My True Cowboy. Shelley Galloway
with the napkin. Shoot. It probably was poop—but of the horse kind. When he’d helped the hands load up boxes, one of the boxes had come from an old stall. From an old stall that hadn’t been properly mucked. Great. He’d been decorated with it all day long.
But everyone else had been too well-mannered to speak of it.
“Shoot. It probably is crap.” He was just about to explain the stain, when he noticed the woman was staring at him, and not a bit of her expression was pleasant. In fact, that redhead could’ve breathed fire, she looked so pissed off.
“You know, someone really should have washed your mouth out a time or two,” she blurted.
What Red didn’t know was that for pretty much the entirety of his fourth-grade year, he and a bar of Dial had been best friends. Of course, that bar of soap had been his mother’s doing. Everyone knew she’d been doing the best she could with three rambunctious boys.
What was this gal’s excuse for her son’s mouthy ways?
“Maybe someone should have taught that boy of yours some manners.”
“Someone? As in me?” Her eyes narrowed. “You have a lot of nerve.”
He’d had enough. Enough of being jabbed with questions. Enough of sitting in the cafeteria stewing and worrying. “Look. Just because you came over here and sat down doesn’t mean I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t, you know.”
She had the gall to bat her eyelashes. “And here I thought you were just shy. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again.”
“Good.” And because she was still staring at him with those sparkling eyes—and because he even noticed them—he continued, “Just so you know, I think what you’re doing is shameful.”
“And what is that?”
“You’re obviously trying to pick me up. In a hospital. With your son in tow.”
“Is that right?”
“Hell, yes.”
Actually, he hadn’t really thought that … he’d just been trying to get her to leave him alone. But now that he was warming up to the idea, Cal began to think it had merit. After all, she wouldn’t be the first woman to cozy up to him because he was a Riddell. Lots of women had gotten close with either him or his brothers in order to get the life they’d always dreamed of having. Even Christy, who he’d thought was different.
Red was prevented from replying because Hank returned, a hunk of napkins clutched in his hand. “Hank, sit down and eat, please,” she murmured.
The boy sat. But instead of picking up the rest of that hot dog, he pushed a napkin Cal’s way. “I brought you a napkin for your shirt.”
“Thank you.”
Green eyes the same shade as his mother’s watched him swipe at his shirt again. Then he spoke. “How come you’re at the hospital?”
Though he hadn’t intended to say another word, he said, “My dad’s fixin’ to have heart surgery.”
“I’m here for testing,” Hank said, lifting up his left hand. Two ID bracelets were wrapped around his wrist. And two tiny bruises decorated the back of his hand. Obviously the kid had had an IV lately.
Cal was taken aback. Here he’d been so focused on his own source of pain and aggravation, he’d forgotten to look around a bit. “I’m, uh, sorry.”
Completely oblivious to the tension between the two adults, the boy said, “My mom’s name is Susan. Susan Young.”
Cal nodded in her direction. “Pleased to meet you.” Though he wasn’t pleased at all. Not by a long shot.
“We just moved here from Ohio. We had to move ‘cause we need more money.”
Cal pocketed that little bit of information all while noticing that finally Ms. Susan Young didn’t look quite so smitten with her pain-in-the-ass son. “Is that right?”
“Uh-huh,” Hank muttered. “Who are you?”
“Cal Riddell. Junior.”
Before he stopped himself, he held out his hand and shook hers. Carefully, he curved his palm around hers. She had a slender hand with long fingers and long pale pink nails with little rhinestones at the tips of each.
Hank screwed up his face. “Junior’s your last name?”
“No, Riddell is.” He waited a moment, waited for the significance of his last name to register. But neither boy nor woman so much as blinked.
After Hank swallowed another bite, he said, “So are you Cal or Junior?”
That boy could try the patience of a saint. “Both. I’m named after my dad, so most people just call me Junior.”
“I’m Henry, but everyone calls me Hank instead. I like Hank. I hate Henry. What do you like being called?”
Cal had never taken the time to analyze that. Actually, no one had ever given him a choice. “Cal.”
When Hank looked to be preparing to ask another twenty questions, Susan placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Hush, now. Mr. Riddell is leaving. He doesn’t want to talk to us.”
Perversely, now he wasn’t in such an all-fired hurry to leave.
But it was time to go. He stood up and grabbed his mug and uneaten snack. “Goodbye.”
As Hank waved a free hand, Susan replied, “Goodbye to you, too. And don’t worry—I’ll make sure I never make the mistake of sitting anywhere near you again.”
If he was in a different situation, he might have tried to smooth things over. If he was a different man, he might have apologized for his remark about her coming on to him.
If he wasn’t so worried about his father, he would have apologized for swearing in front of her, too. His mother had been a good woman, and she and that bar of Dial had taught him better than that.
But at the moment, he wasn’t anything but what he was. So, with that in mind, without another word, he turned and walked away.
And hardly thought about looking back at Susan and Hank Young at all.
SUSAN WATCH ED THE COWBOY walk off and wondered how it was possible for a man to look so good and be such a jerk, all at the same time.
“What that man needs is an attitude adjustment,” she muttered.
Hank picked up a carrot stick and bit off the top as he swiveled around to look at the cowboy’s retreating form. “He sure was grumpy.”
“You’re right about that. Oh, well. He’s not our problem. All we can do is hope his dad feels better soon.”
Something changed in her son’s expression, and Susan wished she could bite her tongue. Now that her boy was seven, he’d taken to letting her know often that he wasn’t real happy about his fatherless state.
Telling him that he didn’t need a daddy wasn’t doing much good, either.
Of course, neither would telling him the truth, that his dad was little more than a glorified sperm donor. He’d moved on to another girl before Susan had even known she was pregnant. But when she did know and told him about it, he’d simply moved farther away, most likely to another willing woman’s arms.
Boy, she’d made a big mistake with him.
Clearing her throat, she tapped the container of sugar-free pudding he’d insisted on having. “Why don’t you finish up so someone else can have our seats.”
Obediently, the boy pulled back the foil top and licked it. “I’m not all that hungry now.”
If they were home, she would have fussed. But her nerves were already frayed just by being at the hospital. And by the cantankerous conversation