Chemistry Lessons (2 page)

Now,
she
thought,
it’s time for the reveal
. She opened the door wide and stepped
into the room she’d come to think of as an extension of Grandma’s garden.
Lilacs graced the wallpaper, peonies covered the sofas, and red poppies adorned
the carpet. Framed pictures of roses, birds, and butterflies dotted the walls.
Rosie knew full well it was a riot of pattern and color, but somehow it all
mixed together to create the home she loved. If Destry said one word about
it—just one word—she’d boot him back out the door.

He grinned as he looked around. “I can feel the passion. Who’s the
decorator?”

“My grandma. She passed away last year.” She gripped her hands in front
of herself

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then his deep voice took on a playful tone. “Let
me guess—roses were her favorite.”

She nodded. “She’s the one who started calling me Rosie. She didn’t
care for the name my mother gave me.”

“What’s the name your mother gave you?”

“Hurricane.”

His brows rose as if he didn’t believe her. “Hurricane?”

“Mom figured Hurricanes were always named after people. Might as well
name a person after a hurricane.” She motioned for Destry to follow her through
the living room and into the kitchen, another one of Grandma’s masterpieces. “I’m
not sure you’ll feel the passion quite so much in here,” she said, trying not
to look at the red accent wall, lined from floor to ceiling with portraits,
which wouldn’t have been so bad, except they were all nudes—male nudes.

After an unfortunate incident on Rosie’s fourteenth birthday party,
Grandpa had placed yellow Post-it notes strategically over certain parts of the
paintings, and now fifteen years later, he kept up the tradition, replacing any
notes that happened to fall off. He loved to tease Rosie that Grandma had left all
the paintings to her.

As she suspected, the grin didn’t leave Destry’s face. “What would we
do without sticky notes? I wish I could’ve done that with some of the paintings
in my parents’ home. My mom collects art too.”

Grandpa stood up from the table and extended his hand to Destry. “You
must be the new fella down the lane.” With his wavy patch of snow-white hair,
Grandpa could’ve passed for Santa Claus—if it weren’t for his handlebar
mustache and the fact that his nose had been broken three or four times. He
wore his Levi’s jeans so they hung just below the paunch of his belly.

Destry shook Grandpa’s hand. “You must be Mr. Curtis. Pleased to meet
you. I’m Destry Steadman.”

“I knew a Dusty back in the service.”

“Destry,” Rosie said, trying to emphasize the R.

Grandpa gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat, Dusty.”

“Grandpa doesn’t hear very well,” she explained as they sat themselves
at the table. After they said grace, she practically shouted. “His name’s
Destry like that old movie.”

Destry took a serving of chicken and dumplings. “Exactly,” he yelled. “My
mother saw
Destry Rides Again
while she was expecting me.”

Rosie had seen the movie once—she’d seen most of the old Westerns with
her grandparents. She pushed the salt shaker across the table to Destry. “You’ll
need this. Grandpa doesn’t salt anything.”

Grandpa set out to cut up his entire plate of chicken and dumplings
into bite-sized pieces. Though Grandma had trained him otherwise, efficiency
had always been a higher priority for him than etiquette. “You should know we
don’t keep secrets in this town. Betty McFerrin down the road already gave us
the low-down on you. Told us how you came here from Philadelphia sight-unseen.
What we don’t know is what you think of Lone Spur now that you’re here.”

Destry’s brow wrinkled for the slightest moment before he regained his
pleasant smile. “Betty McFerrin—she’s the one with—”

“The jewelry?” Rosie prompted. Their neighbor was the self-appointed
Coco Chanel of Lone Spur. In all her life, Rosie had never seen the middle-aged
woman without accessories.

Destry suppressed a chuckle. “I was going to say the ’76 Mustang, but I
noticed the jewelry too. Yeah, she brought over a coconut cream pie the day I
moved in. She makes a good pie.”

“I broke a mustang once,” Grandpa said. “Had quite a time of it. You’ll
be hard-pressed to get one these days, though.” Grandpa stood and shuffled off
to the living room. “I have a picture here somewhere.”

“Grandpa,” she called after him, “he meant Betty’s car, not a wild
horse.”

Destry hurried to swallow his food. “I still want to see the pictures.
I’ve been thinking of getting myself a horse. Maybe he could give me some
advice.”

