Coulda Been a Cowboy

She glanced anxiously toward the door but stayed where she was. She couldn’t conscionably leave until she knew the baby would be okay. “I’m asking if you’ve been snorting coke, shooting heroin, swallowing pills…you know.”

“Of course not! Do I look like I’m on drugs?”

She refused to blanch at his angry response. “Sort of.”

His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his eyes narrowed. Obviously he wasn’t used to hearing the hard truth. But she had a responsibility to the baby. “I’m not,” he insisted.

“Not even steroids?” Steroids affected behavior, sometimes caused undue anger, right? She’d read that somewhere.

“Not even steroids.”

She wasn’t sure he’d admit it to her even if he were. But she didn’t dare argue further. Braden was his baby. There wasn’t anything more she could do. “Good.” She headed for the door, her mind now fully focused on getting home to her father, but Tyson intercepted her.

“What time can you be here in the morning?”

“When would you like me?”

“I’ll give you a key, so you can let yourself in at dawn.”

Dawn? She almost protested. She’d have to get up before five to get back here that early. But the nine thousand dollars she’d earn working for him would stop the bank from taking possession of their home. They were nearly five months behind on their mortgage.

Hopefully, her father would behave so she’d be able to get some sleep tonight.

“Fine.” She waited for him to fish an extra key out of the desk. Then she gave Braden an affectionate pat. “If you want to follow me to Finley’s, you’ll have to keep up,” she told Tyson. “I’m in a big hurry.”

But it didn’t take long to realize he wasn’t going to fall behind. While her 1992 rattletrap Maxima could barely do twenty-five miles an hour on the winding road, Tyson’s red Ferrari had no such limitations. His headlights never left her rearview mirror.

Where he’d put Braden’s car seat in that sports car, she had no idea. Obviously Tyson Garnier wasn’t much of a family man. That Ferrari was as much of a chick magnet as he was.

“You’re some father,” she muttered. But these days her own father wasn’t anything to brag about, and she grew more and more anxious as she drove closer to home.

CHAPTER THREE

Grandpa Garnier: If you want to forget all your troubles,

take a little walk in a brand-new pair of high-heeled

riding boots.

DAKOTA WAVED HIM OFF at the small supermarket in the middle of town, but Tyson didn’t stop. First he wanted to see where his new nanny lived. Under her care he hadn’t heard the baby so much as whimper all afternoon; he wasn’t about to let her drive off without at least knowing where to find her.

Two blocks later, she pulled onto the side of the road. “You missed it,” she called when he came up even with her and lowered his window.

“I know.”

“So where are you going?”

“I was…” He couldn’t divulge too much, or she’d know how inept he was, and his inability to be a decent father was the last thing he wanted spread across the front page of tomorrow’s paper. He deserved a little privacy, didn’t he? But he knew from experience he had only as much as he could fiercely guard. “…curious to see where you live,” he finished.

Her face filled with irritation. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to learn my way around.”

Her car rattled and shook as if it was a struggle just to keep idling. “My place is not a landmark. Besides, you don’t have time to mess around. You’ll miss the store, and you can’t survive without diapers, remember?”

“I’ve got thirty minutes.”

“It’ll take you that long to do your shopping.”

He thought he could get what he needed in fifteen. But whether he had time or not wasn’t the real issue. She obviously didn’t want him following her any farther. He couldn’t imagine what it’d hurt, but she was scowling as though it was out of the question. “Okay.”

The tension in her face eased. “You have my phone number. Give me a call if you need anything.”

Did she really mean that? “I will.”

“Good night,” she said pointedly and maneuvered her heap of junk back onto the road.

Tyson nearly turned the Ferrari around. He was being ridiculous. Surely he could make it through eight hours on his own.

But then Braden started to fuss and pull at the harness restraining him, and fear that they’d pass another night like the last one slithered up Tyson’s spine. He couldn’t do it; he didn’t have the patience or the emotional reserves.

Waiting until he could barely see Dakota’s taillights, he pulled onto the road and trailed her at a much more discreet distance. She’d said he could call her, but what if she was a deep sleeper and didn’t pick up? It wouldn’t hurt to see where she lived, just in case.

Initially, he’d expected her to turn into the drive of one of the small brick houses surrounding the high school. It seemed that most folks in these parts lived there. When she passed those neighborhoods, however, he figured she had to live in one of the ranchettes on the outskirts of town. But he was wrong again. Beyond the cemetery, as buildings began to give way to the surrounding countryside, she entered a dusty trailer park that didn’t have so much as a patch of grass or a few trees to recommend it.

Tyson crept forward. Cast-off tires, cardboard boxes and wine bottles littered the weed-filled spaces in between twenty or so single-wide trailers. A few cars rested on blocks, and red lava rocks had been used to spruce up those units whose owners had even bothered with landscaping. His mother would’ve been appalled. If his mother had anything, it was good taste.

“She can’t live here,” he muttered, trying to avoid some of the deeper ruts in the dirt drive.

Tyson knew his car was hardly the kind to blend in. He couldn’t follow Dakota any farther without drawing attention, even in the dark. So he parked next to a Dumpster that had apparently been looted by kids or animals—or both. The trash scattered on the ground smelled worse than Braden’s dirty diapers, but the Dumpster provided some cover as he stepped out.

Dakota pulled into a lean-to carport attached to what a sign boldly proclaimed was Unit 13. At the far back, it was one of the shabbiest trailers in the park. But someone had hung some cheap wind chimes from one of the beams that supported the carport and planted flowers in front. Tyson could see the flowers in the pool of light coming from the streetlamp right next to her trailer. He was willing to bet they were wilted and badly in need of water—everything here looked wilted and badly in need of something—but Dakota didn’t so much as glance at her surroundings as she hurried up the four steps of the landing and let herself in.

The door slammed shut. Then the lights went on.

Tyson rubbed the whiskers on his chin as he listened to those wind chimes tinkling in the evening breeze, a television blaring through an open window of another trailer and a woman in the trailer closest to him ranting at someone, presumably her husband: “Get your ass in here, Willy. How many times do I gotta tell ya to empty your own damn ashtray? You’d think you could get up off that couch at least once a day….”

No wonder Gabe had promised Dakota that he would triple her pay, Tyson thought. This place was freakin’ depressing. He didn’t want to stick around. He couldn’t, anyway. Braden was crying again, probably tired of being in his car seat. But Tyson wasn’t sure taking him out would do any good. Last night, nothing had calmed him.

He sighed. The torture was already starting. Eight interminable hours yawned before him, during which he wouldn’t know what to do with the little human he’d inadvertently helped to create. But seeing Dakota’s home put his own problems in perspective. Life could be worse, right? He could always live here.

Settling into the familiar comfort of his leather seat, he turned around and drove to Finley’s Market.

HER FATHER’S TRUCK was in the drive but he wasn’t home.

A sick feeling descended on Dakota as she hurried inside. She hoped he’d gone to bed, but she knew better.

Sure enough, his room was as empty as the rest of the trailer. From the mess in the kitchen, he’d fixed himself dinner, at least, which was good. But there was no note on the fridge, on the counter amid the stacks of bills, or on the cluttered side table that held his glasses, his newspaper, his solitaire deck and, typically, his beer. If he was merely out for a walk or over at Johnny Diddimyer’s to play poker, he would’ve left word. He knew she’d worry.