One Less Lonely Cowboy. Kathleen Eagle

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      Her father’s appearance registered hard on the heels of that thought. Maybe he walked more quietly than she remembered because he’d lost some weight. But he’d gained a ready smile, and Iris went straight to him.

      “A bright spot for sure.” His voice had gone the way of his walk—quieter, a little raspy. But any vigor the years had taken away, the blue eyes that greeted Lily’s made up for with a vibrancy she hadn’t seen before. “Real nice surprise, too,” he said as he accepted Iris’s eager hug in the way of a man who was trying something out that he’d spent much of his life avoiding.

      “Surprise?” Lily wasn’t going to compound the awkwardness with more hugging.

      “You didn’t say for sure. I mean …” He gave Iris’s back a parting pat. “I’m glad you’re here. Look at this one, will you? You were just …” His leathery hand measured four feet up from the ground. “Maybe less. Growing like a weed.”

      “A flower,” Jack said, turning to Iris. “What kind did you say?”

      “Iris.”

      “Iris and Lily.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Pleasure.”

      “Pleasure?” Iris whispered.

      “To meet us,” Lily explained, as they watched the cowboy amble across the corral, the paint homing in on his shoulder and following along like a well-trained dog. She glanced at Iris. She knew cowboys. Had known. One cowboy, anyway. It could be mesmerizing, just watching them walk with fluid, natural ease. “They don’t like to waste words.”

      “They? Who’s they, Mom. Don’t tell me you’re being—”

      “Men.” Lily chuckled. “Some men. Westerners. Right, Dad?”

      “We don’t like to waste anything. We’re conservative. Or conservationists.” He gave Lily an oddly hopeful look. “Which is it, English teacher?”

      “I’d say you’re both.” She wasn’t sure what he was hoping for. The opening for a touchy-feely moment between them had come and gone. “I guess I should’ve called again, but I thought you knew we were on our way after you gave us a green light.”

      “I was gonna fix up the bedrooms. Yours hasn’t changed since you left.” Mike laid his stiff hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder. “You want your mama’s old room, girl? It’s small, but it’s—”

      “Iris, Dad. I’m ‘girl.’ She’s Iris.” Lily tried to exchange a glance with her daughter, but Iris wasn’t doing her part. The cowboy and his horse were more interesting.

      Yeah, okay, so maybe they were. But even so, Lily wasn’t letting anyone call Iris girl.

      “Haven’t had a girl on the place since you left, and now there’s two. Gonna take some getting used to.”

      “We’ll make it easy on you, Dad. I haven’t forgotten how to drive a tractor.”

      “You can drive a tractor?” Doubting Iris was back.

      “She can, but she won’t have to,” her father said. “Drivin’ tractor’s about all I do lately. Jack takes care of the heavy lifting. If you can still bake that strawberry rhubarb pie you used to make, that’s all I ask.” He winked at his granddaughter. “What’s your specialty, g—Iris?”

      Iris laughed. “Guy-ris? How’s that, Mom?” She raked her finger through her strawberry-blond bob. “I’m letting my hair grow out. Does Jack live here?”

      “I wish he did.” Mike glanced at the weathered red barn, where the cowboy and his filly had taken refuge. The dog was gone, too. “Jack’s a day worker, and he’s in high demand. I can’t afford him full-time.”

      “What’s a day worker?” Iris wanted to know.

      “Cowboy for hire. Jack’s a top hand. I let him keep his horses here, and like I said, he takes care of the heavy stuff. That’s where he lives.” Mike pointed to a long white gooseneck trailer, hooked up to a red dually pickup that was parked upwind of the barn.

      “Isn’t that for horses?”

      “Part of it is.” Mike folded his arms across his narrow chest. “He’s a gypsy, Jack is. That’s his wagon.”

      Iris smiled, casting a wistful glance toward the open barn door. “So that’s what Gypsies look like.”

      “Jack’s part Chippewa, Cree, something like that. Métis, he calls himself. Mixed-blood. Gotta admit, I never paid much attention to the different tribes around here until Jack came along.”

      “I had Native American friends in Minnesota,” Iris said. “That’s not the same as Gypsy.”

      “All I know for sure is Jack McKenzie is one hell of a cowboy. Without him, I don’t know … I’d’a been in deep trouble this winter.”

      “Is he married or anything?” Iris persisted.

      “He ain’t married. Don’t know about anything. He’s got a couple kids up around Wolf Point. Goes up there to visit pretty regular.” Mike’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “You writin’ a book or somethin’?”

      “He’s a hottie.” Iris gave her grandfather her recently perfected bug eyes. “Duh.”

      “That’s it, Iris. No duh,” Lily said.

      “Sorry, Grandpa.” Iris hung her head. Like the blush that followed, the hangdog posture was rare. “It just means, like, obviously,” she explained quietly.

      “Hottie, huh?” Mike chuckled. “Like I said, it’s gonna take some getting used to, havin’ girls around.”

      Mike helped them carry luggage and a few boxes through the kitchen, down the hall and into the bedrooms. Lily said more was being shipped—she hadn’t been able to fit everything in the car—but what she didn’t say was that she’d sold everything she could. She wasn’t looking forward to the day when the boxes arrived and Iris started missing things. Among other things, her bike had been sold, and all but three of her stuffed animals had gone to the Salvation Army.

      Iris had left the apartment each time Lily asked for help sorting their stuff out. She’d been warned. If you leave it to me, you might be sorry later. Lily had been grateful for Iris’s silence on the matter, but she knew her daughter’s denial had been considerably deeper than her own. Sooner or later there would be tears.

      It felt strange to haul her suitcase full of women’s clothes to their temporary quarters in the bedroom she’d painted pink and green when she was a teenager. Stranger still, the room hadn’t changed. Her father hadn’t been kidding about that. As much as he’d hated her music, he hadn’t taken her posters down. The Dave Matthews Band, Hootie and the Blowfish, beautiful Gloria Estefan, whose dress was the same shade of pink she’d chosen for her walls. The quilt her grandmother had made—the one she regretted not taking with her—the Breyer horses, the ruffled café curtains, everything looked the same as the day she’d hauled her pregnant self out to Molly’s pickup.

      “Wow, СКАЧАТЬ