Coffee started, I pace the kitchen, trying to calm down. But I can’t. I’m absolutely sick and still pacing when the back door opens and bangs closed. Brick comes walking into the kitchen from the screened porch. “Saw Dane’s truck leave. You and he—”

“No!” I practically hurl the word at him.

“Whoa. Easy, Shey.” Brick stops midstep. “What’s the matter?”

“There’s nothing between Dane and me. There’s never been anything between us. We went out a couple times when I was sixteen, and that was it. Yet you all freak out whenever I’m around him—”

“Nobody’s freaking out. I just wanted to know why he was here.”

“He was here because he found Bo walking alongside the highway. Dane picked him up and gave him a lift home.”

“Bo skipped school?”

“Bo was apparently beat up at school this morning.”

Brick drags a chair out from the kitchen table and sits down, his eyes on my face. “How is he?”

“I haven’t seen Bo yet. He’s locked himself in the bathroom.” I swallow hard and, suppressing a shiver, fold my arms across my chest. “But Dane said he got it pretty good. And I guess the bruises will keep getting darker, because Dane said Bo’s going to look worse before he looks better.”

Brick nods. Growing up, he was considered a good fighter. He was tough. Strong. And unlike Blue, he could fight when he wasn’t mad. Blue fought only when upset, but Brick could fight anyone at any time, and when he was around, no one messed with his sister or his brothers.

He now shifts in the oak ladder-back chair. “Bo asked me to teach him, you know. I wouldn’t out of respect for your feelings—”

“I didn’t know he needed it.” My eyes burn and my throat is raw. “I didn’t know someone wanted to beat him up.”

“Is anything broken?”

“Dane says no. I just wish I could see him, but he won’t let me. He’s… crying.”

“He’s licking his wounds,” Brick says flatly, but I can see from his grim expression that he feels guilty. He wishes now he’d taught Bo how to defend himself. I do, too.

The ancient Mr. Coffee hisses loudly and spits out a cloud of steam as it finishes brewing. The coffee machine’s at least fifteen years old but just keeps going.

Brick rises to his feet. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“He probably won’t open the door.”

“He will.”

B
rick doesn’t return, and after a few minutes I carry my mug down the hall to check on the situation and discover that Bo’s no longer in the bathroom but in his bedroom, where he and Brick are talking.

I stand outside Bo’s bedroom, wishing I were inside. I want to be the one talking to him, and it kills me not to know the story behind the fight.

I try to listen to the conversation, but Brick’s and Bo’s voices are too low and muffled. So after an indecisive moment I return to the kitchen, where I wipe down the counter and then water the little herb pots on the windowsill and finally just head outside through the screened porch.

I’m kneeling next to the house, savagely pulling weeds, when Brick emerges, his boots thudding on the steps.

The sun’s hot and sweat trickles at my nape beneath my heavy hair, but I don’t stop weeding. “Well?” I demand.

Brick hooks his thumbs around his belt. “A kid challenged him to a fight and Bo said yes.”

“But Bo doesn’t know how to fight!”

“He thought he might. He told me he likes watching wrestling on TV—”

“WWE wrestling.” I sit back on my heels, rub the dirt from my fingers. “But that’s not real. It’s staged.”

Brick grimaces. “He thought if he just grabbed the other guy around the middle, he could throw him down.”

“In a wrestling move.”

“Right. Only this was a fistfight, and in fistfights you fight until you draw first blood.”

“First blood?”

“That’s usually from the nose. This other kid seems to be an experienced fighter. He got Bo in a headlock and went at his face, saving the nose for last.”

I press my dirty palms to my thighs. “How does he look?”

Brick’s expression gentles. “Rough.”

“He’s got a black eye?”

“Two shiners.” He takes a breath. “And more. He’s going to look pretty bad tomorrow. Just be prepared.”

Sickened, I reach for another weed and yank it out by the roots, dropping the clump on the pile I’ve been building, and then another. “So this other kid,” I say when I can trust myself to speak, “why did he want to fight Bo?”

“He has a problem with Bo.”

“How? Why?”

Brick shrugs. “He thought Bo had attitude.”

I yank another weed from the ground, breaking it off midstem, and fling it at the ground. “Bo doesn’t have attitude. He has a history of depression!”

“Kids don’t know that. And I feel bad for Bo, but this is life, this is how it is for boys. He’s in eighth grade. He’ll be going to high school next year. He can’t hide behind Mama’s skirts.”

