The Cowboy's Wife For One Night

Hilarious that he dreamed of the desert but couldn’t seem to get warm.

Once the shower was steaming he stepped in, the heat scalding his flesh, and he gasped, taking the pain until his body got used to it. He braced his hands on the wall of the shower, his cast thunking against the tiles. The plaster was getting wet, but he didn’t care.

The hot water beat down on the back of his head, rolling past his ears. He opened his lips and the water pooled in his mouth, warm on his tongue.

Why are you here? he asked himself and spat out the water.

He’d thought he’d be able to hide out in peace, but there was no peace here. Not for him.

Christ, his father. He hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to see him like that. Wasted by the disease.

And even his old room, empty of every physical reminder of his childhood, was still filled to the ceiling with memories. Few of them worth having.

And Mia, here. The anger wasn’t fading. It was an ember in his chest, burning blue-hot.

She hadn’t even known about the attack.

She hadn’t bothered to answer an email or a phone call, or apparently watch the news. It was like she’d left the roof in Santa Barbara behind, and left every tie to him behind, as well.

While he’d been fighting off hideous pain in a Red Cross helicopter with memories of her, she’d been oblivious. Unconcerned. And his anger about her abandonment made him uneasy.

He liked how he knew Mia, who she was to him. He liked the slot she occupied in his life. Wife but not wife. Friend from afar. It made sense.

Sex on top of a roof didn’t make sense. Being here didn’t make sense. Being hurt and angry about her didn’t make any sense.

What made sense was going back to his condo.

The reporters would be gone at this point. The university would get its pound of flesh in another month. He could shower all night long at his empty apartment in San Luis Obispo. He could torture himself with guilt, staring up at the ceiling over his own king-size bed.

He didn’t need to be here anymore.

So why did he stay?

Because you deserve it, a voice said, ugly and insidious.

Water trickled into his cast and the tickle turned to an itch. An itch that spread, as all the itches did. Spread like wildfire, like lice were eating his skin. It was making him crazy.

With his good hand he turned off the water and yanked a towel off the rack, tucking it around his waist. He flipped on the light, blinking into the brightness. The drawers in the old oak vanity didn’t have any scissors big enough to do the job. The hallway led him to the kitchen, where the big knives were stuck to a magnetic strip over the stove.

He grabbed the biggest and slid it, sharp side up, under the loose plaster around his forearm. The knife sawed through the plaster, cutting it into ragged chunks. The tip of the knife pierced his skin but he didn’t let up because suddenly he needed the damn thing off. His leg was better. The cuts were healed. This cast was the last of the desert he still carried on his body and he wanted it gone. Now.

With a gasp he sliced through the last of it, right between his fingers, and the cast fell off like old skin.

He flexed his fingers, twisted his wrist, scratched at all those places he hadn’t been able to get to for the last few weeks. His fingers scraped through the black river of blood left by the knife, smearing it over his fingers, across his palm. He watched, didn’t stop until his hands were covered.

“Son?”

He jumped at Walter’s voice, dropped his hands so fast they hit the counter, electric shots zipping up his arms.

“What?” Jack turned to rinse his hands. Collect himself from whatever edge he seemed to linger on.

“You all right?” his father asked, shuffling into the room, his navy robe opening over a pale chest. Jack could barely see Walter’s grizzled face in the shadows.

It was like the night was eating him. One of them, anyway.

“Just fine, Dad,” he said, shaking water off his hands.

He brushed past his father in the dark, noticing the damp in the corner of his dad’s eyes reflecting the light like diamonds.

A week after Jack’s arrival at the ranch, Mia dismounted Blue in the middle of the south pasture.

“Heya,” she said, shooing some of the heifers away from the well. She pumped fresh water into the three-foot basin and Blue dipped her muzzle into it.

Days like this, with the sunshine hot and the breeze cool, with pastures full of healthy cows and the work manageable—they were the days she lived for. The days that reminded her that, as hard as the work was, this ranch was her happy place.