The Invitation (23 page)

S
andy had to admit to himself that Kane's behavior had shaken him. He'd known the man since he was a child, and Kane and his twin brother had always been the kindest, sweetest children, always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone who needed them. They were the children who would sleep in the barn with a sick horse and cry when one of the dogs killed a snake. They were boys who'd rather laugh than anything else, boys who were happy and wanted to share their happiness with others.

So when Sandy had walked into the house and seen Kane threatening the life of one very pretty, very small female, he hadn't at first known how to react. One thing that had been so stunning to him was the fact that Kane was responding at all. After his wife died five years ago, Kane had seemed to retreat within himself. Except for his sons, nothing seemed to make him angry or sad; nothing seemed to delight him or disappoint him or bore him. In truth, nothing in the world seemed to affect him at all.

When Pat had told Sandy what she was up to with these four women and that she'd even chosen one of them to be her son's future wife, Sandy hadn't laughed. He had been hoping that something or someone would bring Kane back to life, and if a widow could do that, then he was for whatever deception had to be perpetrated to make it come about.

But when Sandy walked into the house, Kane hadn't been mooning over some beautiful widow; he'd been chasing a minx of a girl across the furniture. Sandy had to admit that he was intrigued as much as puzzled by what he'd seen.

“You the one who shot the snake?” Sandy asked the young woman walking silently beside him. She was a pretty little thing, blonde and blue-eyed, and if he hadn't just seen her in action, he would have thought her rather shy and quiet.

“And went crazy,” she added tightly, and Sandy saw the very slight movement of her shoulders, as though she were preparing to defend herself against him.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“Not especially,” she answered.

Sandy wanted to hear another side to the story, and he meant to find out what had happened. “Kane says you nearly killed him and afterward you went hysterical. You always get hysterical and use guns?”

Trying his best to keep from smiling, he watched as she took his bait, her pretty little face turning a couple of shades of red, ranging from pink to almost purple, before she erupted in words.

“I saved that ungrateful woman's life!” she said, then went on to tell Sandy about the suitcase Kane had been holding and how she figured that if she didn't act quickly the snake might strike at Ruth.

As Sandy listened, the smile left his face. The impression Kane had given him was that the woman was beyond irrational, but her reasons for what she'd done were sound, and it did indeed seem as though she'd saved Ruth's life. “What about later?” he asked softly. “Did you get scared and a little too excited?” He could understand if she had, but he watched her as she looked away from him, her face again red, but this time from embarrassment rather than rage. He could see her debating whether or not to tell him the truth, so he just stood there and waited patiently while she made up her mind.

After a big sigh, she said, “Well, uh…my old man used to get mad at me and…lay his hands on me, and I guess when your cowboy touched me I sort of did a little time travel.”

After she'd told him, she stood there looking at him belligerently, as though daring him to make any comment. She looked a bit like the local bully who'd just revealed that he wasn't so tough after all.

Sandy nodded in understanding of what she'd told him, but made no comment. “Do you know anything about horses?”

“I can tell when one's upside down, but that's about it.”

He grinned at her. “Why don't you come help me unsaddle these animals and tell me how you know so much about guns?”

“I guess I don't know enough, because I almost shot that cowboy's foot off.”

Walking, Sandy didn't look back at her, but he could hear the remorse in her voice, and he heard the way she referred to Kane as
“that cowboy.”
“Did you tell Kane you were sorry?”

“Ha! I'd die first.”

When Sandy gave her a surreptitious glance from under his hat brim, she was looking at the mountains, her hands clenched into fists, her mouth set into a hard little line. “Are you the hair lady or the widow or the one with the funny shop?” Before she could answer, his eyes began to sparkle. “You write the murder mysteries.”

“Yes,” she said, still angry, but then she looked at him and smiled. “My next book is going to be called
Death of a Cowboy.
What sort of death do you think would be appropriate? Caught in his own lariat and hanged? Maybe a rattlesnake in his bedroll.” Her grin broadened. “Maybe blood poisoning from a dirty bullet that shot all his toes off.”

Chuckling, Sandy opened the barn door for her. “Come in here and tell me the rest of this story. I like a good story.”

