Coming Home to Texas--A Clean Romance Read online

  Her mother looked at her, eyes wide. Apparently she’d just remembered the same thing.

  If only they’d waited one more day! Then the steers would be with the rest of the herd in the back hill pasture. They could cross the creek from there and continue to the upper corner of the pasture, where the fence could be cut from the road, if it came to that.

  Instead, they were trapped.

  She thought of the Bastrop fires. All that livestock, lost; all that property, destroyed. Years later, the land still hadn’t recovered.

  She could drive down to the pen, but that would mean going back to the house for her keys. Or she could try it on foot.

  She started running.

  Her mom called out something behind her, but she kept going. She rounded the bend in the driveway—

  And saw a great cloud of smoke rolling up the scarp on her left.

  She couldn’t see the short end of the pen yet, but she knew the cattle must be pressed against it, desperate to get through—unless, of course, they’d been overcome already. But if they had, wouldn’t she have heard them bellowing? For that matter, shouldn’t they be bellowing now? The pen was just on her side of the scarp, and it wasn’t very wide.

  There wasn’t time to reach them, but she kept running.

  Then she heard the sound of sirens and saw the flash of lights through the smoke.

  Wait, what?

  That couldn’t be right. There was no way they could have gotten here that soon. Her mom did say their response time was impressive, but this was ridiculous. Unless her perception of time was seriously messed up?

  Well, who cared? They were here now.

  An outrageously tricked out F450 emerged from the smoke and slowed to a stop beside her. One of the doors opened. The cab was crammed full of what looked like a lot of rugged, outdoorsy astronauts. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.

  His face was covered by an apparatus—it looked like a protective clear shell over a breathing tube leading into a canister, topped with a hood and a helmet. All she could see of him was his freaky golden eyes. It was Alex.

  He said something, but the words were too muffled to understand. Then he clicked a button on a device at his chest, and his voice, now weirdly amplified, came out of the device.

  “Where’s Tony?”

  “How would I know?” said Dalia. “You just got here. You’re the first batch I’ve seen.”

  He shook his head. “Tony was already out here. He’s the one who first called in the fire.”

  Oh. So that’s how the department got here so fast.

  “Well, he didn’t come to the house.”

  Even with only his eyes showing, Alex managed to express a lot. Exasperation, mostly, but also concern. “Dang it. The heck with tracking his phone—I ought to take him to the veterinarian and get him implanted with one of those GPS pet-tracking chips.”

  “When did he call it in?” Dalia asked. “How long has he been out here? Where’d he call from?”

  By now the truck was pulling to a stop. Alex didn’t answer her questions. He just said, “Look, do not do anything stupid. Okay? We’ve got enough work here as it is. Do not make it worse. Do you understand me? Can I count on you?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  She watched the firefighters get out of the truck in their bulky protective gear. She knew Alex was right. She had to stay put, let the firefighters handle things, not go out and try to do it herself and end up making more work for them. But this was her home, her heritage...her future. And on top of that, Tony was out there somewhere.

  This was how Romelia felt, with her man gone, and the land she loved that she’d once thought the two of them would work together in danger.

  And then...

  She saw a figure through the smoke.

  Not the ghost of a Revolutionary soldier and ranchero, but a real live, flesh-and-blood man in a graphic T-shirt and jeans.

  Riding a horse. Her horse. Bareback.

  Tony. He was cantering, and his seat was all it ought to be: tall in the body, with loose legs, open hips, open chest. When he reached her, he brought Buck to a halt with a subtle shift in body position and slid down.

  His hair stood on end. The whites of his eyes looked bright at first in his smoke-blackened face, but they were bloodshot, and blood covered one side of his face.

  “Where’s the herd?” he asked. His voice sounded rough with smoke.

  “In the back hill pasture—except for some steers I put in the pen.”