“The hardest part,” she said, giggling, “is helping him understand the
question.”

He sent her a wink that seemed to say
, I’ve got this
.

Grandpa came back, carrying an old photo album, which he opened on the
table between him and Destry. He pointed to a black and white picture of a man
on a dark horse. “That’s Spooked Bandit and me.”

Destry examined the photo while Grandpa told the story of his worst
fall from the horse’s back. Destry’s eyebrows rose. “On second thought, an ATV
might be safer.”

She paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. Never one to waste time
when eating, she’d almost finished her meal. “I know plenty of great horses
waiting to be adopted. I wish I could afford to keep one.”

He paged through the photos and asked questions, some of which Grandpa
actually heard. Destry paused at a picture of the field in back of the house. “You
have a beautiful place here.”

Grandpa stuck out his bottom lip. “It’s a shame I’m going to have to
sell it.”

She sat up straighter. This was the first time she’d heard Grandpa say
anything about selling their home. Sure, her Uncle Jeff had been talking about
it for years, but Grandpa always told him he planned to stay on the ranch for
as long as he lived. “What do you mean, sell it?” she asked.

Grandpa wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back. “You know how
your Uncle Jeff has been after me to sell this place and move to a retirement
home. I’m finally starting to see he might have a point. This land deserves
someone younger and stronger.”

Like me
she
wanted to add, but somehow she couldn’t open her mouth to speak. She stared at
Grandpa’s trembling hands as he brought a fork full of food to his mouth. His
aging seemed to accelerate each day. Last week, he’d confessed that he could no
longer punch the numbers on his phone, and she’d noticed more and more that he
was forgetting things—his daily dose of medicine, the name of his doctor, the
pot of soup on the stove.

Still, he couldn’t sell the ranch—it was all he lived for. He had his
finger on the pulse of the place, even if he couldn’t run things himself. He
got up early enough to feed the chickens and rode around in the truck to check
the fences. The ranch was his life. It was his purpose.

It was also the only place where she had ever felt safe.

Destry spoke up loud and clear. “If you really want to sell, I’m
interested in buying.” His words kicked her right in the chest. She’d only felt
that sensation one other time—on the day of the accident, the day her
grandmother passed away. Back then, the emergency room doctor had diagnosed it
as anxiety. She sucked in air, trying to expand her ribcage. What would happen
to her animals if they sold the ranch?

Grandpa pulled on his earlobe. “I want to sell, but it has to be to the
right buyer.”

Had Grandpa lost his mind? She whipped her head toward Destry. “We’re
not interested in selling.”

He shifted his gaze from Grandpa to Rosie and then down to his plate,
where he stirred his food around.

Grandpa chewed carefully on his bite of chicken before he replied. “Now,
Rosie, you know I can’t take care of this place like I used to.”

“But I can,” she said, her words bursting out in a rush. “I’ve kept
everything the way it should be.”

Grandpa gazed out the window to the fields. “And it’s wearing you thin.”

Destry shouted from across the table. “Mr. Curtis, I’d love to buy this
ranch, but I have to say that Rosie takes better care of it than I could. I’m
new to this whole business.”

Grandpa took a shaky sip of milk before replying. “That’s true. Rosie’s
got what it takes. And I can tell you’re the kind of man that can run this
place too. I knew it when I first saw you out there irrigating.”

Destry scratched his neck. “I appreciate that, Mr. Curtis, but Rosie
can tell you I have quite a few technicalities to learn.”

“Not a problem,” Grandpa said, taking on the lilting tone of a used car
salesman. “There are plenty of old ranchers around here with the time to teach
you.”

Rosie couldn’t sit there, listening to this conversation any longer. “Excuse
me,” she said, rising from the table with her plate in hand.

As she walked to the kitchen, she heard Grandpa say, “Ranching’s more
about persistence than anything else.”

“Yes, sir,” Destry answered. “Excuse me a moment.”

Destry came into the kitchen as she scraped her plate into the slop
bucket. “I’m sorry I said that about buying the ranch. Sometimes I get too
enthusiastic about my plans, and I speak before thinking.”

She didn’t ask why he wanted to buy more land already, but she couldn’t
help wondering. As far as she knew, he didn’t have any animals or crops. She
forced more air into her lungs.

