Dances of the Heart Read online

  Resignation and exasperation crossed the features of the older face, but they left almost as quickly as she had noticed them.

  “I may make fun of your books,” Paige acknowledged, “but you know I’m proud of you. You’re probably just tired. Why don’t you give it a rest for tonight; we did only just fly in, after all. Tomorrow everything will seem different.”

  “Will it?” The tone was somewhat arch, stringent.

  “Yes. Of course it will.” Oh, what a lie. Nothing would be different tomorrow. Steven would still be gone, and she’d still hate being here, still hate the thought of going on without him.

  ****

  In the dense blackness of the Texas night, headlights of a pickup scanned the dark living room of the Rocking R ranch house before the truck came to a stop. Laughter and voices met Ray’s consciousness before the motor groaned back to life and retreated, followed by footfalls up the porch steps, the whine of the screen door and shock of lights coming on. He put a hand over his eyes and waited, but his son just stood there. The crickets’ chorus was punctuated by the belch of a frog and, somewhere, an owl hooted its one note in answer to a solitary nicker from a horse. Hot night air blanketed him as he tried to squint into the brightness.

  His son stood for a moment as Ray waited for the reprimand that would surely come, but the only rebuke was the march of Jake’s feet toward his bedroom. Then, suddenly, the boy was back and filled the hall doorway, and Ray let his hand finally fall from his face.

  “He’s dead, Dad. Robbie’s dead. It’s goin’ on five years now. And no amount of drinking or feeling guilty or sorry for yourself is ever gonna bring him back. Ever. You talk to me about movin’ forward and getting on with your life? What a load of bull. You’re in the same damned place you were five years ago, sitting there in the dark with an empty bottle of Jack and a shitload of guilt and self-pity.”

  Chapter Two

  Friday had been spent with Paige driving while Carrie scribbled notes on scenery, people and the idiosyncrasies of the Hill Country lifestyle. She had listened to locals in shops, on the street and at the ranch, got a feel for their voices and their gestures, the way they dressed and moved, while Paige had witnessed it all with her usual cynicism. A couple of hours back at the ranch and a quick supper reheated from yesterday’s leftovers, and they had headed out once more.

  Now, oncoming lights glared and then fell again across the bug-speckled windshield as she gripped the wheel and grimaced into the dark. In the early May night, the windows were open and, as successive cars passed them, bursts of music or laughter came and went, momentary images in a moving peepshow. The warm breath of night tampered with her short hair.

  “Why did you want to go to this joint outside of Bandera? I thought Luckenbach was the place to be.”

  Paige’s voice competed with the radio, and Carrie reached out and turned it down. “Yes, but Bandera is the supposed ‘cowboy capital of the world.’ We can go to Luckenbach tomorrow perhaps, although that Doris woman said there is a dance at the ranch we should attend. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”

  The GPS suddenly advised them to make a left-hand turn in 200 yards. “Do you think that’s right?” Paige asked. “That Jake guy said a GPS didn’t work out here.”

  “No, he said it didn’t work on ranch roads,” corrected Carrie as she executed the left. “See, there it is. I guess. My gosh, look at this lot.”

  An oversized barn stood alone on the roadside, strings of lights scalloping the roof and windows, enhanced only by flashing beer advertisement signs. Cars, pickups and motorbikes surrounded the building, parked everywhere and every which way without any sense of order: down the road, on the grass, facing front, facing back, sideways on. Stetsons bobbed and nodded to some imaginary tune while small groups gathered on car hoods or tailgates, or stood holding drinks. Cigarettes produced low clouds of hazy smoke while staccato shots of laughter punctuated conversations drifting out into a hum of night music.

  Carrie slowed the car down for fear of hitting someone while searching for a sensible place to park, but she was well past the dancehall before she steered off the road and brought the car to a halt. She let out a breath as if exerted from difficult exercise, then snapped down her vanity mirror to check her face.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t let me drive. You hate driving when you don’t know the route.”

  “It’s fine. Here,” she said, holding the keys out to her daughter, “you can drive back.”

  Paige gave the keys a dirty look. “I thought you were going to drive back so I could drink.”

  “It’s fine then—”

  Her daughter grabbed the keys out of her hand and threw open the door before stepping out with an unmistakable air of annoyance.

