Cowboy Resurrection: Cowboy Cocktail, Book 2 (10 page)

Dean was dumbstruck for a moment. Monica’s brother took one step closer, crowding him.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Singh,” Dean said slowly, “but your daughter is an adult. She’s the one who should make that decision.”

“My daughter understands what her obligations are. I’m sure this was a nice romance for her. But it ends now. She’ll make that decision because she knows it’s the right one.” Without another word, Monica’s father turned and got back into the van.

Monica’s brother put his finger in Dean’s chest once more. “Touch her again and see what happens, MacKinnon. My sister’s not one of your skanks.”

Dean turned his attention on Monica’s brother for the first time. He leveled his gaze and lowered his voice. “Watch it.”

“Ravinder! Let’s go!” shouted Monica’s father.

Monica’s brother sneered. He turned back to the van, started it up and drove away, leaving Dean standing in the parking lot alone.

* * * * *

Monica’s mother sat at the kitchen table, her eyes red and swollen. It was nearly midnight. Spread out before her were stacks of printouts, dating profiles organized according to geographical location, age and profession.

“You said your office was in Cupertino, so I searched Cupertino. I searched Sunnyvale, Mountain View, San Jose, Santa Clara. I asked around. I made phone calls. You said you didn’t want a doctor. What kind of woman doesn’t want to marry a doctor? I said, fine. So I found engineers. Attorneys. College professors. For you! All for you!” Fresh tears began to stream down her mother’s face. “Why? Why do you punish us this way? What haven’t we done for you? What haven’t we given you?”

After putting all their kids to bed, Ravinder and his wife Harpal had come to sit at the kitchen island with the sole purpose of looking accusingly at Monica. Her father leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms folded, his features stony and hard to read.

“You’ve already missed one chance at getting married. You’re thirty-two years old! Time is running out!” her mother screeched. “Why are you so intent on ruining your life?”

“Calm down,” said Monica’s father. “You’re going to wake up the little ones.”

Monica stared at all the profiles on the table, Sikh men in turbans and beards, some clean-shaven, some young, some old, some handsome, some homely. Her mother saw this as her future—her only path.

“What I want to know is, why Dean MacKinnon?” Ravinder said. “He’s disgusting. You probably caught VD.”

“Don’t disrespect your sister.” Monica’s father sat down at the table next to her and rubbed his beard. “It’s getting late. This is the situation as it stands. You will move to Cupertino next week, as you have been planning to do. Until then, as you complete the preparations for the rodeo, Ravinder or Harpal will drive you around town and accompany you on your business.”

Monica leaned forward. “A chaperone? Papa, this is not right—”

“What is not right is that I had to hear from our neighbor’s grandmother’s hairdresser that her sister saw you checking into a hotel in the middle of the day. The hotel where you have been carrying on, doing who knows what with that—that cowboy!” Monica’s mother howled and wiped her eyes with a moist ball of Kleenex. “
Tenu sharam nahi aundi?
Don’t you have any shame? You think that what you do doesn’t have repercussions
.
It does. A scandal like this? People talk. Let’s just hope you can outrun the scandal before it reaches the Bay Area.”

Monica kept her eyes on the tabletop, silently hoping this so-called scandal would circle the globe twice before she had to meet any of the men her mother had chosen for her.

“Please understand where we’re coming from,” said Monica’s father. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “What you are doing is not right,
beti.
This is not the way to love, sneaking around like thieves. You need to end things now. It will be better for both of you in the long run.”

That night, as she lay sleepless in her bed, Monica put the covers over her head and turned on her phone. Four texts and a voicemail from Dean. She read the texts first.

Are you all right? What can I do?

Should I come over and talk to your dad?

Call me when you can.

I’ll be up late. Call or text anytime.

The voicemail was short, just her laconic cowboy speaking quietly, as though he were in a place where a lot of people could hear him. A TV was on in the background, and the voices of kids talking quietly to adults.

“Hi. It’s me. Just, ah, hoping everything’s all right. You looked pretty upset this afternoon. Call me. Okay. Bye.”

