Roping Her Cowboy: Part 2 of 5

Roping Her Cowboy - Part 2 of 5

In any given month, we spend an inordinate amount of time down at Whiskey Creek for two nearly-30-year-olds who should have better places to be and mixed company to keep. But the truth is, there isn’t much else to do in Crooked Creek. There’s the grocery store. There’s home. There’s work. There’s the gas station. Oh, and there’s the bank. And if you really want some excitement, you can go to the barber shop and listen to the old geezers rehash the good ol’ days.

The creek isn’t so bad, relatively speaking.
I’ve been fishing since I could walk. It’s like breathing to me, and sort of meditative. Sit, cast, wait, reel in, repeat. Sometimes we catch something and grill it back at my place, and mostly we just get to laughing and talking so loud that we scare all the fish away.

I am wearing a pair of faded jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, dressed for what the weatherperson predicted would be a gentle, brief spring rain an hour from now. If you must know, it was a weatherman, but I call it a weatherperson because I hate how people always assume the weatherperson is a weatherman. They are women sometimes too, people.
The weather people – the men and the women – are always wrong.

We barely cast our lines into the creek, which is actually a fairly wide, rushing stream, and are just getting back to our conversation about Chicago when we feel the first drops.
And then there is thunder. Big thunder.
We don’t even have time to grab our things before the rain – torrential and heavy – starts pummeling us.

“My rod!” Ginger screeches.
I remember that.
I don’t remember much else.
Instinctively, because it’s the kind of person I am, I race to help her recover her fishing rod which is bobbing around just at the edge of the stream. The rain is getting heavier though, and my fingers slip when I try to grab it.
It is just beyond my reach, and moving away from shore.
“I’ll get it,” I shout over the cracking of thunder. “Go get in the truck and stay dry. Drive it down here to the creek, and I’ll be there in a minute.”

Next thing I know, the stream is rising, the rod is moving further out towards the middle of the now-rushing water, and I am soaked.
I’m already soaked, a quick swim isn’t going to change that.
I hurl myself into the water and swim towards the renegade rod. Only the water is rising quickly by then, and I never make it to the rod. Instead, I am picked up by a wave – I didn’t know creeks even could make waves! – and washed downstream, coughing and sputtering and reaching for gulps of air whenever I can get my head above the surface of the churning, muddy water.

I guess this is how it ends.
Four-year veteran bartender washed downstream, bobbing the whole way. That’s what the headlines will say.
No. They’ll really say, Twin Mourners Caught Giggling at Funeral of Lifelong Wallflower.
In between gulps of air and possible headlines swirling through my head, I feel a pull on my arm. As quick as a flash, and not a moment too soon, I am hauled up on the bank of the creek, coughing and sputtering.
Something warm and dry is covering me, something thick and woolly that smells like hay and sunshine, and I feel safe somehow.
Am I in heaven now?

I open my eyes, though they are red, bleary, and feel heavy. Then I close them just as quickly.
Yes, yes, I’m in heaven. But that means I’m dead. What will Ginger do without me? Move to Chicago?
“There, there,” a voice says.
“God? Is that you?” I asked, groggily, my eyes still closed.

“Well, I don't think most folks would make that mistake, but you can call me Trey. I think we’ve met before. Long ago. At a preschool not too far from here. You were the girl with the small freckle on your right buttock, the one I used to think was so cute that I never could resist the urge to pull down your drawers and get a peak.”

I open my eyes in earnest now and stare up at Trey. He is kneeling over me, smiling, with a smirk dancing across his lips.
“Come on, girlie. You’ve had quite a wild ride, and you held on for longer than six seconds. I’m going to start a fire to warm you up, so just sit tight.”
The rain is over now, and I am caught between disbelief and a full-blown panic attack.
Me. And Trey. Me and Trey. By the creek. Wearing his coat. By a fire.
And then I faint.

The next morning… and this time, yes, it was morning… I stumble into Ginger’s apartment using my emergency key. She, unlike me, has emergencies often – like a smoke detector that needs a battery change that she’s too short to reach, or a dead fish floating in her tank that she’s too squeamish to touch, or or or. You get the picture. My gorgeous, bossy friend is a wuss.
Anyway, I go to her place because I suspected she must be worried about me. After all, did she think maybe I’d drowned? Was she still out there searching for me?

Trey had warmed me by the fire and then, when my clothes were virtually dry, had driven me home. I remember only a few details, but not much else. I was tired, groggy, shy, anxious, and about a gazillion other emotions all rolled into one. People really do make that “knight in shining armor rescues the princess” bit look easier than it really is. I’m here to tell you, it’s not easy.
It’s scary.
It makes you blush and say stupid things.
And you look like crap and you know – you just know! – that that fact alone will solidify what was probably already an inevitability: he’ll never call because now he’s seen you with mascara running down your face.

