The Cowboy's Return

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, sweetie. The less I say to that woman the better off I am.”

Millie blamed Benita for not being there when Camila had needed her. Benita blamed Millie for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“Did she leave a message?”

“No.”

“I suppose she’ll call back.” Despite all the turmoil in their relationship, Camila still worried about her mother.

“Or maybe she’ll just disappear for good,” Millie muttered under her breath as she went out the door.

Camila sighed, but she couldn’t stop worrying. Maybe Benita was back in town, at Alta’s house. She grabbed her purse and called to Jilly, “I’m going to check Benita’s house. I’ll be right back.”

“Why can’t I go?”

“You’re grounded.”

“Awww,” her daughter replied.

“Finish the essay you have to write.”

Within minutes, she drove into her grandmother’s driveway. Alta had lived in the older section of Bramble in a white frame house that her husband, Charles, had built a few years after they had married. Camila had stayed in the house until she’d bought her own.

She entered with her key. For a moment, she soaked up the dark and quiet house. Clearly Benita was not here. Suddenly memories of arguments between her and her mother beat at her. Benita couldn’t understand why Camila didn’t want to live here, but then her mother didn’t really know her. Camila turned and went back to the comfort and warmth of her own home. She had more urgent matters to worry about.

Like Tripp Daniels.

TRIPP FIXED THE DOORBELL then spent the day cleaning house. He hated it, but the place was a mess so he didn’t have much choice. By mid-afternoon he had all the plumbing problems fixed, the laundry done and his parents’ room cleaned. They complained the whole time that he was bothering them and for him to run along and do something else. He yelled so much at Morris that his throat was sore but the old man still didn’t hear half of what he’d said. But he’d helped and Tripp couldn’t decide if that was a plus or a minus.

He took a break and drank a cup of coffee, wondering if he ever was going to get this place back into shape. He needed to call Brodie again, but decided to wait. After his estrangement from his family, his rodeo friends had become his family. But there had always been a part of him that yearned for home. Again he realized he should have come back years ago to sort through the pain of Patrick’s death.

Most of the night he’d thought about Camila and Jilly. Was Jilly Patrick’s? If she was, why wouldn’t Camila admit it?

In the den, his mom was listening to music and his dad was watching a basketball game. They were in different parts of the room and both had the volume turned up high. Tripp shook his head and went in search of Morris. He found him on the patio, feet propped up, puffing on one of his father’s cigars, the smoke spiraling above his head.

Tripp opened one of the French doors and stepped out. Morris crushed the cigar in an ashtray and swung to his feet. “Mr. Tripp,” he said in a guilty voice.

Tripp didn’t care that he was smoking cigars. He only cared that Morris looked out for his parents.

“I’m going into town. Please keep an eye on Mom and Dad.”

“Always do.”

“Don’t worry about supper, I’ll bring something from the Bramble Rose.”

Morris looked around. “There’s no roses. It’s too early. It’s just February.”

Tripp stepped closer. “I’ll bring something for supper,” he said louder.

“Oh. Gotcha.”

Tripp headed for his truck wondering how his parents had survived all these years without someone to guide them. After one week, he was totally exhausted. He’d check if there was someone in town who could provide some help. They all clearly needed it.

He drove into Bramble, which was barely a stop in the road. It consisted of main street that had businesses on both sides, mostly antique and gift shops, and a dollar store. There was a bank, a diner, two gas stations, a small grocery store, a feed store, and a hardware store and lumberyard. They also had a Dairy Queen.

Railroad tracks ran along the west side. On the east side was the residential area with the schools and city offices. Some people had lived here all their lives, only going farther to Temple or Austin when needed.

He stopped at the diner. A sign across the street read Common Threads—Camila’s Quilts, Soaps and Gifts. Could it be? There was only one Camila that he knew of in Bramble. Without a second thought, he strolled toward the shop. As he went in, the bell tinkled over the door. A natural pleasing fragrance, like a flower garden, greeted him.

The walls were a pale lavender and shelves were filled with baskets of soaps in decorative boxes and some sort of see-through fabric. Folded quilts decorated racks and there was a special area for baby quilts. A couple of women oohed and aahed over one, clutching a box in their hands. The lavender box had a C written on it in calligraphy.

He removed his hat and spoke. The women eyed him with a strange look. He walked to the counter where a young girl was putting a quilt in a box; which was adorned with a fancy needle and thread logo.

“Can I help you?” the girl asked.

“I’m looking for Camila Walker.”

“She’s in the back.”

“Thanks, I’ll—”

“You can’t go—” The girl stopped as another woman interrupted with asked a question.

Tripp went through the door to a large back room. Two quilting frames with quilts in them hung from the ceiling. One wall held spools of thread of every color. At the back were rows of fabric and a large table the size of a king-size bed, obviously a working area. A sewing machine was in a corner.

He didn’t see Camila. There was another door and he opened it. A pungent smell almost sent him reeling back, but then he saw her. Camila, in rubber gloves and apron, was stretching plastic wrap over large molds of soap.

She glanced up, startled, her dark eyes like lasers ready to cut him in half. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to apologize for my rudeness last night.”

“I don’t allow people back here,” she said in a sharp tone.

He should leave, but he couldn’t. He was curious. Intrigued. “Are you making soap?”

“Yes.” She continued to work with quick, sure movements, covering all the molds, then she placed boards on top and covered the whole thing with blankets.

“What are you doing?”

“The soap has to be kept warm while it sets for twenty-four hours. I then clean and wrap it, but it has to cure for three to four weeks before I sell it.”

He twitched his nose in distaste. “What’s that smell?”

Her eyes softened for a second. “It’s the lye. This batch is almond scent and olive oil.”

“Very impressive operation you have here.”