  “Paige—I’ll drive back. Give me back the keys.” Carrie got out on her side, glancing around while adjusting her shirt and smoothing her jeans. She reached back into the car for a small bag and hefted it over her shoulder before shutting the door and peering over the car roof to her daughter. “Paige? I said I’d drive back.”

  “Never mind. We’ll see later. I’ll keep the keys.”

  The car beeped to announce it was locked.

  Carrie picked her way down the road behind her daughter, a Hansel and Gretel line of cigarette butts marking the path. She was all too aware of the brief halts in conversations as revelers scrutinized them, studied them, then returned to focus on someone else.

  A strong sense of not belonging hit her, of being out of place, but Paige was bolder than she. She followed closely as her daughter broke through the groups on the porch and swung into the noise of the dancehall. Guitar and fiddle had feet tapping and bodies moving in time to the tune. Paige led the way along the edge of the floor, trying to avoid the contact that a collision might bring. Carrie could see men scan them over, probably finding them an odd pair to be out together. And she could figure most of the cowboys were in their twenties or thirties, for which she was grateful; it would mean no one would ask her to dance. A couple of drinks at the bar for the purposes of research, then home to the ranch suited her fine.

  Paige elbowed into the bar crowd which shimmied over to make room, one cowboy nodding to her before Carrie pushed forward. He tipped his hat with another nod and moved away to let her stand next to her daughter, bent across the bar trying to get the bartender’s attention.

  “My gawd,” breathed Carrie, fanning herself with her hand. “It certainly is hot in here.”

  ****

  When his father asked Jake if he would like to join him for a few drinks over at Mulligan’s, his favorite bar, he had been faced with a conundrum. An evening at Mulligan’s would end with his dad’s usual binge whether he was with him or not. And if Jake left his father on his own, he would probably return to the same scene encountered last night. The Stagecoach dance hall was more like a compromise; while he couldn’t babysit his father or force him into sobriety, perhaps more of a social life would get his mind off the past, the divorce and Robbie, and his drinking would reduce. Maybe, with a bit of mixing with people, getting out and about, his father would drink less.

  His dad had agreed to go, in order, he’d pronounced, to spend some time with Jake.

  But his scheme wasn’t proceeding well. His dad had made a head start on drinking and loaded some more beers into the pickup. Nothing Jake could say or do at that point was going to change his father’s attitude. This resulted in his dad pressed into a back corner of the dancehall taking a pull on his beer while Jake leaned against the wall surveying the crowd.

  “Glad you came?” he ventured, studying his father’s face for a moment before turning back to the scene.

  “Was that a question or a statement?” his father probed, his mouth slightly puckered. “I guess it’s good to get out some, though I’m a mite long in the tooth for this lot, Jake.”

  “Why don’t you ask someone to dance?”

  “What? A twenty year old? No thanks. I like women, real women, not a b
abe in arms.”

  Jake let a smudge of impatience cross his face before he straightened, stretching a bit to see through the dancers. Exasperated, he came to the realization his idea had gone awry and been a bit optimistic. He knew now he should have stopped his father from loading the extra six-pack into the pickup and more staunchly denied there’d be any problem in getting a drink at the bar. And to make matters worse, to his own reluctance, he had proved his father wrong by getting two bottles straight away, and then noticed the hip flask tucked in his father’s back pocket. There seemed to be no answer to stopping his father’s drinking.

  A two-step played and, as dancers circled around, the crowd at the bar came in and out of view, a curtain opening and shutting. Jake wiped the sweat from his beer bottle on to his jeans as he took in the scene.

  “Good lord, that’s them,” he said to no one in particular.

  “That’s who?” His father’s hand tapped around his back pocket, probably checking his flask.

  “Those women—the ones who gave me a ride. The mother and daughter.” He studied Paige for a second, her animated features making her seem more approachable than she had been in the car. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Oh, no.” His father shook his head. “You go ahead, son. I think I’ll get me some fresh air and—”

  “You’re going to get another drink.” His aggravation took a moment to settle. “Look, join us. Come on, they won’t bite.”

  His father bent his head slightly. “No, you go on. I’ll be outside. I’m not fighting this crowd tonight. You go. But don’t drink too much—you’re driving.”

  Reluctantly, Jake moved off, weaving in and out of dancers to get up to the bar. For a moment, he glanced back, just in time to see his father slip out the front door. He turned again and made his way forward toward Carrie and Paige.

  “Hey,” he nudged the mother a bit as he prodded another man aside to stand next to her. “How you doin’?”