For a friend who is worried about their number one girl though, Ginger sure is sleeping peacefully when I walk into her bedroom.
“I’m alive,” I say, simply.
“Go away. I know.”
“How?”
“Your boyfriend called me to say you were alive.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Fine. Your rescuer, then.”
“Fair enough.”
“Call me later,” I say, walking out. Clearly she doesn’t want to be awake yet and I, being the wonderful friend that I am, would never dream of pulling her out of bed on a Sunday morning to tell her my news: I got rescued by Trey, he was dreamy, and I couldn’t stop saying stupid things and looking like a drowned rat, so let’s move to Chicago where I can hopefully begin the process of rebuilding my self-esteem and forgetting this whole thing ever happened.
That news will have to wait.

Instead of going home, I drive. I pick up a cup of coffee and a granola bar and drive aimlessly. Only it’s not aimless at all. I know where I’m going.
His jacket is draped over the passenger seat where I can smell it whenever I want. Often.
I don’t want to give it back, but I know I have to.
I’m driving to Trey’s house. The best way to get a man out of your head so you can move to Chicago and forget about him forever is to take that first step – in this case, you have to return his jacket, the one that smells of hay and sunshine and his aftershave and his sweat.
Heaven. Smelling his scent is heaven.
Which is precisely why I have to get rid of this thing.

I’ll admit, I’ve dressed up a little for my errand. I have on tight jeans and boots, which I suspect he’ll appreciate, and a pink gingham shirt which hugs my breasts and waist, but also showcases my hips. Yes, I also put on lip gloss. Yes, I showered and used my special occasion shampoo and conditioner and soap, the vanilla-scented set that I read in a glamour magazine was supposed to remind men of the softness of a woman, and cookies. Every man wants a woman that smells like cookies, right?
What the hell would I know? I’ve never had a man.
I chew an entire pack of gum on my drive out to Trey’s ranch. There is no point in embarrassing myself further with coffee breath, is there? No, I think not.

When I pull my truck in front of his house, I notice he has company. A fire-red sports car is parked out front, and I am pretty sure it’s not Trey’s. I spit my wad of gum into my now-empty coffee cup, reapply a fresh coat of lip gloss, hop down from the cab and haul that sweet piece of heaven – his coat – to the front door. I knock trepidly, or at least I was planning to.

The second I raise my knuckle to the door, it opens, and I am facing a drop-dead gorgeous blond in a fuchsia mini-skirt and matching heels.
“Hi sugar, what can I do for you?” she asks me, like she owns the place and like I’m a neighborhood girl scout.
“Oh. Um, well, I was hoping to see Trey for a minute. If he’s home, that is,” I stammer.
“Sure, sugar. Let me get him. He was just getting out of the shower.”
The door closes behind her and I sink into the door frame, my heart hammering wildly in my chest.
Should I just dump the jacket on the porch and run? God, this is so embarrassing!

I am saved from having to make that decision though by the sound of the door opening and Trey standing before me.
Neither of us speak, and then we both speak at once.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Thanks again for---” I start to say.
We are interrupted by the sight of the blond floozy standing beside him, her arm draped around his towel-clad waist. She simply smiles at me. It is the kind of smile that catty women give you just before they dig their claws in.
I hand the jacket to Trey – shoving it at him really – and run to my truck.

“Don’t you want to stay for breakfast?” the blond asks. “Oh, and why were you blushing, you sweet little thing? You’re so cute!”
As I hear the door slam behind me, I swear I can hear her cackling like Audrey and Stella.
Women drive me nuts. All of them except Ginger.

Trey seems chipper and has a bounce in his step when he walks into The Gym later that night. I, on the other hand, have no bounce and chipper isn’t even in my vocabulary by that point – it’s sort of the way things work when you, in the last twenty-four hours, have:

Nearly drowned
Been rescued by the man of your dreams
Fallen asleep to the scent lingering on his jacket
Returned said jacket and realize he’s as bad as the rest of them – late night hookups with sleepover buddies in fuchsia heels is what all the men are into these days
Become frustrated with yourself because you can’t decide if you’re moving to Chicago with your best friend or not, and you have only two more days to decide

Trey nods at me, as per custom, and heads to the back of the bar, presumably to clock in. I wash the glassware and refill the garnish tray with maraschino cherries, limes, and lemons for tonight’s array of annoying women and their annoying cocktails.
We open in ten minutes, and Sunday nights are usually busy. Everyone wants to get their kicks before Monday rolls around and the work week begins again.

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