A Gentle Rain (7 page)

As anybody with the sense to read a history book knows, there were and are plenty of black cowboys and cowgirls. I was lookup' at two of `em. Nothing unusual about a man and woman of color workin' at a cattle ranch.

Except when they dressed like Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.

Before I hired Roy and Dale I didn't know there was that much fringe and shirt piping left in the world. Not only did they dress like dude-ranch cowpokes, they were color-coordinated. That much red gingham and blue leather can hurt your eyes.

"Roy, Dale? Did y'all take your meds this mornin'?" Both of them were born with spina bifida. Roy took pills for seizures, Dale for high blood pressure and twitchy legs. She had a shunt in her head. They were the only married couple on the ranch. Mac and Lily had wanted to get married for years, but Mac's brother, Glen, wouldn't give permission.

Don't get me started on the subject of Glen Tolbert.

Back to Roy and Dale. Nobody was better at birthin' calves, foals, or anything else that came out of a womb. "Yes, Boss, we took our pills," Roy said from behind his hands. He didn't like lookup' at people. Made him nervous. He pulled his red-checkered cowboy hat lower over his eyes.

"Yes, praise Jesus," Dale said. Her red-checkered cowboy hat sported a row of little crucifixes on the hat band. Dale's understanding of the world was on a par with a third grader who's taken Vacation Bible School a little too much to heart. Dale was a sweetie, but she'd bust your chops over Jesus.

"The sick cow's coming along real nice this morning," Dale went on. "And her twins are nursing."

"Good to hear it. Y'all pulled `em through. Good work."

"Jesus did it," Dale said primly.

"Tell him I said thanks."

"You don't have to tell Jesus things. Jesus just knows."

Ask him why he wants to take my brother away from me, I thought grimly. "Awright," I grunted. "Y'all are set. Let me go see about Joey."

"Joey's in the truck, and so are Mac and Lily," said a growly female drawl behind me. "We're all set. Except for you. Ben, you look like a pile of worn-out shit with eyeballs."

I turned to stare down at two beady green eyes wearing false lashes the size of spiders. Miriam. She kept her hair white-blonde and braided glittery beads into it some times. She had a mouth like a drunk pig skinner, and she didn't hesitate to tell the truth.

She'd been even crankier since giving up cigarettes. Now she chewed toothpicks. When she was agitated she could go through a hundred-pack of toothpicks in a day. A chewed-up toothpick hung from her lower lip now.

"You're gonna get splinters," I warned.

"You're not sleepin'. You look like hell."

"Now, don't go flatterin' me."

"Me and Lula'll sit with Joey at night for awhile."

"Y'all already got your hands full with daytime duty. Him and me got a routine. I sleep plenty in the recliner."

"That heart doctor was supposed to help him. How come Joey's not any stronger? Those new heart pills aren't making a damn bit of difference."

"Give `em time."

"You keep not sleepin', you're gonna need heart pills."

I took her by one arm and led her out of the others' earshot. Silver mermaids rattled on her charm bracelet. Before Mama married Pa, her, Lula and Miriam had all worked as Weeki Wachee mermaids at the famous theme park down near Tampa. Once a mermaid, always a mermaid. I lowered my voice and looked around to make sure nobody could overhear. "Joey has good days and bad days. Same as always. He's had some bad days lately, but don't worry about it."

"Don't you worry about it, and then I won't worry about it."

"Deal. Did you give Lula that list of vitamins to buy?"

"Yeah, yeah, but Joey don't need more vitamins. You do. Ben, hon, you're working yourself to death. You don't have to haul this circus to Talaseega today."

Joey loved going to Talaseega. Whatever he wanted to do, we'd do. "This isn't a good time for a lecture, Miriam. You ready to drive, or not?" Miriam drove the van. Usually with the radio turned up loud on a gospel station for Dale's sake and the windows rolled down for her own. Miriam hated the van's leftover smell of florist mums. Said they made her think of funerals. Come to think of it, that's why I didn't like to drive the van, either.

"I'm ready," she grumbled. But she wagged a red nail at me as she walked away. "You need more help around here!"