Just then her phone buzzed. Another text.

I miss you.

Her bedroom was right next to her nieces’ room. She couldn’t call Dean without waking them up. Her fingers flew as she composed a message for him.

I can’t talk, but don’t worry. I’m fine. My family’s pretty furious at me. Nothing new.

She paused, not sure how to proceed.

I’ll be around, but it’ll be hard for us to see each other alone.

An understatement. She’d be lucky if her brother or her sister-in-law would let her go to the bathroom by herself.

I’m so sorry about everything. This isn’t how I wanted things to turn out.

Gossiping neighbors had cheated her and Dean out of their last few days together, but they both knew their time was coming to an end. Was her father right? Should she say goodbye now? She ached so hard she could barely breathe.

But maybe it’d better if we

Tears formed in her eyes but she fought back the urge to sob. Dean would try to fix things. But how could he? This was an impossible situation. She had to protect him. She finished the sentence.

But maybe it’d better if we ended things now.

It’d be cleaner this way, she decided. No more sneaking around. No more pretending they could be a couple when they couldn’t. She pressed
send
before she lost her nerve but not before her heart crumbled to powder in her chest.

His reply came back almost instantaneously.

Is this what you want?

No. She wanted
him
. She wanted to walk down the street holding his hand for everyone to see. She wanted to sleep next to him at night and wake up in the morning looking into his eyes. She wanted to spend long afternoons bullshitting and laughing and making love with him. She wanted to talk about the future with him as though it were something they could share.

But his life was here, and his home was on the road. He didn’t belong in the city any more than she belonged out in the middle of a rodeo arena.

Six years she’d worked to get this job in Cupertino. Building relationships. Wheeling and dealing. Impressing every single person she’d ever come into contact with in the industry. And the company wanted her enough that they’d waited for her.

There was no point in pretending she and Dean could be together. They couldn’t.

This is what I want
,
she texted back.

One minute passed, then two. Her pillow was wet with tears. Her phone buzzed once more.

See you at the rodeo.

* * * * *

Trailers, trucks and pens filled the enormous lot next to the rodeo arena. A summer rainstorm had soaked the grounds and slick, caramel-colored mud covered absolutely everything, but no one seemed to mind. As long as the arena was in good condition, the show would go on.

Monica’s sister-in-law, Harpal, was about as exciting as sitting on a curb and staring at a stop sign. Like a dutiful little trooper, she followed closely as Monica crisscrossed the grounds to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible. Harpal, in her chinos and flats, was soaked and miserable. Monica, in a hat, jeans and new cowboy boots from Bakersfield, felt right at home in the mud.

As Monica made her rounds, some of the visiting competitors, all fit young cowboys, flirted openly with her. They invited her for drinks at the Silver Spur or at their trailers after the next round. Flattered, she turned them down under Harpal’s indignant gaze.

“They’re so dirty,” her sister-in-law said under her breath. “Disgusting.”

Monica wholeheartedly disagreed with her, but none of the handsome cowboys came close to the only one she was looking for in the crowd.

Because of Monica’s careful planning and orchestration, the opening parade and all the events went according to plan. Bo Walker’s bulls were crowd-pleasers, and the commentators and barrel man kept the huge crowd’s attention.

All around her, Monica heard the
ka-ching
of ringing registers—concessions, alcohol, merchandising, tickets, entry fees, sponsorships. She smiled as she thought about all that money flowing into Oleander. The Rambling Ranch Inn was fully booked. Looking into the stands, she was proud to see, scattered here and there among the cowboy hats, a few Sikhs in turbans, enjoying their day at the rodeo with their families.

She was on her way to the VIP box when she finally saw the person she was searching for.

Dean stood by the chutes. He was chatting with Bo Walker and the young bullfighters hired by Miller-Davis for the bull-riding events. A crowd of bronc riders and bull riders had gathered around him too. They hung on every word he said. Women and kids in the stands leaned over to ask Dean for autographs and photos. He had a friendly smile for every single person who approached him.

