Cowboy Fever (3 page)

The hollow sound of her boots on the wheelchair ramp brought the past rushing back as she approached the front door. Shoving her hand in her pocket, she fished for the key ring she'd carried with her all the years she'd been gone. She'd kept it in her pocket or her purse, always with her, so that when times got tough, she could touch it like a talisman, reminding herself of who she was and where she really belonged.

Sliding the house key home, she turned the knob, stepping through the door and back in time.

The kitchen looked just as it had the day she'd walked away. She'd expected dust, dirt, maybe even damage from mice or water leaks—but the place looked tidy, even lived in. Just like always, two chairs stood at the table, along with an empty space for her dad's wheelchair. Just like always, the oven waited to welcome a pot of stew or a sheet of cookies. And despite the slightly musty scent of the air and the eerie silence, the room felt like home—just like always.

She wandered through the living room, touching familiar surfaces—the end table, the back of her father's recliner, the bookshelf—and felt a rush of gratitude that her mother hadn't taken the furniture when she'd moved to town. Peggy Brand had wanted a new life after her husband passed away, but she'd had the decency to leave the old one for Jodi.

Jodi paused at the door to her parents' old bedroom, then turned away. She should probably move to the big master bedroom now that the house was hers, but she wasn't ready to face it yet. She knew the same tray would sit on the dresser, waiting to welcome her father's keys and the other gear he kept in his pockets—a scrap of paper, a Leatherman, a handful of change mixed in with a few bent nails. No, she wasn't ready to open that door. There were layers to her grief, and every reminder of her father uncovered a new one.

She turned toward her old bedroom across the hall. A haze of tears blurred her vision as she opened the door, but she could still see something wasn't right. The bed was mussed, the covers heaped high in the center, the spread thrown back.

Backing out of the room, she swallowed a hot bolt of panic and pulled the door shut. She felt like a high plains Goldilocks, catching the Bear family in the act.

Somebody was sleeping in her bed.

Teague was in a lousy mood. He hadn't realized how much he was looking forward to Jodi Brand's return until it actually happened—and now, looking around his new and improved homestead, he felt like his sense of purpose had drifted away in her wake like a cloud of prairie dust on a summer breeze. She'd seen how he'd prospered—and she hadn't cared. Not one bit.

He'd meant it when he'd told her to get on with her life all those years ago. He'd known he wouldn't fit in with her plans. But after she left, he couldn't stop thinking about her. And somewhere along the way, he'd come up with a crazy plan to get her back.

He should have known it wouldn't work.

Sighing, he stepped into the barn and found a handy target to pin his bad mood on. The stalls were empty, the barn quiet. Troy must not have brought the horses in like he was supposed to. The mares were still out in the pasture, and Rocket was pacing in the paddock, neighing and stamping for his dinner.

Standing in the middle of the alleyway, Teague took in the silence surrounding him. There was the hum of insects, and the occasional rustle of a summer breeze, but the whole place was way too quiet.

His anger turned to dread. Where was his brother?

“Troy?” he called, stepping into the barn. “Troy? Where are you, buddy?”

A shrill whinny from Rocket was his only answer. His panic rising, Teague ran for the house. Mounting the porch steps in two long strides, he swung open the front door.

“Troy? Hey, Troy!”

No answer.

He cased the house, poking his head into every room. Troy wasn't in his bedroom playing Mario on his computer. He wasn't in the family room watching cartoons. He wasn't in the kitchen, raiding the pantry for snacks.

He wasn't home.

Teague slouched down on one of the two recliners in the family room and took off his hat, running his fingers through his hair. Maybe Troy had gone into town. He was supposed to ask before he took his bike out, and he was supposed to do his chores first, but he'd been rebellious lately, questioning the rules Teague had set down to keep him safe, pushing for more independence.

Teague glanced out the window. The door to the shed where Troy kept his bike was wide open, and his helmet was missing from its peg on the wall. He'd gone off somewhere, and probably forgotten the time.

That, or he'd had an accident. Teague's stomach clenched as he headed for the phone. He had Sheriff Marty Woodell on speed-dial—not because he needed law enforcement that often, but because, well, because sometimes he needed to talk to the sheriff.

“Mead County Sheriff,” Woodell droned into the phone.

“You seen Troy?” Teague asked.

“Nope. And hello to you too. Just 'cause you were raised by wolves doesn't mean you can't have manners.”

“Sorry. I'm just worried about him,” Teague said.

The fact that the “raised by wolves” comment made him smile just showed how far he'd come. His parents had cared more about getting drunk and howling at the moon than raising their kids. Matter of fact, the sheriff had been more of a parent to him than either his mom or his dad. His dad's idea of parenting was to open an occasional can of hundred-proof whoop-ass and pour it out on his kids whenever he felt the urge.

