His Little Cowgirl. Brenda Minton
He thought the latter was probably the case.
Switching off the coffee pot and then the lights over the small kitchen, he walked out the door of the RV, ignoring the jangle of his cell phone. The ring tone was personalized and he knew that the caller was one of his corporate sponsors. They wanted to know when he’d be back on tour. He didn’t have an answer.
Unfortunately he had their money and he had signed a contract. That meant he had certain obligations to fulfill. He needed to be seen, on tour, on television and wearing the logos of the corporations on his clothing.
There weren’t any easy answers, and there was a whole lot of temptation trying to drag him back into a lifestyle he’d given up months ago. He wasn’t about to go there. He was going on seven months of sobriety, and with God’s help, he planned on making his sobriety last a lifetime.
When he walked into the house a few minutes later, Bailey was sitting at the kitchen table with a plastic container full of pills and individually wrapped needles.
“You don’t have to worry, Bailey, I can do this.”
She nodded, but she didn’t have words. When was the last time she had really smiled, or even laughed? He sat down across from her, pushing aside those thoughts.
“Show me what to do.”
She did. Her hands trembled as she explained about the pain meds and the pills. She explained that Meg wasn’t allowed to drink soda, and that she should have milk with her lunch.
He felt as if he should be taking notes. Shots, cattle and fixing fences were easy; being this involved in someone’s life was a whole new rodeo. He wasn’t about to ask what five-year-old girls ate for lunch.
“I have to go. What I just showed you, I also wrote on that tablet.” She nodded toward the legal pad on the table and stood, immediately shoving her hands into her front pockets. “If you have any problems…”
“We won’t.”
“If you do, call me. I can be home in ten minutes.” She headed for the door. “Oh, if you get any calls about horses, I put an ad in the Springfield paper for training. My rates are in the ad, and no, I can’t come down in price.”
He followed her to the door. “I’ll take messages.”
“Cody, I appreciate this.”
He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “I’m here as long as you need me.”
He waved as she got into the truck, and he tried to tell himself this would be easy. Staying would be easy. Helping would be easy. Rolling through his mind with the thoughts of staying were the other things he didn’t want to think about, such as his place at the top of the bull-riding standings, his obligation to his sponsors and the herd of cattle he was building in Oklahoma.
Bailey parked behind the Hash-It-Out Diner, the only diner, café or restaurant in Gibson, Missouri. No one seemed to mind that the tiny town nestled in the Ozarks had a shortage of businesses. They had a grocery store and a restaurant; of course they had a feed store.
And they had churches. In a town with fewer than three hundred people, they had four churches—and every one of them was full on Sunday. So the town obviously had an abundance of faith.
If the people in Gibson needed more than their small town had to offer, they drove to Springfield. Simple as that. And on the upside, since Gibson didn’t have a lot to offer, it didn’t draw a lot of newcomers.
What Bailey loved was the sense of community and the love the people had for one another. Gossip might come easily to a small town, where people didn’t have a lot to do, but so did generous hearts.
Not only that, how many people could say that on their way to work they passed by a grocery store with two horses hitched to the post out front? Bailey had waved at the two men out for a morning ride. She wished she could have gone along. She hadn’t ridden for pleasure in more than a year. These days riding was training, and training helped pay a few bills.
As Bailey got out of the truck, she didn’t lock the doors or even take the keys out. She did grab her purse. From across the street a friend she had gone to school with waved and called out her name, asking how Bailey’s dad was doing.
Bailey smiled and nodded. She didn’t have an answer about her dad, not today. She hurried down the sidewalk to the front door of the diner, opening it and shuddering at the clanging cowbell that had been hung to alert the waitresses to the arrival of new customers.
“We’re expecting the ladies’ group from the Community Church.” Lacey tossed a work shirt in Bailey’s direction as soon as she walked into the waitress station.
“Wonderful, quarter tips and plenty of refills on coffee.”
Bailey loved the darlings of the Community Church, but she would have liked a few tables that left real tips, especially today. Real tips would have helped her to forget the call from the mortgage company, letting her know that she was behind—again.
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