  “The steers aren’t in the pen anymore. I cut the fence at the scarp and they headed to the switchback lickety-split. They’re in the low acreage now and on their way north. If we have to, we can cut the fence at Burr Oak Road and let ’em out there. The fire shouldn’t cross the road.”

  Then he was gone again, on foot this time, so fast that she might have thought she’d imagined the whole thing, if not for Buck still standing there.

  A big knot of dread and fear suddenly came untied inside her, leaving her weak-kneed. She held on to Buck, head whirling.

  Romelia couldn’t have been much more stunned by the appearance of Alejandro’s ghost than Dalia was then.

  * * *

  THEY FELL FROM the sky, these perfectly formed leaves and grass blades made entirely out of ash. They came from the south, floating down out of a dirty haze as the wind kept pushing the smoke north. Whenever Tony touched one, it dissolved into grayish-black dust.

  It was all over now, except for the cleanup and sitting on the structures just to be safe. Tony knew he ought to be done in, but his senses were dialed up and he felt fantastic, like after a game where he’d performed great and he’d won.

  “Hey,” he heard from behind him. Something caught in his chest at the sound of Dalia’s voice.

  He turned. “Hey, yourself,” he said, trying to sound cool and calm, like he saved people’s ranches every day.

  She was looking at him funny. Not angry, but not quite Tony-I-love-you-I-need-you, either. More like his shirt was inside out.

  He looked down at himself. His Texas graphic T-shirt had blood spilled all down one side.

  “Oh, man! I really like this shirt. I need to go after it with some Oxi-stuff.”

  “I don’t know how much that’s going to help. It has about a hundred little burn holes in it, too.”

  “Does it?” He pulled it out by the tail and studied it. “Huh, you’re right. Really tiny ones. Well, dang.”

  “I think you might be focusing on the wrong thing here, Tony.”

  He wasn’t looking at her, but he could hear the smile in her voice. He decided to play dumb.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’ve got a big gash on your forehead and there’s blood all over your face.”

  She started to reach for him but seemed to change her mind partway through and pointed instead. He touched his head on the right and felt the swelling and the beginnings of a scab.

  “Oh, right. I sorta got clobbered by a tree branch.”

  “It attacked you?”

  “No—well, maybe. I didn’t really see. But something definitely hit me, when I was riding the Buckster on the cattle trail. Probably I ran into it.”

  She nodded, like she was marking something off on a list. Lack of peripheral vision on right side—check.

  “He was real good, Bucky was. Didn’t run off or anything. I looked up afterward, like, instantly, and there he was, standing over me. I don’t know how he even moved that fast.”

  “You mean the tree branch knocked you off the horse?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t bad.”

  “Oh, no. Just bad enough for you to black out and not come to until after Buck had time to turn around and saunter back over to where you were lying.”

  “Well, it couldn’t have been too long. O
therwise...”

  He saw the look on her face and finished up lamely, “Well, I’m alive, aren’t I?”

  “Seem to be. But I think we’ll get you checked out, anyway.”

  Her voice was stern, but her face was another story. She actually took his arm and gently guided him, like he needed help, like he was hurt for real. It was sweet even though it wasn’t necessary.

  “Head injuries always look worse than they are,” he said. “It’s because they bleed so much.”

  “Mmm, is that so? Well, sometimes they’re worse than they look. Sometimes you can be walking around looking fine in the short term, when you’re actually hurt—like when you smack the surface of a swimming pool with your face and your retina’s getting ready to tear.”

  “Point taken.”

  * * *

  SHE STEERED HIM over to where Mad Dog was set up, at the truck with the medical equipment. When Mad Dog saw Tony, his eyebrows shot up.

  “What happened to you?”

  Dalia answered for him. “He hit a tree branch while he was riding my horse and got knocked off.”

  “Actually, I’m not a hundred percent sure that’s what happened,” Tony said.

  Mad Dog frowned. “You mean you don’t remember?”