“Then you're going to like me,” she said happily, “because I can tell lots of good stories.” Then, frowning, she muttered, “It'll be good to have
somebody
around here like me.”

C
ontrary to the way it looked, I didn't really want Cowboy Taggert to hate me. I've always had fantasies about being likable. I'd like to walk into a room and have people sigh and say, “Cale's here.
Now
the party can begin.” Of course that's never happened. Bookish people don't get invited to parties that often, and when they do, they tend to sit in the corner and watch.

As I helped that dear, sweet old man, Sandy, in the barn, I pretended nothing was bothering me, and I vowed to behave myself for as long as I was on this trip. Ten years from now the cowboy would look back and say, “That little mystery writer was actually a good egg.”

I did well for a whole twenty-four hours. At dinner all of us sat at one round table—and I didn't say a word. I didn't say anything when the cowboy reached across Ruth for the hundredth time to refill her wineglass. I didn't say anything when the skinny groupie started talking about her channelers. I didn't even laugh when the fat groupie spilled wine in the cowboy's lap, then tried to rub away the red stain on his crotch. I bade everyone a polite good-night and went to my room, planning to work on an outline for my next book.

But my strongest and best character trait is the ability to concentrate, which is also known as the ability to obsess, and that's what I did that night.

Why is it that men can't see through women like Ruth? Why are men so
dumb
when it comes to women? Long legs, a cantilevered chest, acres of hair, and a woman can get any man she wants.

It bothered me that I was attracted—seriously attracted—to some big dumb cowboy while he looked at me as though he wanted to feed me rat poison.

I behaved myself all through breakfast while Ruth and the jock made goo-goo eyes at each other, seeming to read meaning into comments like “Pass me the honey.” Nothing in life is more boring than being near self-absorbed lovers. They find amusement in every word; every gesture from one is a thing of beauty to the other. They have no interest in anything outside themselves.

I bit into a piece of toast and watched the way the cowboy looked at Ruth: he was gone. As for Ruth, her heart wasn't in her eyes. Now and then she'd look at the Maggie-Winnie duet with a glance of triumph, as though to say, Look what I can do. She was probably looking forward to the great, drippy final scene when she'd bid him a tearful farewell. But poor dumb Taggert looked as if he wanted to tie an apron around Ruthie's perfectly maintained waist and put her behind a stove. For a moment I got a great deal of pleasure from imagining Ruth in a kitchen: worn linoleum floor, gingham curtains, the smell of onions frying, hot enough to fry beef on the tabletop, three whining kids hanging on to her swollen, red, unshaven legs.

When I looked up, Sandy was smiling at me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking, so I winked and gave him a mock salute with my orange juice.

By the time afternoon rolled around, I'd behaved myself so well that I guess I was feeling a little smug, because I blew it.

We'd all mounted horses and started riding up a trail into the woods. I'd been on a horse only a couple of times in my life before, but when you get down to it, riding a horse doesn't take all that much brainpower. I'm not talking about dressage or show jumping, which require years of practice and training, but sitting on some well-fed, complacent animal that already knows the trail takes no skill.

But that's not how Ruth and the duet viewed it. Given Ruth's background, I would have thought she'd be a great horsewoman, but the truth was, she was terrified of the animal. Terrified and appalled at its big, wide nostrils, its hairy mouth, as well as the back end of it. When she climbed on that horse, her eyes wide with fear, I came close to liking her. She must really want to keep her job if she was willing to climb on an animal that terrified her as much as this one did.

It was late afternoon when I did it again. We all dismounted, sore, tired, and for the most part not speaking. Ruth had ridden behind Taggert and what conversation there was on the trail had been between them. The skinny one of the duet had tried to talk to me about a vegetarian diet, but when I told her I ate nothing but meat and lots of it, she clammed up and wouldn't speak to me. The silence of the woods, with Sandy riding behind me, had been bliss.

But after we'd dismounted and most of the group had wandered into the woods to make use of the facilities, I glanced at Ruth and saw that she had an odd look in her eye. She had her hand on her lower back, and I knew that if she was half as sore as I was, she was in pain. I don't know what she was thinking, but then again, she probably wasn't thinking at all. She was in pain and the cause of her pain was the placidly munching horse in front of her.