Monica wasn’t prepared for the pain that flooded her from head to toe when she saw Dean. He was so handsome that looking at him sharpened her senses. He was wearing a white straw hat, a freshly pressed blue shirt and one of his championship belt buckles. Even from afar, his dark beard couldn’t hide the sharp lines of his cheekbones or the strong angle of his jaw.

The commentators spotted him from the announcing stand. One of the event’s cameramen rushed over to get a shot for the big screen.

“And here today is Oleander’s very own Dean MacKinnon, two-time freestyle bullfighting world champion. Looks like he’s giving our Miller-Davis bullfighters some pointers, there. Boys, listen up. You’re getting schooled by the best. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give Dean a warm hometown welcome.”

The crowd cheered. Dean waved at the camera and smiled. Monica heard some wolf whistles and ladylike shrieks from the audience.

When the camera cut away, Dean looked up and locked eyes with her. His smile faltered for a moment before he put it back on and turned back to Bo.

Almost gleefully, Harpal poked Monica in the ribs. “Come on. Stop looking at him. We’re blocking traffic here on the stairway.”

Monica frowned at her sister-in-law before turning and walking up the stairs.

* * * * *

Packed with people, the Oleander Community Center was sweltering. All the doors had been thrown open to let in fresh air. Visitors were stacked five deep for beer and whiskey at the bar. The band, Mason Crow and the Wildflowers, played nonstop boot-scootin’ country, whipping the crowd into an energetic frenzy. Around the room, old-timers sat at tables, watching the younger people flirt and pair up on the dance floor.

After Harpal went home to put her kids to bed, Monica took a moment to sit with her father and uncles at a table near the door. Her Uncle Dev’s truck wash and repair shop was a rodeo sponsor, as was the Rambling Ranch Inn. Though they didn’t drink alcohol, her father and his brothers were having a good time. They congratulated her on all her hard work and enjoyed themselves making outrageous suggestions for next year’s rodeo.

Laughing at her Uncle Dev’s idea for “Turban Cowboy” T-shirts, she didn’t notice the man standing behind her until her father said something.

“Mr. MacKinnon.”

Monica stopped laughing, bolted upright in her chair and turned around. Dean touched the brim of his hat as he acknowledged each man at the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Singh. Nice to see you again. I was wondering if I might ask your permission to dance with your daughter.”

Monica was speechless. After what had happened in the parking lot, Dean had enormous balls to approach her father and his six scowling brothers.

A long, uncomfortable moment of silence passed before Monica’s father leaned forward and asked her, “
Beti
,
do you want to dance with this boy?”

Dean wasn’t a boy. And it had been decades since she’d been a girl. But Monica said, “Yes, Papa.”

Her father looked at him, then at her. “One song. And then you must tell him goodbye.”

“Sir.” Dean nodded to her father and held out his hand. Monica took it. The crowd stared hotly as he led her onto the dance floor.

The band started a new song. Willie Nelson’s “Crazy”.

Dean put his hand on her waist and pulled her close. “Appropriate,” he said softly.

She nodded, too sad to smile.

He led her in a graceful two-step. Their bodies melded together on instinct. They shared one rhythm and the sweet lilt of the music made Monica lightheaded in his arms.

“You look real pretty,” he said. “I knew the cowgirl look would suit you.”

Instead of speaking, she rested her cheek against his shoulder and concentrated on not falling to pieces in front of all these people.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said. “What you’ve done here—it’s amazing. The town needed this. The people needed this.”

She didn’t want to talk about the rodeo, so she squeezed his hand and said, “You’re a good dancer.”

“Most cowboys are.” He added with a grin, “Good two-steppers, anyway.”

Usually, she didn’t care for country music. But in the last couple of months, Monica had changed in more ways than one. “I like this song.”

“Me too.”

They took another turn around the dance floor. With each note, their time together dwindled away. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “I don’t think I can.”

“Tell you what, then. Let’s not say goodbye. The song will end. I’ll go my way, and you’ll go yours. And maybe no matter where we go, no matter where we end up, there will always be some part of us still here on this dance floor. Stuck in time. Dancing to ‘Crazy’. How does that sound?”