Rage rolls through me, rage and frustration, and I want to grab all the weeds I’ve pulled and throw them, just throw them. Why do boys have to fight? Why do they have to be so goddamn aggressive? “So what happens now?” I ask, climbing to my feet. “You’re a man. You used to fight. Tell me what I’m supposed to do. How am I supposed to handle this? What do I say to him? Do I get mad? Do I call the school—”

“You do nothing. You leave it alone. If you get involved, it’ll just make it worse for him.”

“But shouldn’t the school know? I’d think they’d want to know.”

“If you get the school involved, I guarantee there’ll be more fights and name-calling. Kids know what happened today. This kid who fought Bo had a whole group of friends around. Some were keeping watch, keeping an eye out for teachers. Others were there to watch the fight.”

“So kids just watched Bo get beat up?”

“That’s a typical fight.”

I lift my hands in surrender. I don’t want to hear more. Can’t hear more. “You’re not helping.”

“Think of today’s fight as a rite of passage.”

“Still not helping.”

“That’s because you’re a woman.”

“I’m beginning to think testosterone’s overrated.”

Brick tugs gently on my long ponytail. “Go see Bo. He probably could use some TLC about now.”

“You didn’t give him any?”

“Hell, no. I told him next time go for the nose. Draw first blood. It’s the only way to win a fight.”

“
Next
time? Great. Can’t wait for that.”

Brick’s sympathetic laughter follows me into the house, where I wash my hands with soap and water at the kitchen sink before heading to Bo’s room.

I knock on his door. “It’s Mom.”

“Come in,” he answers, his voice cracking. “It’s not locked.”

I push the door open and see him sitting on the side of his bed, shoulders hunched, but his head is turned toward me, waiting judgment.

I suck in a breath, shocked. Brick wasn’t kidding about the two shiners. Both of Bo’s eyes are already black-and- blue. His lip is cut and swollen. His nose shows where it bled earlier.

My fury returns, and I slide my hands into my back pockets to keep from making fists. “Hey, sugar.”

“Hey, Mom.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Yeah. I stand next to his bed and battle the emotions rushing at me. He’s beaten black-and-blue, but he’s okay. “It’s past lunchtime. You hungry?”

He shakes his head.

“In an hour I’ll have to go get your brothers from school. Want to come?”

He twists his head, gives me a look like I’m crazy.

“Didn’t think so,” I say on a sigh.

I’m not sure what to say or do next when he abruptly leaves the bed and moves into my arms and hugs me tight. “Mom—” His voice cracks, and he shudders against me.

“I’m sorry.” My hand comes up to cup the back of his head, and he buries his face against my collarbone. I feel something wet against my skin. He’s crying. I stroke his head, his hair thick and wavy beneath my fingers. “I really am.”

“I thought I could fight him—” His voice breaks. “Thought I could, but I didn’t know anything.”

“Was it bad?”

His chin digs into my collarbone as he nods. “It hurt. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would.”

“Fighting’s not a lot of fun, is it.”

“No.”

I just keep holding him. Being a mom is so hard. Loving this much hurts. “You sure you don’t want to go with me? We could stop on the way back, get ice cream—”

“I don’t want anyone to see me, not right now, not like this.”

I lift his face to kiss his forehead, but he winces as I touch his jaw.

“Sorry,” I apologize, placing the lightest of kisses in the middle of his forehead, which doesn’t appear as bruised.

“It’s okay.” He yawns a little and slides carefully out of my arms. “I think I’m just going to chill out. Maybe take a nap, if that’s okay.”

“That’s a good idea. Sleep, and I’ll see you when I get back from picking up your brothers.”

Charlotte’s heard about the fight and stops by the house on her way home from the hospital. “How is he?” she asks, giving me a hug.

Charlotte’s an extraordinary sister-in-law, loving and generous to a fault. “Better,” I answer, hugging her back.

“How about you?”

I grimace and lead her to the kitchen, where I pour two glasses of iced tea. “Don’t like my kids getting hurt.”

“I’m with you.” She takes a sip of tea, swallows, then casually asks, “Heard Dane stopped by. Was he still using a cane?”

“Yes. Why? Shouldn’t he be?”

“He was scheduled for another surgery last June to repair old injuries. He was hoping after he finished rehab he’d be able to get around without one. I just wondered if the surgery was successful.”

“I don’t know if the surgery was successful, but he still has the cane and the limp.”

“That’s a shame. That man’s been through a lot.”

I plunk a couple of ice cubes in my tea. “You mean getting hurt?”

“That, and the divorce, and losing Matthew.”

I hate how my pulse jumps. “He’s divorced?”

Charlotte gives me an incredulous look. “You didn’t know?”

I shake my head. “Dane isn’t exactly a popular person around here.”

“I know, and that’s wrong because Dane doesn’t have any family left. His parents died a couple years ago, and Shellie Ann moved to Austin with her boyfriend.”