With hands shaking from exhaustion, she lit a cigarette. Then, with the look of a malicious child, she crushed out the cigarette in the soft neck of the unsuspecting horse.

Everything happened at once then. The horse cried out, sidestepped into Ruth, knocked her down, and started to walk on her. I didn't think. I just ran, trying to place myself between Ruth and the horse, but the horse was angry and in pain; some of the hair on its neck had caught fire and was smoldering. As best I could, I held on to the bridle with my left hand and slapped my right hand over the burn as I tried to tell the horse that it was safe and no one was going to harm it again. Somewhere during the turmoil, Ruth had slithered away like the snake she was and left me alone with the horse.

Thrashing through the woods like the Abominable Snowman was the big cowboy, and when I glanced up, I saw that he was heading straight for me—and his face was contorted with rage. What now? I thought. What in the world was he angry at me about this time?

Ruth, true to form, threw herself into the cowboy's strong, protective arms, weeping copiously, but without mussing her eye makeup, and begging him to save her. Taggert held her, but it was
me
he was glaring at as I stood there petting that poor burned horse. I wondered what Ruth would say if I told that I'd seen what she'd done.

“You should have called me,” Taggert said, his teeth locked together.

About a thousand sentences went through my head at once. I could have told him the truth about his beloved; I could have pointed out that if I'd called him, then waited for him to arrive, Ruthie's lovely face might now have a horseshoe print in the middle of it. In the end I didn't defend myself. I just said, “You're a real jerk, you know that? A plain ol' everyday jerk,” then dropped the bridle and walked away into the woods.

Is there any anger in the world more cold, more deep within you than the anger that comes from being falsely accused? I felt like a coal left over from an all-day fire. With the least bit of encouragement I could have erupted into a full-fledged forest fire. I stood there in the woods, not seeing anything, my fists clenched, feeling like a martyr. It wasn't fair! It really, truly wasn't fair.

My anger never lasted long, and this time was no exception. Within minutes I had turned it inward and burst my own bubble. I stood still, trembling with emotion and exhaustion, and to my disgust, tears stung my eyes.

When I heard someone behind me, I rubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand and looked up to see Sandy, his face a mask of concern.

“I don't know what's wrong with Kane,” he said. “Usually he's not like this. Usually he's—”

Rule number one in my father's house: Never let 'em know you're in pain. If they know you're hurt, they can hurt you more.

I did my best to smile and sound lighthearted. “It's me. I always rub men the wrong way. If I'd screamed in fear and covered my face with my hands in terror he'd probably be feeding me brandy and pâté now.”

Sandy chuckled. “Probably.” He paused a moment, then said, “What's Ruth like?”

I could do nothing but roll my eyes. Should I tell him about the cigarette burn?

“Kane…” Sandy said hesitantly. “I think he wants a wife.”

My earlier vision of Ruth in a kitchen came back to me and did a great deal to cheer me up. But I wasn't going to lie to this man; he'd been too nice to me, and he didn't deserve lies in return. “And he thinks to get a wife out of Ruth? Ruth likes the conquest, but once she's won, she's on to new goals.” I thought of the cowboy bawling me out for saving Ruth not once but twice. “I think they deserve each other. I hopes she breaks his heart.”

Sandy was silent. “So,” he said after a while, “are
you
married?”

I knew he was thinking about Kane, who was like a son to him. Why is it that some people receive love no matter what they do and some people don't? I purposely misunderstood Sandy. “Is this an offer?”

When Sandy spoke, he was utterly serious. “If I were ten years younger I'd pursue you so hard that you'd end up marrying me just to get me to leave you alone.”

My laugh was a little forced, but I couldn't deny that I was flattered. “You wouldn't want to marry me,” I said honestly. “I'm too competent to marry. Men like women who are helpless or at least know how to pretend to be like Ruth can, but me, I'm ridiculously capable, and I always forget to hide it.” I turned away to leave. I didn't want to talk to anyone else. In the mood I was in, there was no telling what I'd say next.

“Hurry back,” Sandy called after me. “We're having buffalo tongue for dinner.”

“Mmmm, my favorite,” I said and kept going.