No Getting Over A Cowboy. Delores Fossen
Some aches just didn’t go away no matter how much time had passed.
“Cows,” Kay-wee pointed out as they got closer to the house. Or rather t-ows.
She used the stick to point and point and point. She could have pointed for a long time since there was a herd just on the other side of the picket fence that surrounded the house and grave.
The cows were forever breaking through that fence, and that was probably why there’d been a patty so close to the porch for the girl to poke. They would continue to break through, too, and that’s why these folks had to go. Once the work crew had expanded the pond, they could reinforce the fence so he could bring in the new shipment of cattle.
“I’m Garrett Granger,” he said to the women.
They stayed huddled, their heads together like conjoined triplets, and they continued to whisper.
“Gare-if,” the girl attempted. She finally tossed the stick.
“This is the Granger Ranch,” he added to the women. “It’s private property.”
More huddling, more whispering. Since the only one talking to him was Kay-wee, he looked at her. “Why are you here?”
She let go of him to lift her hands and shrug. “Mommy,” she said as if that explained everything. It didn’t explain diddly squat. She took hold of him again and started leading him to the porch.
The huddling women scattered to the side of the house and from there they eyed him as if he were a rattler ready to strike. Funny, because most women in town gave him sad, puppy-dog looks. Once, though, he’d been considered the golden boy of Wrangler’s Creek. These days, Garrett felt more like that discarded shit stick.
For just a second he got a flashback of why he now had that shit-stick label. It wasn’t often a man got to see a video of his wife blowing some guy in the backseat of a VW, but Garrett could add that to his list of life experiences.
Another woman appeared in the doorway, glared at him and then scampered off. Garrett thought about doing a smell check of his armpits. He’d been working with a new cutting horse all morning and was sweaty. That might explain the scurrying and rattler looks, but if he did stink, maybe that would just get the squatters moving faster.
He walked into the entry and looked around. Not that he could see much in his immediate line of sight. The house was a wooden ant farm with some rooms that had no purpose other than to lead to other rooms. It was a time capsule of sorts since it still had all of Z.T.’s furniture and stuff. Some things also left behind by his great-aunt, who’d lived here long before Garrett was born.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here,” Garrett called out to anybody who might be in hearing range.
The little girl kept hold of his hand, and with Lawson right behind them, they began to make their way through the room maze. Someone had indeed cleaned the place and taken off the old sheets from the equally old furniture. Not a good sign. In his general experience, people who swept and dusted had plans to be around long enough to enjoy their cleaning efforts.
They went through the parlor, the place where Garrett had lost his virginity to one of the ranch hands’ cousins who’d been visiting the summer he’d turned sixteen. That’d been eighteen years ago. Mercy, a lifetime. But still it was a sweet memory.
There was also a library that conjured up some deflowering memories. Seventeen years ago, he’d brought a cute flute-playing classmate out here. One thing had led to another, and even though he hadn’t known it was going to happen beforehand, she’d lost her virginity to him. Things hadn’t lasted between them, neither the sex nor the relationship. A month or so later, he’d broken up with her so he could date the woman he’d eventually marry.
Those were his only sexual experiences in the place, but he was betting Lawson and his brother, Roman, had committed some serious debauchery here.
Judging from the manly grunt Lawson made, Garrett was right about that.
“I’ll try to find someone who knows what’s going on,” Lawson grumbled. “One who can speak in more than two syllables.” And he headed back out the front.
Garrett wished him luck, and the little girl and he kept walking. They finally made their way to the kitchen where Garrett saw yet another woman, this one in the process of mopping the floor. She wasn’t the little girl’s mother, though, since this woman was easily in her seventies or even eighties. Sugar-white hair and skin as pale as paper, she didn’t eye him the way the others out front had. In fact, she smiled. And she spoke. More than two syllables, too.
“You’re one of Belle Granger’s boys, aren’t you?” the woman asked but didn’t wait for him to answer. “Let me guess which one. Garrett or Roman? Hmm.” Tapping her fingers on her chin, she looked him over from head to toe, but her gaze lingered in his crotch area. “I used to diaper both of you boys.”
Garrett hoped like the devil that she didn’t want to do a boxers check to see if she recognized his equipment. “Who are you?”
“Loretta Cunningham.” She smiled again, the way one would for a social visit. Which this wasn’t. Come to think of it, crazy people probably smiled that way, too.
Garrett made a mental note to call the county mental hospital to see if they’d had any escapees.
“Look, if you’re one of those ghost hunters—” Garrett started. But he didn’t get far with that comment because Loretta interrupted him.
“Lordy, no.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Those shows scare the livin’ daylights out of me.” She stopped, glanced around. “You don’t think there are actual ghosts here, do you?”
“Yeah, I do,” Garrett lied since it seemed like something to get her moving out of there.
But Loretta didn’t budge, and she smiled again. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you, boy?” And she just kept on talking. “Your grandma and I went to school together back in the day, but I moved to Beaumont when you and your siblings were just little bitty things. You’re Roman, aren’t you? Even when you were her age—” she bobbed her head to the little girl “—you always looked ready to pick a fight. And from what I’ve heard, you’ve done your share of fighting.”
“I’m Garrett,” he corrected.
“Oh.”
That one little word said it all. Loretta Cunningham knew about the divorce. But she probably knew a lot more than that. Maybe about the baby they’d lost. But more likely her suddenly red cheeks were because she’d heard about his ex-wife’s blow job in the VW. Had perhaps even seen the video. Apparently, she’d also seen the fight-picking expression on his face and had mistaken it for Roman’s.
The little girl let go of him again and took off running up the back stairs. Good. Because Garrett was about to get blunt with Loretta, and it was best if the little ears weren’t around for that.
“Who owns the pink tow truck and the SUV?” Garrett asked.
Loretta gave him a “what tow truck and SUV?” look before she snapped her fingers. “Oh, those. It’s Mrs. Marlow’s SUV. Cancer,” she added in a whisper. “And the pink truck belongs to Lady Romero. Drug overdose,” she added in another whisper. “That’s not Lady’s real name, hair color or bosom, by the way, but I don’t make judgments about such things.”
She also didn’t make sense. Why had she added cancer and drug overdose in there as if it were necessary to this very confusing conversation? Apparently, questions weren’t getting what he needed from her ramblings so Garrett tried a different approach.
“I’m sorry, but you have to leave,” Garrett came right out and told her. “This is pasture land, Granger land,” he added, “and tomorrow there’ll be a work crew all around this place. It won’t be safe for you or the little girl.”
Loretta made another