Along Came a Cowboy by Christine Lynxwiler Read Free Book Online Page A

bother?
    My dad clears his throat.
    I look up from my plate.
    â€œYour mother’s talking to you.”
    I feel like a sullen teenager myself. “Sorry. Thanks to the privacy laws, I can’t discuss patients.”
    â€œWell, Alma tells me all about her treatments.” Mom stabs a piece of pork chop with her fork. “I wasn’t asking for her medical history.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œShe said you’d taken Ron Kingsley’s place on the centennial committee.”
    Thanks to Jennifer’s unexpected arrival, I’d almost forgotten the committee. “Temporarily.”
    We eat in silence for a while.
    Mom looks over at Jennifer, who is sneaking glances at us as if we’re from another planet. “So, honey, are you glad school’s out?” Leave it to Mom not to acknowledge the fact that Jennifer ran away. You’d think this was a regularly scheduled visit.
    Jennifer shrugs. “I guess.” She stares back at her own plate.
    â€œDad, what have you been working on lately?” I ask, because let’s face it, right now, in terms of comfortable and easy, our dinner conversation is one notch above an IRS audit and one notch below a blind date.
    â€œThat fence along the lower half of the Strausand forty has been in bad shape for a while. I’m repairing it this week.” My folks bought their ranch forty acres at a time, and they still call each piece of ground by its original owner’s last name.
    â€œCool.” I pick up my knife to cut my pork chop. “Sounds like fun.”
    Jenn looks at me. “You like to work on the ranch?”
    This time I shrug. “I used to help Dad with fence repair every summer. It wasn’t too bad.”
    Dad smiles at me, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. I’ve seen that smile directed to me so rarely in the last decade and a half that I’ve almost forgotten how good it makes me feel. “You were a big help from the time you were old enough to hold a pair of pliers. Tammy never did like to get her hands dirty, but I could always count on you to dive in, no matter how messy the job.”
    I return his smile. Maybe I remember more of my childhood than I thought.
    â€œYep. Even after you got older, you were always there to help, on up until you were. . .” His voice drifts off, and he lowers his gaze.
    â€œTime for dessert,” Mom says as she jumps up from the table. She hurries from the room.
    â€œWhat did she make?” The way my stomach is churning, I ask more to fill the awkwardness than because I care about dessert.
    Dad glances at Jennifer. “You two will just have to wait and see.”
    â€œSorry,” I say, because now I have a pretty good idea of what the dessert is.
    Sure enough, Mom reaches back and flips the light switch off then steps into the dining room with a two-layer chocolate cake, complete with flaming candles.
    â€œHappy birthday to you,” Dad begins in his rich baritone, and Mom and I quickly join in.
    Jennifer’s face lights up, and I relax a little. When we finish singing, Mom and Dad lean together and harmonize: “And many mooore.” Their signature closing. Even though I haven’t celebrated a birthday around them in years, when anyone sings “Happy Birthday,” no matter where I am, I always add that “and many mooore” in my head at the end.
    Dad disappears and comes back with Yarnell’s homemade vanilla ice cream. My mouth waters. I don’t eat much sugar, but everyone knows I make an exception for this ice cream.
    He scoops generous helpings on the four pieces of cake Mom has cut.
    â€œLet’s take our dessert into the den,” Mom says. She leads the way and motions Jennifer and me to the loveseat. She and Dad sit in their chairs across from us.
    Once we’re seated with our bowls, Mom hands Jennifer an envelope. “Sorry it’s a day late. There’s one already waiting for you in