Meeting Her Match

He shot her a sideways glance from beneath his Stetson. She was standing close enough that he caught the fresh scent of her. Something tangy and tart, like the personality that radiated from her.

“Well, anyway, cowboy. I just thought I’d tell you that I was sorry to interfere with your business yesterday. I was only looking out for Clint and Lacy.”

He nodded and tried to work up the will to say he was sorry for his behavior. But before he could respond, she spun on her bright red city boots and strode away.

He didn’t call her back, but watched her leave instead. She bounced as though she were walking on springs.

He realized suddenly that he wasn’t alone in watching Sheri Marsh sashay away. Almost every cowboy in his line of vision and probably on the lot had stopped what they were doing and were calling goodbyes to his striking neighbor. She knew it, too. She tilted her head to this side, then that, smiling at each one and waving. The woman acted as if she were on the red carpet or something. There was no doubt that she was one hundred percent comfortable standing in the limelight. Again, that did not surprise him.

Pace had always liked Sam’s Diner. It was a diner and pharmacy all rolled into one, like so many drugstores had been way back when. This one was complete with the original marble soda fountain and spinning bar stools. He could still remember the first time he walked into the place as a kid. He’d been ten, and he and his dad had been on the road for eighteen hours straight. Pace had been starving, and the smell of bacon and eggs had started his stomach growling the minute they’d walked through the heavy swinging door. Even as a kid he’d been taller than the bowlegged man who came storming from behind the counter and grabbed his dad’s hand. He’d shaken it so hard it looked like a strong-arm contest.

Pace smiled at the memory of wiry little Sam taking on his six-foot-four-inch dad. To this day he’d never met anyone who could shake hands like Sam.

“How ya doing, son?” Sam greeted him heartily as he grabbed the hand Pace held out. Though Sam had aged, his grip had only grown stronger. Pace was pretty certain it came from years of practice on all the customers who walked through his doors. “Sorry to hear about yer dad,” he said, pumping away. “It was a terrible shame. He was a good man.”

“Thank you, sir. He died doing something he loved. He was luckier than most in that respect. I doubt he had any regrets when it came to the life he lived.”

Sam let go of his hand at last, crossed his arms and nodded thoughtfully. “Yer right about that, son.”

From the window table Pace heard a snort and glanced toward the two old-timers hunched over a game of checkers. Seemed nothing much changed around Mule Hollow.

“Sam’d be right smart if he took a lesson from yer daddy on that,” Applegate Thornton practically shouted as his opponent, Stanley Orr, nodded.

It had been five years since Pace had traveled through Mule Hollow, and he wasn’t sure if those two old-timers had moved an inch since he left.

“Turn yer hearin’ aid on, App, yer shoutin’ loud enough to wake the dead,” Sam ordered, then turned back to Pace and Clint. “What kin I get fer you boys?”

It was early for lunch but late for breakfast so they settled on burgers with sautéed onions and fries. They’d chosen a booth near the back of the diner, one they’d huddled in on many occasions when they’d kicked around as early teens. If he wasn’t missing Idaho so much, Pace would have felt as if he’d come home. But try as he might, he was still fighting a longing for what he’d left behind. He was trusting that the Lord was going to help handle that with time.

“How are you doing with the move?” Clint asked as if reading his thoughts.

Pace set his hat in the seat next to him, then met his old friend’s knowing gaze. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having trouble. I keep asking myself what the Lord needs me for down here.”

“Could be He just needs you to be willing to follow Him.”

Pace hadn’t thought about that. “Could be.”

Clint clasped his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I think it’s more than that. I believe you’ll be surprised by God’s plans for you. You’re thinking he can’t use you because you’re not the most social guy I know. On that I have to agree, but he used silent types all through the Bible.” Clint grinned. “The thing is, God doesn’t need any of us. We need Him.”

“Yeah, my dad said something similar right before he died.” Pace felt the familiar tug on his heartstrings thinking about the last days with his dad. An extremely quiet man, he’d raised Pace all alone after his mother died giving birth to him. He’d taught Pace to be the man he’d become. He’d been overjoyed when Pace had finally come to love the Lord. Pace thanked God his dad lived long enough to see him accept Christ. It blessed Pace every time he remembered the hug his dad had wrapped him in when Pace told him.