“I can tell this place means a lot to you,” he said, smiling. “If you
want to keep it for yourself, I won’t get in your way.”

Standing there alone with him in the kitchen, it was hard not to feel
the intensity of his gaze. He wasn’t standing that close, but it felt like he
was, like he noticed too much and could see right through her. When he placed
his hand on her arm, the heat of his touch was unexpected, and her heart began
to pound, which was ridiculous. He was just a nice guy. A nice guy she hardly
knew. Besides that, she already had a boyfriend.

She swallowed and strained to push out a thank you. It came out
sounding uneven and nasal. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve got
some chores to do, but, if you have time, I’d love for you to stay and keep
Grandpa company.”

“Sure thing. He’s a character.” Destry walked back into the dining
room, raising his voice for Grandpa to hear. “Betty told me you collect guns.”

 Rosie couldn’t wait around to make sure Destry kept his promise.
Whether or not Grandpa had decided to sell the ranch, she had animals to feed.
And she had plans to make—plans for keeping them secure.

He’d only kept chickens for two days and already something had killed
three. It had torn right through the wire cage he’d built and left a trail of
bloody feathers. Even the smallest tasks out here were fraught with unexpected
challenges. He was up for the fight, though. He would overcome.

Now that his brother Cody was gone, it seemed a proper penance to
finally get to work on their dream of starting a Western resort, to keep the
promises he never kept during his brother’s lifetime. But he had overestimated
his ability to jump right into the thick of things out here in the country.

He needed to start small—learning step by step—so he spent the
afternoon rebuilding the chicken cage with stronger wire. Then, as night set
in, he watched for the predator to reappear. With his BMW parked near the coop,
he planned to switch on the headlights if he heard any commotion. He wanted—no,
needed—to prove to himself and to Rosie that he could do at least one thing
right on his ranch.

He mused over how much she had
stuck in his brain. He could almost imagine her right there beside him, wiping
her hands on her muddy jeans while she explained the irrigation schedule. Nothing
like a woman to put him in his place. Before he met her, he only wanted to
learn about ranching so he could provide an authentic experience for the people
who came to his facility. Now he wanted to succeed at it so he could prove
himself worthy of her. She was so different from most women he knew—feisty and
earthy, saying exactly what she thought. Not that he had any chance of winning
her over. He already knew he wasn’t her type. He’d noticed her expression when he’d
joked about her not having a bull, and after he’d expressed interest in buying
their ranch.

Luckily, her grandfather was a little less intimidating. Mr. Curtis
would make a good mentor. He’d given him plenty of advice about living in Lone
Spur. Not only that, he’d given Destry a rifle, a beef brisket from his
freezer, and a bag of alfalfa seeds. The rifle still lay in the trunk of Destry’s
car. He’d have to buy a gun safe for it next time he went to Copper City.

The sun set against the hills as he relaxed into his leather seat and
watched his acres stretch toward the gray hills in the distance. There was so
much potential here—potential to make a difference for people like his
brother—if he could just put together the right team and gain the trust of his
neighbors. All he wanted was to help people. So far, though,
he
had been
the one who needed help. That needed to change.

He opened the sunroof and breathed in the cool, desert air that smelled
of dry grass and warm sand. Darkness tinged the night sky with deeper shades of
purple until all turned black. Thousands of stars dotted the sky. He’d seen
skies like this in Africa but hadn’t known they existed in the United States,
at least not outside a planetarium. He could trace not only the constellations,
but the Milky Way. It was no wonder the Africans called it the backbone of the
sky.

He’d almost forgotten the reason he was sitting outside when he heard
squawking from the direction of the coop. He switched on the headlights.

An animal, perhaps a dog . . .  no, it was a coyote, stood at the edge
of the coop having already torn through the wire cage. It had a chicken grasped
in its jaws. The stronger wire had done nothing. He jumped out of the car and
ran toward the coyote that was now slipping under the wire of the coop. “Get
out of here!”

The animal stopped, staring at him. It seemed to have no fear.

“I spent all day building that cage!” he yelled.

Why didn’t it run away like the lizards and squirrels when they saw him
coming? It just stood there with his lifeless chicken in its jaws.