But the old man was gone—the old lady, too. Now there was just him and Troy. And Troy was missing.

“I came home and Troy's not here,” he told the sheriff.

“Well, where were you?”

“Out. Around town.”

“Then that's probably where your brother is too.”

“Yeah, well, he didn't call or anything. So I'm a little worried.”

“You call and tell him where you went?”

Teague heaved a hard sigh of exasperation. “Look, I know I'm overprotective. But I can't help worrying.”

“You're like a broody hen,” Woodell said. “You ever think about settling down and having kids? Maybe you need something to take care of.”

“Yeah, right,” Teague said. That was the last thing he needed. Troy was enough to take care of.

He sat down at the little desk between the kitchen and dining room where he paid the bills. Taking out a pen, he started doodling on a utility bill envelope, drawing intricate loops and circles that looked like tooling on a fancy boot. “No kids for me.”

“You sure?” Teague could hear a smile in the sheriff's voice. “Jodi Brand's back in town.”

“I saw her,” Teague said. He sat back and looked at what he'd drawn. It looked like a heart. He scratched it out. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Always thought you two would end up together.”

“I burned that bridge a long time ago.” Teague started doodling again, drawing a star this time.

“Bridges can be fixed.”

“What are you, my mom?” Teague regretted the words the minute they shot out of his mouth. “Sorry. You more or less are my mom.”

Woodell laughed. “Somebody had to look after you. Your folks sure as hell couldn't do it.”

“Or wouldn't.”

“Well, you were a handful.”

“Only way I could get your attention.”

It was true. Sometimes, when he was a kid, Teague had started trouble just so the sheriff would try to talk him straight. Back then he hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, but it felt good that somebody cared.

It wasn't enough, though. Finally, Woodell had thrown up his hands and let the system have at it with Teague. He'd ended up spending eighteen months at Green River in the reformatory. It hadn't helped. He'd sulked through the group therapy sessions, clammed up on the counselors, and gone home with all his anger and attitude intact.

The only thing that had saved him was Troy. When Teague Sr. died in a car wreck and their mother followed him soon after, he'd had to step up and take care of his brother. He'd been doing it ever since.

Doing a dang good job of it, too.

So of course he worried when his brother disappeared.

He drew a crescent moon to cradle the star while the sheriff went on about how great Jodi looked and how good it was to have her back in town. Teague sighed and gazed out the window. He really didn't want to hear it.

Jodi slapped her hand over her mouth and backed out of the bedroom doorway, slamming the door shut and stifling a scream. Who the hell was in her bed? Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she eased open the door. The lump in the bed shifted and let out a couple of bearlike grunts, and what was going to be a scream turned into a giggle.

“Troy?” She opened the door and stepped into the room. “Troy! What are you doing in my house?”

A tousled head peeked out from under the covers. She caught sight of Troy's familiar features, marked with the unmistakable stamp of Down syndrome, but he couldn't seem to make out who she was. He squinted, twisting up his face; she giggled again and a broad grin creased his cheeks.

“Jodi?” He flung back the covers and swung his short legs over the edge of the four-poster. “
Jodi!
”

She grinned and nodded.

“What are you doing home? I been taking care of it for you. I been helping you.”

“You been sleeping,” she teased.

“Yes. I mean, no.” Troy's eyes widened. “I was hiding. I didn't know it was you. I thought maybe Teague was looking for me.” He glanced out the window. “Oh, man, he's gonna kill me. I was 'sposed to be home. I was 'sposed to take care of the horses.” His mouth worked as the realization worked him into a panic. “Oh, he's gonna be mad. So mad,” he moaned.

“It's okay, Troy.” Jodi took his hand and led him from the room. “Let's toss your bike in the truck and I'll give you a ride home.” She paused and nodded at the tidy counters in the kitchen. “Did you keep my house clean for me? Was that you?”

“Uh-huh.” He threw his arms around her in a bear hug and she thought of Goldilocks again. Troy would be baby bear despite his age. He was almost thirty, but he barely came up to her shoulder. He was sweet as a bear cub and just as affectionate. His simple, unsophisticated sense of right and wrong had always warmed her heart, and his all-out, unabashed affection made her feel at home for the first time since she'd rolled into town. “I kep' it nice for you,” he said. “I knew you'd come back. You said. You promised.”

Well, at least someone counted on her to keep her promises.

“But how did you get in?” she asked.

Sheepishly, Troy dug a key out of his hip pocket. “I saw you get the key out of the gutter once. I-I took it.” He stared down at the floor and squeezed his eyes shut, hunching his shoulders. “Sorry.” He looked up at her with a tentative smile. “You staying, Jodi?”