I gritted my teeth and went to the truck. Joey grinned at me from the front seat. His daytime pills were neatly arranged in a covered plastic tray in his lap. He wrinkled his nose. "Rhubarb's got really bad gas today. Lily had to turn up my oxygen."

I coughed at the smell and peered into the back seat. Lily covered her nose with a little handkerchief she always carried, embroidered with daisies. Mac waved his gray Stetson back and forth. He wore a daisy on his hat band. Mac and Lily didn't need nicknames. They just needed each other and their mysterious love for daisies. I envied that. Sitting between them, Rhubarb, Joey's dog, shifted his brindled, sixty-pound mutt butt and licked the air at me, as if I tasted as good as his fart smelled.

"Thank you, Rhubarb," I said grimly. "Now, we're all ready to go.

The horses for sale at Talaseega were divided like highschoolers at a prom. Jocks and beauty queens got their own roomy stalls with their pedigrees posted on the doors. The brainy types got smaller stalls with catalog numbers. The losers and the hoods got stuck in community pens, with numbered stickers on their rumps.

I paid a fee to put my yearlings in a preview stall alongside the purebred Quarter Horses and Arabians. On their stall door I hung a color print-out Lula had designed on the ranch computer.

Registered Crackers, Thocco Ranch, Fountain Springs, Florida. By Walking Soft Cougar. Out of solid Cracker mares from the oldest Cracker bloodlines in the state. Already Displaying Cougar's Famous Coon Rack.

My yearlings were pretty bays and one chestnut, all with a lick of flash in their carriage and their daddy's walk. People paid, on average, a thousand dollars each for the best ones. Not much by other breed standards, but gold for a Cracker. You buy a Cracker, you're proud.

"What's a coon rack?" a little girl asked Possum, who stayed inside the stall with the yearlings. Possum, who was only about five-three even in boot heels, looked like a cowboy hobbit. Kids took to him.

"It's a square, four-beat walking gait," he recited in a squeaky drawl. Possum took his role as our salesman seriously. He was big on facts and rote answers. Most autistics were. "Exhibited by many breeds of horses including Tennessee Walking Horses, American Saddlebreds and Paso Finos." Possum peered through the slats of the stall door at me. I nodded. He was doing fine. "The Cracker Horse is descended from gaited Spanish stock brought over starting with the explorer Ponce de Leon," he went on. "The Cracker performs a slow version of the square gait called the `Coon Rack."'

The girl's pa, a suburban type in a Soccer Dad t-shirt, looked around to see if anybody in the vicinity might tell him what a square gait was. "What's a square gait?" he asked me. I tried not to crowd Possum's territory but I knew his explanations were clear as mud. "It's the way a raccoon walks," I put in. "Kind of a glide. A smooth ride. Pretty to watch."

"Ahab." Soccer Dad looked intrigued. Like a lot of folks, he didn't know much about Crackers; didn't even realize they were a recognized breed, now. A lot of horse lovers, me included, had worked hard over the years to build up the breed registry. It was a start.

Another Daddy-kid combo walked past the stall. "What's a Cracker Horse, Daddy?"

"It's a wild horse nobody wants. Don't get too close. It might have diseases."

Possum yelped. He launched into another one of his spiels.

The daddy eyed him warily and hurried away with his little girl in tow.

"Easy, Possum, you can't win `em all," I soothed.

"Thocco Ranch?" a nasty female drawl said behind me. "Hmmm. So you're Ben Thocco. You're the stupid cowboy who towed my daddy's Jaguar a week ago."

I pivoted on a boot heel and looked down at a little blonde. She was dressed in tight jeans with torn knees, a pink baby doll, snakeskin boots, and enough diamond jewelry to say `I'm rich and you're not.' Like Paris Hilton, only not so likable. Her entourage watched from behind her. A bunch of cocaine-and- chardonnay college boys, if you ask me. I tipped my hat to her. "I take it you're J.T. Jackson's daughter. I see the resemblance."

"You've got balls. I'd like to give them a test ride, sometime. I doubt you'd survive."

Miriam hustled over. "You kiss your daddy with that dirty mouth?"

The blonde ignored her, continuing to give me the once-over like I was meat on the hoof. "Not bad for a hick," she went on. "I hear you used to be a wrestler. A Mexican wrestler. El Diablo."

