Roughneck Cowboy

One shoulder, no bigger than the bottom of a coffee mug, lifted, remained elevated a second, then dropped back into place. Her elfin face stared straight ahead, pale eyelashes blinking rhythmically in time with the windshield wipers.

Keep trying. “Snow’s coming down faster.” As dusk descended, flakes danced in the truck’s headlights and ribbons of white swirled across the road. Was he nuts for making this trip two days before Thanksgiving? “Maybe there’ll be enough snow to play in tomorrow morning.”

“I hate snow.”

Not the greatest attitude, but he’d take words over a shrug any day. Charlie was nothing more than an imp—a blond-headed sprite with blue eyes. He’d called her Twinkie as a toddler. Dripping wet, his daughter didn’t weigh more than forty-five pounds. What Charlie lacked in size she made up for in pure stubbornness.

Charlie inherited her slight build and fair coloring from her mother. Julie had split right after Charlie’s birth and hadn’t bothered to leave a forwarding address. Lucky for him Travis’s mother, Charlotte, had been there to help him raise Charlie.

I’m sorry, Travis. So sorry. His mother’s dying words clanged around inside his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide. Silence—thank God. Since her death, his mother’s voice had been a constant presence in his head.

“Maybe your grandfather has horses.”

The question thunked between him and Charlie like a boulder hitting the pavement. Travis strangled the steering wheel, recalling how often his mother had cautioned him that, if he didn’t pay more attention to his daughter, they’d grow apart. He’d heard the warnings but had ignored them. He’d counted on his mother always being there for him and Charlie and for there always being another time or another day to spend with his daughter. Well, another time and another day had arrived and were right now chasing his anxious ass down an Oklahoma highway. “I bet there’s a dog on the ranch.” They’d never owned a pet, because his mother had been allergic to animal fur. Fortunately, a neighbor allowed Charlie to play with his golden retriever, and that was almost as good as having her own dog. “There’s probably a cat or two in the barn.”

More shrugs.

He yearned to reassure his daughter that everything would be okay, but feared neither one of them would emerge from the wreckage of Charlotte Cartwright’s death without scars—how many and how deep time would tell. Two weeks ago, he’d taken a leave of absence from his job as a roughneck on the Exxon Mobil Hoover Diana and had sat by his dying mother’s bedside, listening to her perplexing apology before she’d slipped away.

More than his mother’s death had shaken the foundation of his and Charlie’s world. When Travis had gone through his mother’s personal property, he’d discovered a diary—Pandora’s box. Suddenly Charlotte’s apology had made perfect sense.

His mother’s secret had turned Travis’s world upside down and spurred the journey he and his daughter had embarked upon. On the yellowed pages of flowerpatterned stationery, Travis had learned the identity of his father—famous Oklahoma oil baron Dominick Cartwright.

Travis’s gut burned with anger and resentment toward both parents. He assumed his mother had kept his father a secret all these years to protect him from rejection. Still, the choice to know his father or not should have been Travis’s, and he was determined to learn why his father wanted nothing to do with him.

When Travis had done an internet search for Dominick Cartwright, the more information he’d uncovered, the angrier he’d become. He’d welcomed the anger. Better resentment than hurt—he was a roughneck, for God’s sake. Slaving away on an oil platform in the middle of the ocean in dangerous, harsh conditions should have toughened his hide and made it impossible to care one way or the other about his father’s disregard. No such luck. Add in the strange sense of relief he’d felt at learning he and his daughter weren’t alone in the world, and he was one confused, messed-up roughneck.

Charlotte’s death had also left Charlie in a vulnerable position. Travis had considered quitting his job in order to be home with his daughter, but he was in line for a promotion and without a college education he’d never make as much money on the mainland. Regardless, his position on the rig was risky—the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe in the Gulf of Mexico the previous year was proof of that.

With Charlie’s grandmother out of the picture, Travis worried that if he were to die while his daughter was young, she’d become a ward of the state. He’d decided to make the trip to Oklahoma for Charlie’s sake, not his. He didn’t need a relationship with his estranged father nor the brother and sister his mother had written about in her diary.

Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll believe it.

Dominick had better not turn his back on his granddaughter—the man owed Travis for not claiming him all these years.

Rather than admit an attack of nerves had invaded his intestines, he blamed his queasy stomach on the fact that he hadn’t eaten in hours. Like a pendulum, his gaze swung back and forth across the road, searching for a place to eat and pee—as Charlie put it.

A Victorian house sprang up in the middle of nowhere and he pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He studied the pink-and-black monstrosity surrounded by an iron gate. Travis wondered if he’d stumbled upon a backwoods bordello.

“Beulah’s,” he said.

Charlie wrinkled her nose. “Huh?”

“The sign in the front yard says Beulah’s.”

“What’s a Beulah?”

“A restaurant, I think.” Travis turned into the driveway alongside the home and drove to the back of the lot where three pickups and one patrol car were parked. Patio tables covered in a dusting of snow sat in the backyard and a Welcome sign hung on the door.

Travis turned off the ignition and unbuckled his seat belt. “Let’s see if Beulah has a bathroom you can use.”

Charlie didn’t budge.

Most parents wouldn’t tolerate obstinacy, but he allowed his daughter’s behavior to slide. To his way of thinking, he deserved her sullenness. He’d been absent more than present during Charlie’s young life—even missed a few of her birthdays because he hadn’t been able to switch his shift on the platform. It would take time for him and Charlie to find their way without Grandma Charlotte to guide them.

When he opened the door, the smell of fried burgers and crisp evening air filled his lungs. His stomach growled loudly. Charlie took her dang tootin’ time getting out of the truck, but he kept a lid on his temper and pretended to enjoy the balmy thirty-two-degree temperature.

A clunky cowbell attached to the door handle announced their arrival when they entered the Victorian.

“Welcome to Beulah’s!” An older woman with a 1960s beehive hairdo dyed pitch-black and wearing a pink muumuu and house slippers greeted them. “I’m Beulah. We got a few tables left in the front room.” She motioned for them to follow her through the house.

With a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, Travis guided Charlie down the hall and into the dining area. All three tables in the room were occupied. They followed Beulah across the foyer and into the parlor, which boasted a fireplace. He and Charlie sat at the table near the windows.

Beulah handed them a laminated handwritten menu. “Special’s leftovers.”

Leftovers?

“With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I’m cleaning out the fridge.” Beulah batted her false eyelashes and smiled at Charlie. “You sure are a pipsqueak.”

Travis winced. Charlie hated people commenting on her small stature.

“Just ’cause I’m little don’t mean—”

“Doesn’t,” Travis interrupted.

Charlie glared at him. “—doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

Beulah’s charcoal eyebrows arched into her hairline. “I never said nothing about you having trouble with your brain. For all I know, you might grow up to be the next president of these here United States.”

Before his daughter caused a ruckus with the restaurant owner, Travis asked, “Do you have a restroom Charlie can use?”

“Next to the kitchen. I’ll show you.” Beulah escorted his scowling daughter away.

A short time later, Charlie returned. While she played with the salt-and-pepper shakers, he perused the handwritten menu. Chicken fingers wasn’t one of the leftover specials. “Think you might want to try the rice casserole?”

“Yuck.”

Thought so. “What about a hamburger?”

“Double yuck.”

“What about—”

“A bowl of cereal?” Beulah stopped at the table.

“What kind?” Charlie asked. “Froot Loops.”

“You have really tall hair.” Charlie gaped at Beulah’s beehive.