“Don’t make me feel sorry for him. He married the girl he wanted. He pursued a career he desired. He’s not even fifty, and yet he’s rich and famous and still ridiculously good-looking.” But I’m not unmoved. I don’t like that he’s suffered, but isn’t that part of life? You take risks and sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but that’s just the way life is.

Charlotte heads home, and I start dinner for the boys. Our meal is subdued, and for a change, Hank, Bo, and Cooper try to get along. Cooper and Hank obviously feel bad for Bo, and I can hardly look at Bo without feeling sick.

It’s a relief when everybody goes to bed, and I climb into mine with the latest issue of
Harper’s Bazaar
. I’m leafing through the issue when there’s a knock on my door. Coop opens it and peers at me from the hall. “Can’t sleep, Mom.”

“You’ve only been in bed fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m too mad about Bo’s fight. I hate that he got beat up by some jerk kid.”

I have to squelch my smile. Cooper is so mellow until his family is threatened. I put down the magazine and pat the mattress next to me. “Sit down. Talk to me.”

He shuts the door and stretches out on the bed next to me, his long legs hanging off the end. “I’m so mad at what happened to Bo today. Bo’s been afraid of this guy for a long time, too.”

“You knew, then?”

“Yeah. I tried to tell Bo how to fight, but he didn’t listen to me. He thinks he knows everything, but I do know how to fight. I’ve been in two fights already. And I won both, too.”

I gaze down at him. “You’ve been in fights? When?”

“New York. Last year.” He looks up into my eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. I’m just surprised.”

He shrugs and folds his thin arms behind his strawberry blond head. His hair is thick and has a slight wave and an impossible cowlick at the front. When he was a little boy, he looked just like a kid from an old-fashioned comic strip—all freckles and reddish blond hair, with an enormous gap-toothed smile. John and I used to grin just looking at him. How fast even the baby grows.

“I don’t like fighting,” he answers, “but I’ll do it if I have to.”

“Why did you fight?”

He stares up at the ceiling, studying the pale blue light fixture. “Because someone told me Dad was a faggot.” He turns his head, looks at me. “And that was pretty much what happened the second time, too.”

My heart falls. I knew it was just a matter of time before the boys experienced some backlash for John’s new sexual orientation. I’ve worked with brilliant gay men ever since I became a model—many of the industry greats are gay—but unfortunately it can still be a source of fear and phobia in the mainstream population. “You should have told me.”

“It doesn’t matter. I handled it. And now we’re here and nobody knows.”

“You like that.”

“I like living here.” He hesitates, studies me. “You’re a beautiful mom. No one else has a mom as pretty as you.”

His sincerity touches me, and I realize all over again how lucky I am to have my boys. I love my children, and even though things are hard right now, I love my life. “You’re just biased ’cause I’m your mom.”

“But you are beautiful. You’re still a model. No one else’s mom is a model.”

I lean down, kiss his forehead. “As long as I’m beautiful to you. That’s all that matters to me.”

He’s silent a moment, thinking. “Yesterday I heard you and Uncle Brick talking. It was about Dane Kelly.” He pauses, turns his head to look up at me again, and his bright blue eyes hold mine. “I know who he is. He’s a bull-riding champion. Won three championships—’91, ’92, and again in 1999. He was leading the rankings in 2000, too, but then got hurt and was forced to retire.”

Dane again. It seems like now that I’ve run into Dane, I can’t escape him. It was easier being back in Parkfield before Dane reappeared on the scene. But I don’t say any of that to Cooper. There’s enough drama going on without dragging Coop into the middle of it. Instead I reach down to smooth his cowlick, which of course doesn’t work. The hair at the front grows straight up. “How do you know so much about Dane?”

“The school has a plaque on the library wall. He went to my school, you know.”

“I know. He was Uncle Brick’s best friend.”

“But not anymore?”

This is the most adult conversation Coop and I have ever had. It seems as if he’s grown up almost overnight. “They’re not as close as they used to be.”

“Why?”

“People change. Life happens—”

“Like Dane Kelly’s accident?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Cooper looks back up at the ceiling, expression pensive. I can tell he has something on his mind, but I’m not sure what. There seems to be a lot I don’t know about my boys these days.

“Uncle Brick was a bull rider like Dane Kelly,” he says after an endless moment. “And I want to learn to ride, too.”

“Bulls?”

“Not just bulls, but all roughstock.”

He’s referring to bull riding, bareback riding, and saddle bronc riding, and I suppress a shudder because they’re all dangerous, but bull riding is by far the worst. “Bull riding is one of the most dangerous sports in the world, Coop, and I’m glad your uncle Brick gave it up before he got seriously hurt—”