"I saw that movie about Mexican wrestlers," one of her boys said, griming. "Nacho Libre. So you were a badass burrito bandido in tights, huh? Like Jack Black?"

I looked his way. Just a look. His grin faded and he stepped back a little, angling behind one of the other asswipes.

"El Diablo," the blonde repeated, laughin'. "The Devil. Funny, I picture the devil wearing nicer jeans. And boots that aren't so old they're cracked at the toes."

Now, if a bodacious blonde like her walked up to me in a bar and smiled, I'd sure buy her a martini and enjoy the view. But this blonde had walked up to me with a chip on her shoulder and her tongue wrapped in barbed wire.

"Aw, now, you're gonna make my mama madder, makin' fun of me this way," I said. I nodded at Miriam. "She's kinda touchy since the army put the steel plate in her head. She just got back from Iraq."

The blonde flung her streaked hair and looked down the aisle where Lily, Mac, Joey and my other hands stood at the community pens. "Are all your employees retarded rejects or are some of them just stupid, like you?"

Lucky for her, I was raised not to hit girls, even the ones who used the "r" word about my people. Thirty-eight years old and the habit of not fighting with girls still stuck. I tipped my hat to her, again. "Tell your daddy I look forward to towing his car again, sometime." I turned my back.

"Don't you turn your tight ass toward me, you loser."

Miriam popped a fresh toothpick in her mouth. "Beat it, hon. He's done tallcil', and I'm done listenin'. You're not exactly the freshest trout in the creek." Miriam sniffed the air dramatically. "Been out of the icebox a little too long."

"Ben," Roy Rogers called from the pens. "Come see. Lily says come and see."

Trouble? I headed that way in a hurry.

"You better have a big dick to go with that big mouth," the blonde called. "You and your fucking, so-called `mother."'

You don't talk like that in front of God-fearing livestock people who've brought their kids with them. People craned their heads and muttered. Some big of boys made a beeline for the blonde's boy pals. The code of the West-or, in this case, the code of North Florida-says a cowboy can't hit a girl. But he can sure whup her boyfriend's ass.

The blonde's pals turned pale and dragged her away. Miriam caught up with me. "Ben, if you had a wife, I wouldn't have to keep beatin' girls away with a big stick."

"Aw, you like screening my girlfriends."

"That one's got eyes like a lizard. Probably suns on a rock when nobody's looking. Ben, don't you know what she is?

"Aw, yeah, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt."

"She's a barrel racing champion."

I stopped. "Aw."

"I'm not kidd n' . Her daddy isn't just a developer. He bought the old Barkley spread down near Orlando. Named it JTJ Quarter Horse Ranch, Incorporated."

"Naw. J. T. Jackson's daughter is a top barrel racer?"

"You bet your stopwatch she is. Her daddy spent millions on purebred horses for her. Bought that lizard-eyed little whiffle the best barrel horses in the country. Hired the best trainers. She's four-times national and two times world champ. Her name's Tami Jo. Tami Jo Jackson. I've seen her on ESPN and World Sports Network. In a thong bikini. Ben, she ain't human. She's got no cellulite on her ass."

I sighed. "I sure know how to pick a fight with a big dog."

"Dog ain't the operative word for her, Ben. But it's close."

My mood went downhill from that low point. "Ben come see," Dale called, again. "Lily's upset. So's Joey."

I broke into a trot. Lily and Joey were peering through a metal gate into the communal stock pen. Joey was wheezing hard. Lily was so worried her red-gray hair seemed electrified. She was a human Brillo pad. Mac had an arm around her.

"Turn up Joey's oxygen," I told Lula, who nodded. "What's the problem, Lily? Calm down, everybody."

"Look at that poor baby," Lily whispered.

Joey moaned. "The one with the scarred face and the mad eyes."

I looked where they pointed. A young gray mare stood out from the herd. A nasty scar ran across her forehead from just below her left ear to the right side of her muzzle. She stared at me with pitch-black eyes. Yeah, she hated people in general or probably men in particular.

"What's the story on that gray mare?" I asked the livestock broker.