  “I...didn’t see it too well. But for sure something hit my head, and I did end up coming off the horse, so...yeah, that’s probably what happened. But that was a long time ago. I’ve been running around doing lots of stuff since then.”

  “Oh, yeah, in that case you’re fine for sure,” said Alex. “It’s not like a quarterback ever got right back up again after having his clock cleaned and went on playing for the rest of the half without anyone being the wiser that he had a screw or two loose.”

  “Have a seat,” Mad Dog said, motioning to the camp chair. Tony sat, and Mad Dog started checking the wound.

  “I don’t understand about this horse,” Alex said. “You say you found him in a pasture, got on and started riding?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” Tony said.

  “And he let you?”

  “Letting had nothing to do with it,” Tony said smugly. “With horses, it’s all about your energy. You got to show them who’s in charge.”

  He glanced at Dalia and smiled. She shook her head but smiled back.

  After Mad Dog finished cleaning and dressing the wound, he said, “All right, bud. I want you to answer some questions for me. What is your full name?”

  “Antonio Ignacio Reyes.”

  “And where are we?”

  “La Escarpa.”

  “And who am I?”

  Tony gave him a blank stare. “Seriously? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  The silence lasted three full stunned beats. Then Tony burst out laughing. “I’m just messing with you, man. I know who you are. You’re the coach. No, you’re Batman. No, wait! I’m Batman!”

  “I’m going to put you in a neck brace right now if you don’t cooperate,” Mad Dog said.

  “Okay, okay. Your name is Malcolm McClain, but everyone calls you Mad Dog, and I really don’t know why, because you’re, like, the most mild-mannered guy I know. And you’re the fire chief.”

  He did fine at the motor tasks Mad Dog gave him. But when Mad Dog shined a penlight in Tony’s eyes, his expression changed. “Okay, something’s wrong. One of your pupils is not dilating.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Tony. “I mean, it’s not from hitting my head. That pupil already didn’t work right.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “’Cause I have no vision in that eye.”

  Everyone within earshot—Wallace, Andy, Samantha—turned around. Suddenly Tony was the center of attention.

  “I, uh, had an accident to my eye,” Tony said. “And the long and short of it is, I now have a primary macula-off retinal detachment.”

  “When did this happen?” Andy asked.

  “’Bout six years ago.”

  There was a brief pause, long enough for everyone to do the math, and then, almost in unison, they all gave a slight nod, as if to say, Ah, that explains a lot.

  “So you can’t see the big E anymore, huh?” asked Mad Dog.

  “Nope. I’m down to ‘no light perception’ in that eye.”

  “Well, then. No wonder your pupil doesn’t dilate.”

  “Did anyone else know about this?” asked Wallace.

  “First I heard of it,” said Samantha.

  “Me, too,” said Andy.

  “Well...now you know,” said Tony.

  “I already knew,” said Alex in an aren’t-I-special voice.

  “So did I,” said Dalia.

  Mad Dog put the penlight away. “All right, then. Take it easy the next couple days. Try to get plenty of sleep and avoid caffeine. And it’d be a good idea to get yourself checked out by a doctor. If you experience any dizziness or balance problems, nausea, mental confusion, anything like that, get medical attention right away. And maybe stay away from ladders and power tools for a while.”

  “You know I’m a builder, right?”

  “What you are now, is on temporary leave,” said Alex. “So you can sleep in and lounge around the apartment.”

  “Speaking of work,” said Dalia, “how’d you come to be out here so early this morning? You and the crew don’t generally show up until eight or so. If you were the one who called the fire in, you had to be way ahead of your usual time. What were you doing?”

  Tony’s eyes widened. He raised his hands to the sides of his head and groaned. “Oh, man. Oh, man. My timetable’s all messed up.”

  He stood, took Dalia by the arms and looked into her face. “Look, Dalia, just—just wait here, okay? I’ll be back. Actually, no. Go inside and wait there. And don’t look out the windows. I gotta go get my truck. Will you do that for me? I’ll tell you when you can come out. Okay?”