“If only I’d inherited Dad’s patience.”

Clint laughed hard at that as Pace knew he would.

“If only, if only.”

“I’m serious, Clint. Did I tell you how I just about bit the head off my new neighbor?”

“Sheri?” Clint’s eyes widened. “All I can say is watch out. That gal can bite back.”

“Tell me about it.”

Sam came out carrying two large plates and a bottle of ketchup. He placed them on the table then turned to leave.

“Sam,” Clint said, drawing him back. “Did you hear Adela’s daughter is after her to move to Abilene?”

Sam stiffened.

“A’ course he heard,” Stanley called.

“But do you think it’s spurred him on to pop the question?” Applegate boomed. “Nope. He’s still keepin’ his lips buttoned up like an old fool.”

An almost wistful look passed over Sam’s face before he glared at his two friends. “Can’t a proprietor get any peace in his own place of business? What happened to the two of you getting out of here by nine?”

“It’s called re-tar-ment,” Applegate snapped. “And it’s fer the birds.”

“Yeah,” Stanley sighed. “These here golden years ain’t exactly what we expected.”

“Well, if that’s why y’all keep stayin’ in my business then I wish you’d go back to work,” Sam growled.

“We’re stayin’ in yer business ’cause we’re yer friends,” Applegate snapped. “You love that sweet woman and need to ask her to marry ya, and I aim ta bother ya ’til ya do.”

Sam grumbled his way back into the kitchen.

“What’s up?”

Clint shrugged. “Honestly, we don’t know. He’s loved Adela forever. Her husband’s been dead around sixteen years, but Sam won’t ask her to marry him. Everyone knows if he did she’d say yes. It’s baffling, especially because we know he wants to. But from what he’s told a few of the guys over the past few months, he can’t get over the fact that she loved her first husband so much.”

“You think that’s all there is to it?”

“I don’t know, Pace, it just doesn’t make sense. I think there’s something more, but you know Sam. He won’t talk unless he’s good and ready.”

Pace could relate to that.

“The only thing that worries me is if Adela were to leave, I think it would break his heart. He’s been real moody for the last few months, and I think it’s wearing on him. That, or something else is wrong with him and he’s not letting on.”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

Pace was driving home an hour later and kept thinking about Sam. The man had lived basically seventy years a bachelor. Maybe he just couldn’t see changing his situation after all this time. It seemed that the town had a preoccupation with weddings, and he could see why. He remembered the first time he and his dad lived here. That had been when the oil was flowing freely and there seemed to be as many oil wells dotting the pastures as mesquite trees. It took men to run the wells, and the town was busting at the seams with families. Not the case when they’d come the last time to break some horses for Clint’s dad. The wells had been locked up and the families gone, leaving behind only the ranches and a town that seemed like a ghost of what it had been. He’d been eighteen, but he’d noticed it. It was nice to see it coming to life again.

He just had to hope nobody got any ideas about fixing him up. He drove past the little white house where his neighbor lived. The woman had all kinds of stuff in her yard. There were strange sparkling things hanging out of the trees, made from what looked like triangles cut from mirrors and copper sheeting. One large tree was so sparkly, it looked as if it had earrings on it. In the flower beds there were spikes of copper tubing and what looked to be cups and saucers stuck on top of them like whimsical bird feeders. Her yard seemed alive with sound and movement as the summer breeze wove its way through the obstacle course.

There were bright painted birdhouses along the fence line, and her mailbox was painted bright purple with yellow daisies all over it. Then there was an assortment of hummingbird feeders hanging from the porch.

He’d never seen anything like it. He shook his head and moved on past the house. The woman was either hobby crazy or spent all her money on flea market finds. Neither image fit the woman he’d met. Maybe all the stuff came with the house. That would seem more like it, since Sheri Marsh didn’t appear the sort to tinker with yard decorations. Then again, she didn’t seem the sort to tinker with flowers, either, and they were hanging off window boxes and overflowing from pots and beds. Even if those had come with the house she would have to tend them. She didn’t seem to be a tender, a nurturer.