“I hope so.” Jodi gave him a final squeeze before she stepped away. “I really hope so.” She sighed. “Come on. Let's get you back home.”

They went outside and loaded Troy's 3-speed Schwinn into the back of Jodi's truck.

“There you go, Bessie,” Troy said, giving the bike's handlebars a pat. “You sit tight.”

Jodi smiled. Bessie was a girl's bike, a pawn shop cast-off Troy had been riding when she'd left for college. She wondered why Teague hadn't replaced it if he was as prosperous as he said.

They piled into the truck, then cruised down the driveway and turned right, passing Cissy's trailer.

“Turn left past the trailer,” Troy said.

Jodi bounced the truck down a gravel-strewn road that hadn't been there six years earlier. The sound of pebbles pinging off the Ranger's undercarriage was the sound of home. Back in Pennsylvania where she'd gone to school, it seemed like the whole world had been paved.

The road curved and they spooked a herd of pronghorns that dashed away with a springy, bouncing lilt. She'd forgotten how big Wyoming's antelope were, how exotic. Natives laughed at how excited tourists got at the sight of a few 'lopes, but after six years away, Jodi could sense the thrill of it as strongly as any newcomer.

The Treadwell's land fanned out in front of her, stretching from the back of the trailer to a distant tree line. The ground was hard and dry, dotted with sagebrush and stones but rich enough to support a fair amount of grass. Her father had always said the Treadwells were wasting a fine piece of property. A seasonal stream wound through the acreage, disappearing in summer but rising in fall and spring when the mountain snowmelt fed the flats. A few trees grew on either side of the dry creek bed—cottonwoods, twisted and tortured by the land that nearly starved them, but still providing shade that would shelter a herd of cattle from the summer sun. Before, only Teague's swaybacked paint and a few motley Hereford crosses had enjoyed the cool haven. Now, a sizable herd of cattle dozed in the shade. They were black, with wide horns and slender, muscular bodies.

“What are those? Corrientes?”

Troy nodded. “We run about a hundred of 'em.”

Jodi watched as a calf wandered over to its mother and nudged her side, looking to nurse. Corrientes were small Mexican cattle, bred for rodeo. They were quick, nimble, and athletic—perfect for roping and wrestling.

They passed the ramshackle old house generations of Treadwells had occupied before Teague's dad gave up on it and hauled in the trailer. The old place had tilted in the direction of the prevailing winds, and looked like a strong blast would knock it to pieces.

Next came the big Treadwell barn where Teague and Jodi had spent so many hours messing with horses, doing chores, and just talking. Back before she started on the queen circuit, Teague had always wanted to do something more than talk, but Jodi had been wary and he'd been respectful. Disappointed and a little sulky, but respectful.

She slowed down to scan the barn. It had been painted recently—a deep, traditional barn red with bright white trim. The roof was new too, and the broken windows she remembered had been replaced. It looked neat and efficient—not at all like the musty, drafty building where dust motes had danced in shafts of sunlight while she and Teague fought their way through puberty, circling each other like wary gunfighters.

As she and Troy passed the barn, a newer house came into view, set in the shelter of a small rise. It was big but homey looking, with cedar siding and a chalet roof jutting over a tall span of windows. A front porch stretched across the front, bordered by a rustic railing made of twisted lengths of pine.

The yard surrounding the house was neatly mown, and someone had planted several rows of evergreens on the windward side; the trees would create a windbreak in a few years if they survived the heavy snows and hungry antelope. Beyond was another pasture with dozens of horses grazing.

A beat-up Dodge pickup was parked in front of the two-car garage. The truck's body was mostly a dull green pocked with rust, but the driver's side door was white and the hood was primer gray. Jodi smiled. Between the new duds and the big house, she'd half-expected Teague to have a sports car, or at the very least a swanky new dually. But his truck was pure cowboy. There was hope for the man yet.

“That's home,” Troy said, slanting his gaze her way.

“Nice,” she said. It was nice, it really was, but it wasn't what she'd expected. It looked like an Easterner's version of a Western house. Rustic, rough-hewn, and a little phony.

“Yeah, but it's Teague's,” Troy said, pouting a little. “I wanted to stay in the trailer, but Teague rented it out.”

Oh, boy. Troy really was looking to break free. Knowing Teague, he'd never agree to let his brother move out. Troy had always needed Teague, and Teague needed to be needed. Jodi had always figured Troy was the only thing that kept him out of trouble.

“Cissy needs the trailer though, Troy,” she said. “It's nice Teague rents it to her.”

“I guess.” Troy's lower lip jutted out in a pout.

“Anyway, you and Teague should stick together,” she said. “Take care of each other.”

“I guess,” Troy said, heaving a heavy sigh. “But he's hard to take care of.”