  It was not okay at all. She could think of half a dozen questions right off the bat. But she swallowed them all down and said, “Okay.”

  He gave her a quick smile, and then he was off, calling, “Hey, can somebody gimme a ride?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SHE WENT AHEAD and drank that cup of tea, though by now it was stone cold. To sit inside and wait, in the aftermath of a fire at La Escarpa, when there was stock to check and fence to mend and cleanup to be done, and Tony being all mysterious with yet another surprise, went against every instinct she had. In fact, she wasn’t sitting at all; she was pacing around the living room.

  Just how long was this going to take? What was Tony doing? She could hear his voice out on the porch, and Alex’s, too, but she couldn’t make out the words, and she didn’t peek. She’d drawn the living room shades first thing; the newly installed kitchen and dining room windows were already covered with brown paper in anticipation of painting. Canyon Dawn—that was the paint color her mom had chosen. Dalia loved how it looked against the exposed stone wall—pale and soft and restful. She loved the new cabinets, and the granite countertops from Marble Falls, and the reconfigured master bath and closet, and the old fireplace in the master bedroom left over from when the room used to be the detached kitchen, and the exterior with its walnut lintels and new masonry that blended perfectly with the old, just like Tony said they would.

  The front door opened. Tony stood there, his face eager and excited.

  Then he said, “Oh, sorry,” and shut the door.

  And knocked.

  She chuckled and opened the door.

  He’d taken the time to spiff up since she’d seen him last. Most of the smoke was wiped off his face, and his hair looked recently finger-combed. Some bright spirals of fresh sawdust were caught in the hairs of his forearms. He looked as formal and nervous as he had eight years ago when he’d picked her up for their first official date.

  “Close your
eyes,” he said.

  Marcos used to say that to her when they were little. Open your hand and close your eyes and you will get a big surprise. And, boy, was that the truth. Marcos had put a lot of surprising stuff in her innocently outstretched hand—grub worms, cicada shells, fuzzy caterpillars, grasshoppers—before she wised up and realized she didn’t have to go along with it. Twenty years later, she was still suspicious of surprises. Clearly it was all Marcos’s fault that she had trust issues.

  She closed her eyes.

  Tony took her hand, but he didn’t put anything in it, just led her slowly, carefully, out the front door and along the porch to the left. It was actually pretty comical, how slow and careful he was.

  At last he stopped.

  “Okay. You can look.”

  She opened her eyes.

  Hanging in the corner of the front porch, just off the new kitchen, was a new porch swing.

  But no, not quite new. And not quite old.

  She walked over. It was the exact shape and size of the old one, but the wood was a mix of finishes: peeling paint, weathered cedar, bright new lumber.

  Then her breath caught.

  Running along the top, right where Tony used to rest his arm when they sat there together with her head on his shoulder, was a worn board with words carved into it.

  Tony loves Dalia.

  She put a hand to her mouth.

  “The old swing got busted up pretty bad,” Tony said. “Your mom actually said I should burn it. But there was a lot of good stuff there that I thought was worth saving. So I rebuilt it. I used the old pieces for templates and salvaged all the old wood I could—house siding, window trim, porch boards—and filled in the rest with new lumber. I think it looks all right.”

  She smiled at the false modesty. “It looks perfect, and you know it.”

  He smiled, too. “Yeah.”

  “When did you do all this?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “It wasn’t that hard. I had all the materials in the garage me and Alex rent, under the apartment. I’d saved a lot of the weathered stuff to take to that Architectural Treasures place in town, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand it over. So once I got the idea, I had all the materials and tools right there, and I knew what I was doing. And when I’d finished, I caught a few hours of sleep, then loaded up the swing and headed out. I wanted to get here early, ahead of the crew, and get the swing put up, and see you alone, and...apologize. But then I saw the fire and things took a detour.”