I had pretty much laid those days to rest, moving my life forward with as few 'looks back' as my heart would allow. Every once in a while, in an unguarded moment, something—a sight, a sound, even a smell—would remind me of those days in our little house next to the meadow, but for the most part I'd been able to put those memories in a quiet, safe place.
I've lived here on this ranch, set out here in the middle of Nebraska, for nearly a decade now. After everything that happened, there was no way I could have remained in my childhood home; and it wasn't just the memories that drove me away. The veiled glances and hushed whispers from the townsfolk did their part to make me leave. I'm ashamed to admit now that I allowed them, in their mean and small-minded way, to make me feel shame. Shame for who my father had been and shame for who they thought I had become.
So I took the money my father had left, hidden away under the loose floorboard in his bedroom and, after moving around aimlessly for two or three years, ended up here. I don't know why I decided to finally settle somewhere and put down some roots, although it probably had a lot to do with Joel and what I thought would be best for him.
I go by the name of Callie Scott now, having, by necessity, left behind the 'Billings' surname. Too much baggage to haul around, considering my father's reputation, which has endured all these many years. I was married for a short time to Cody Scott, a good-looking, rough and tumble cowboy with more guts than sense. But that hadn't turned out well for either one of us and we decided early on to cut each other loose. Sometimes I regret our parting. He was at least always good for some grand adventure or another. And he'd been a good father too—until one of his more spectacular adventures went bad and he was killed too. Anyway, he's been gone for a good while and now it's just the two of us.
I live here with my son, Joel, a remarkably beautiful boy, nearly a dozen years old now. I can almost hear you disbelieving me about how beautiful Joel is, figuring my contentions are merely the result of a mother's blind devotion and love. I suppose there is a little bit of that, but I think that if you saw him, you would have to at least partially agree with me.
Joel favors his father more than me, which is a blessing to my way of thinking. His father was a beautiful man too. I suppose you think it's odd for me to call Joel's pa beautiful, but I think if you had met him, before he died, you'd have to agree with me on that point too.
There was something about that man. I can't hardly put it into words, even after all this time, but if I had to describe him, I'd say his beauty was more than just what you could see on the outside. Yes, he was handsome, no question about it, but his beauty came from somewhere inside him too. He had a sort of sparkle, almost a glow, about him. Everyone who met him could see it. Too bad he couldn't see it for himself.
Anyway, Joel and I have been on our own since we moved here, after my mother died. It was really hard to keep going at first. Now it's just hard, period. We've come accept the fact that it is just the two of us…just the two of us, along with a continually changing assortment of ranch hands who meander onto the place desperate for money and looking for work; and then just as suddenly drift off again. Their lifestyles do not include staying in one place for long. They're drifters, that's what they do. Sometimes, often in fact, I envy them their freedom.
Thankfully, Wyoming Bill had been good at his trade. No, not just good; he had been very good, judging from the size of the stash he left behind; and I had plenty of money to buy this ranch. Even after paying cash for it, I still had enough to live fairly comfortably, even during the lean years, hidden under the floorboards of my bedroom. I guess I should consider myself lucky that the law didn't find all that money when they finally caught up with him on that fateful, painful day.
So as I was saying, Joel and I have been on our own on this ranch for most of his life, every since Cody and I went our separate ways, and, for the most part, I think we both like it that way. But things took a change one warm summer evening about three weeks ago. We had just finished our supper and I was in the kitchen washing up the last of our few dishes. I had just sent Joel outside to sit on the porch where it was a little cooler, thanks to a gentle breeze that had come up after the sun went down.
Things had been going pretty well for us for a while and I was feeling fine that evening, in spite of the oppressive heat in the kitchen. I think I was even humming a little as I wiped the plates dry and stacked them in the cupboard. I didn't give it much thought when I heard the screen door open with its familiar creak and groan, or when I heard Joel tramping his way toward the kitchen, accompanied by the typical racket that generally comes part and parcel with a twelve year old boy who hasn't quite grown into his feet yet.
"Ma," he said, coming around to where I could see him, "There's a couple of fellas out front, say they're looking for work. They heard we was looking for some hands."
"We were," I said, correcting his grammar, more from habit than with any real hope of teaching him.
"We were? I thought we still was." Joel looked bewildered, oblivious to my attempt to clean up his speech.
"Never mind, sweetie. I'll go talk to them." Reaching behind my back, I untied my apron and laid it on the table as I walked past, out of the kitchen, through the house, and out onto the porch. I saw two men standing about ten yards from the steps leading onto the porch from the grass. In the evening's thickening gloom, I could make out their silhouettes but little else. They were talking quietly between themselves as I came through the door. I couldn't make out any words, but inexplicably, a tiny shiver ran down my spine. 'Must be the cool night air,' I remember thinking.
"Hello?" I called cautiously, peering into the darkness.
Both men turned to look at me. I still couldn't make out much about their faces, but from where I stood, I could tell they were both well-built, athletic looking men; probably accustomed to hard work.