He picked up a rock and threw it at the coyote, trying to scare it. “Stay
away from here.”

The coyote ran a few feet into the dry grass. Then it turned to look
back at him with wide-open eyes.

A seasoned rancher would shoot it. Coyotes were predators, after all.
But he had never shot a living thing before, only aluminum cans and a few
spoiled melons. He came here to help, to heal, not to kill.

Still, if he didn’t do something, the coyote would probably keep eating
his chickens. He walked back to the car, hoping it would be gone after he
loaded the old .22 rifle, but once he finished, the coyote still stood only
twenty feet away in the tall grass by the fence.

He would have rather been aiming a camera than a gun, but if he was
going to succeed here, he’d have to adapt. He crept closer to the animal. It
stood motionless, taunting him with the prize in full sight. He knelt and
rested the butt of the gun against his shoulder. His gut didn’t urge him on. “Run,
you stupid coyote!” he shouted, placing a sweaty finger on the safety release.

The animal cocked its head.

He lowered the gun. “Run!” The coyote took a few steps and then paused
again, staring at him.

Maybe if he fired a warning shot—something to scare it away. He raised
the gun again, aiming to the left of the coyote. With shaking hands, he
squeezed the trigger. The gun fired and spat a hot casing out to his right. He
heard a yelp. Then nothing. The coyote had disappeared. He listened but heard
no other sound. Was it hiding in the tall grass? It was hard to tell in only
the glow of the headlights.

After grabbing his flashlight, he approached the area where he’d last
seen the animal. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t hiding, snacking on his poor
chicken while it waited to make another run for the coop. He saw nothing until
he almost tripped over it, lying on its side. The bullet had hit the shoulder,
making a bloody mess, and Destry squeezed his eyes shut at the sight. He hadn’t
meant to hit it, but at least the chickens would be safe now.

Then he noticed a glint of metal at the animal’s neck. It almost looked
like—
it couldn’t be a collar
.

With trembling hands, he lifted the fur at the animal’s neck. He could
see the collar clearly—a tan one with a silver buckle. He’d shot someone’s dog,
and it didn’t look good. He’d only meant to scare it off.

As he watched for signs of breathing—
please let there be signs of
breathing
—he pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips. There was a lot
of blood, but the injury didn’t look too bad. He’d learned plenty about first
aid from his mountain climbing trips. He’d sown sutures in a friend’s knee—once
on the Australian coast and once on the Appalachian Trail. He could care for a
wounded dog. Maybe.

Carefully, making sure the dog wouldn’t bite him, he tied the fabric
strips over the bloody patch of fur. The animal didn’t flinch. “Sorry, guy,” he
whispered. The wound didn’t seem bad enough to kill it. Then again, it was a
small animal, and it had lost a lot of blood.

He placed his other hand at the base of the dog’s neck, feeling for a
pulse—not that he knew where a pulse would be on a dog. He felt nothing, but he
wasn’t about to give up. Was there a country veterinarian close by?

Back in Philadelphia, he could’ve called a friend for help. Here, he
was on his own. Trying his best to keep pressure on the dog’s wound, he lifted
it and carried it toward his car. Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt
breaths coming slow and shallow.

He’d have to get help from his neighbors—either the McFerrins or Mr.
Curtis. It was an easy choice. He got in his BMW and with the dog on his lap,
drove half a mile down the dirt lane to the Curtis place.

“Please be alive,” he whispered.

He drove straight up to the Curtises’ front porch, parked, and slid
out, carrying the dog in his arms. Rosie’s dog, Cheddar, ran to greet him while
Mr. Curtis sat on his plastic chair, sharpening the blade of a hoe in the glow
of the porch light. “What are you doing with Wile E?”

He raised his voice so the old man could hear. “I shot it.
Accidentally. I thought it was a coyote.” Two cats ran off the porch as he came
closer.

Mr. Curtis pushed himself out of his chair. “She
is
a coyote.
Rosie rescued her when she was a pup.” He touched the animal’s head. “I guess
you didn’t see the collar until the deed was done.”

Destry didn’t answer. Of all the pets he could’ve shot, why did it have
to be Rosie’s? She already thought he was an idiot.

Mr. Curtis placed a trembling hand on the coyote’s snout. “She’s gone
the way of all the earth.”

He caught his breath. “You mean?”

“Dead,” Mr. Curtis affirmed. “I don’t blame you for shooting her. What’d
she do? Make off with one of your chickens? She brought a dead chicken home
yesterday.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “She’s killed four of my chickens.”

“Sorry about that. I’ll replace them for you.”

He swallowed. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shoot your pet.”

“I’ll tell Rosie later.” Mr. Curtis pointed to the lawn. “Go ahead and
leave her there.”

Destry took one step toward the lawn before he changed his mind. He’d
caused this problem. He should be the one to tell her, even if it meant dealing
with her anger or worse, with her grief. “Where can I find Rosie?”

“I guess we’ll bury her over by the fence near those sunflowers,” Mr.
Curtis said, pointing in the direction of his fields. He obviously hadn’t heard
the question.

Destry made another attempt. “Where is Rosie?” he yelled.

Mr. Curtis frowned. “Out in the barn, trying to fix the tractor.”

“Thanks,” he said. He’d seen the barn the other day while they
irrigated.

“And, son, a word of advice—you best wear a shirt. You’re welcome to
borrow one of mine. I’ve got a few hanging out on the line.” He pointed around
the corner to the clothesline.

Destry looked down at the bloody remains of his shirt, now wrapped
around the coyote’s leg. He wouldn’t be wearing that shirt again. After setting
Wile E down on the grass, he walked to the side yard and selected a large
T-shirt. He didn’t notice what it said on the front until he walked back into
the light: “Old Fart.” On any other day, this would have been funny, but right
now, it seemed inappropriate. He took off the shirt, hung it back on the line,
and selected the only other T-shirt. This one featured a scene of the Grand
Canyon.

He walked toward the barn, imagining he’d find Rosie working alone with
a wrench in her hand. But, as he got closer, laughter traveled toward him.
Lilting and musical.

He peeked into the barn to see Rosie sitting on a man’s shoulders,
trying to reach a bottle of oil from a high shelf. She was wearing a fitted
T-shirt, one that revealed the curves of her waist and hips.

This guy was the cowboy type—stick thin in his Wranglers and cowboy
boots—and he acted like her boyfriend, which should have made telling her about
the coyote a little easier.

Rosie turned. The laughter died down, and she climbed off the man’s
back, placing the oil bottle on the floor of the barn. “Destry?”

He stepped into the barn. “Hi.”

She giggled. “I have that same shirt.” A wisp of her blond hair had
escaped her ponytail, and she brushed it back from her face.

He gulped, glancing down at himself. How could he have been so stupid?
He should have worn the other T-shirt after all. “That’s part of what I need to
explain.”

She squinted at him as if trying to guess what he might say next. After
helping her with the irrigation, he knew how strong she was, but right now, she
looked much too small to wear the same size shirt as him. She turned to the
guy. “I assume you’ve met Tanner?”

Destry automatically held his hand out, which probably made him seem
too formal—too corporate. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Destry.”

Now that he saw him in the light of the barn, Tanner looked much
younger with his smooth-shaved baby face. He hooked his thumbs through his belt
loops, drawing attention to his elaborate buckle. “No need to introduce
yourself. We’ve all heard about you from Mrs. McFerrin.”

Was this how it was here? People formed an opinion of you before you’d
even met them? That was one of the things he’d hated about the business
world—the gossip. It’d been bad enough before Cody died. Afterward, it was
unbearable.

Rosie climbed up the side of the tractor with the oil. She looked
almost like she belonged in some sort of magazine spread, working on a faded
red tractor in the glow of a single light bulb. “What was it you needed to
explain?”

Destry kept his focus on her face, as difficult as that was. “I shot
your coyote. I’m really sorry.”

She stared at him, her mouth open, as she climbed down, setting the oil
can on the floor. “You shot Wile E?”

Behind her, the boyfriend covered his mouth, trying to hide his
amusement.

Destry folded his arms and then unfolded them. “I didn’t see the collar
until after I’d shot her. She’s killed half my chickens in the past few days. I
didn’t mean to hit her. I just meant to scare her off.”

“Where is she?” Her words rushed out.

“On your front lawn.”

Rosie brushed past him, but turned for a moment before heading out the
door. “Tanner, can you grab my med kit?”