"Howdy, ma'am," the first one spoke, his voice sweet and warm as honey. In the settling darkness, I watched as he reached up and took off his hat in a gesture of respect. The lights from the room behind me glinted dimly off his hair.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?"
"We heard in town that you might be looking for hands, ma'am. Thought we'd come see for ourselves."
"Always looking for good workers," I said, noncommittally. "You men ever do ranch work before?"
"Oh sure, ma'am. Lots of ranch work."
"Where at?"
"Oh, here and there. Nothing too permanent."
"No, I don't suppose." I'd seen the type before; the drifter who spent his entire life moving from job to job, town to town, never settling down until all that they have left to look forward to is getting old alone. Seems a sad way to end up, but like I said before, sometimes I envied them.
"But we're good workers, ma'am. And dependable. You can count on that." The voice that spoke these words was deeper than the first; where the first was smooth like honey, this one bit like aged whiskey and I felt that same thin shiver, like fingers of a ghost, run down my spine again.
Afraid, but not knowing what I was afraid of, I managed to say, "If you gentlemen would like to come inside, I'll get you some blankets to take to the bunkhouse."
"Thank you, ma'am," one of them answered. I wasn't sure which one had spoken; I was concentrating, without realizing it, on their faces, still shrouded in darkness and indecipherable; indecipherable until they stepped forward to where the light shining out of the house behind me could finally reach them.
It was at that moment that my world turned upside down.
The face looking up at me was older by more than a decade but the eyes staring back at me, in sudden recognition, were unmistakable. The only problem, the only thing my poor overtaxed brain couldn't comprehend, was that the eyes belonged to someone who had died, tragically and too soon, and before my very eyes.
I remember standing on the porch, unsteady and unbalanced physically and emotionally, my breath catching in my throat until I felt like I was choking on it; unable to draw air into my lungs. The next thing I remember is starting to swoon—and let me tell you, I'm not typically given to swooning, but that's the only word I can think of to properly describe what happened—and then, before I fainted dead away, I recall that dark-eyed cowboy rushing toward me just as my legs gave out. He must have seen me start to sway on my feet, and on one hand, I admit I was grateful that he was there to catch me. On the other hand, I wish he'd never shown up at all.
"Catch me!" I said breathlessly, my heart drumming against my chest. "Betcha can't," I taunted, peeking cautiously around the tree at Jim, the bark of the trunk rough against the palms of my hands. He stood bent at the waist a few feet away from me, his hands on his knees, his mouth open slightly and his eyes narrowed to irritated slits. He was breathing hard too, and a little bit angry, I could tell. His anger didn't scare me though. He just looked too danged adorable with his hair hanging down over his forehead like that; and even his mouth hanging open like it was didn't diminish the boyish dimples creasing his cheeks. I worked hard to suppress a giggle. And I very nearly succeeded—until he lunged forward in a futile attempt to get at me. His feet skittered out from beneath him and he landed on the ground, his face smashed into the dried leaves scattered beneath the tree. Laughing, I moved out from the safety of the big old tree. Leaning against its trunk, I stared down at him, my arms crossed triumphantly over my chest.
"Told ya," I said. He didn't answer me. In fact, he didn't do anything; he hadn't moved from where he had fallen, face-down in the fallen leaves. I started to worry; concerned that he might have hit his head on a rock hidden amongst the leaves. My hands fell to my sides, all bravado draining out of me at the thought of Jim being hurt. I pushed away from the tree and dropped to my knees next to him on the ground. "Jim," I said, my fingers prodding his shoulder gently.
He moaned, a low growl muffled by the crinkly soft blanket of orange, yellow, and brown. It was a sound that filled my young heart with fear; the jaggedness of the unseen rock becoming more vicious in my imagination. My fingers involuntarily clutched his shoulder and I leaned into him, pushing him onto his side until I could see his face. To my surprise and relief, there was no blood gushing from an awful wound in his head. His eyes were closed, but to my surprise, the sides of his lips were turned up in the tell-tale beginning of a grin.
Before I could react, his arms shot out from his sides and grabbed me in a tight bear-hug. His eyelids flew open, revealing his remarkable dark orbs shining with unconcealed mischief and glee. "I caught you," he yelled, laughing happily.
I was surprised and angry at being tricked in such an underhanded way. I tried to slap his hands away from me but he only held on tighter, pulling me into his embrace. In the same motion he rolled, taking me with him, until I was pinned beneath him on the ground and he was on top of me, breathing hard. Suddenly, all the fight inside me vanished; I lay still under his weight, staring up into his eyes; all too aware of his presence, too overwhelmed to say anything.
"I caught you," he said again, more quietly. His eyes stared deep into my own. I dared not breathe for fear that any slight movement would ruin the magic of the moment. Then, he ran his hands, feather-soft, down my sides, kissed me lightly on the forehead and rolled off into the soft grass, leaving me feeling too light and incredibly heavy, all at once.