  Carrie faced him with a blank expression before realization dawned. “Oh! Jake, isn’t it? I didn’t recognize you for a moment without your army fatigues. How are you?”

  Paige leaned across the older woman as he tried to catch her eye. Her brow crinkled before she straightened.

  “Look, Paige. Look who it is.” She jabbed her daughter with her elbow before turning back to him. “You seem so different with the Stetson on and all, not to mention the five o’clock shadow.”

  “More like nine o’clock,” he corrected, rubbing his hand over his bristles. “How you both enjoying Texas then? How’s the ranch?”

  Carrie moved slightly so Jake was better able to see Paige.

  “Ranch is fine. Texas is great—what we’ve seen of it.” She took a sip of her wine. “Are you settling in again? It must be strange to be back home.”

  “No, not strange. Well,” he added, “not too strange.” He tried to gauge her daughter’s reaction, but she’d hidden herself once more behind Carrie. “You enjoying yourself, Paige?” He stretched to address her, hoping she might pay him some attention.

  “Yes. It’s all right.” She looked askance at him for a moment, then back at her glass. “It’s fine,” she mumbled.

  “Do you come here…” Carrie’s voice trailed off as she suddenly reached into her bag to jerk out her phone. She held it out to see the number. “Oh dear, I better take this. It’s my agent. Sorry.”

  Jake watched her clamp the phone to her ear and make her way out through the crowd to the door.

  ****

  Ray grabbed three cans of beer from the cooler in the back of his truck, refilled his now empty hip flask and took a swig from a bottle of Jack for good measure. He sauntered back to the hall porch, finding a place off on the side where he could settle. His long legs dangled into some bushes, but when the couple who sat next to him got up to go back inside, he shimmied himself over to the wall of the building and leaned back, beer cans in his lap. The door was constantly whining open and shut, emitting disjointed shots of country music.

  For a moment, he considered jamming the door open when a tall woman came out, phone plastered to ear. She stood by the pillar at the end of the porch. Native American turquoise jewelry decked her wrist and neck, while a crisp, white blouse was tied at her waist over some sort of tee or camisole. Jeans, a bit too clean, were finished off with an expensive-looking pair of what were no doubt Lucchese or Tony Roma boots, and a small, expensive-looking bag hung over her shoulder. The face was older, probably near his age but well cared for, little make up, good skin, cropped blond hair.

  Ray took it all in and decided she was what he might call ‘well turned out’ in a sort of fake western way. For a while, he considered the familiarity of her, then it dawned on him—she was the mother, the writer, Carrie Bennett. The one who’d been sitting in the car when Jake got out. Well, if there was a word for a fake Texan—like ‘buckle bunny,’ no, ‘wannabe,’ that’s it, a cowgirl wannabe—she was it.

  As the woman leaned back against the pillar, her gaze caught Ray’s scrutinizing glance. She whirled back around and stepped down off the porch, taking a few steps into the dark.

  “Oh, hell, I’m losing you, Jason, hang on.” Forced to move back to the porch, she stood just below the pillar with an unsuccessful effort not to shout to make herself heard. “Did you say Diane Keaton and Tommy Lee Jones? Wow, that’s amazing. What a cast! Gosh, thanks so much for calling…and on a Friday night.” There was a break while the voice on the other end replied before she said, “Okay, great. I’ll speak to you on Tuesday then, and we can tie things up. I’ll be in your office at eleven.” The phone bleeped off. She drew in a deep breath of satisfaction before hoisting herself back onto the side of the porch, stumbling slightly.

  “Whoa there, cowgirl.” Ray reached a hand forward to steady her.

  “Thanks.” She stared down at him for a moment and blinked, a flash of recognition crossing her face.

  “Sounds like a good cast. One of my favorite actors, Tommy Lee Jones. I’ll see just about anything with him in it.”

  Carrie bristled, an air of indignation setting her shoulders straight. “Do you always listen to other people’s conversations?”

  Ray laughed and snapped open another beer. He started to bring it to his lips before thinking better of it and extending his hand to offer the can to her. She answered with a shake of her neat little head and an abrupt, “No thanks,” before starting inside.

  “I don’t think I could avoid hearing your conversation when you come to think of it. You were shoutin’ like the Baptists on a Sunday, and I’m sitting right here.”

  She stopped in her tracks and looked back at him, a brief gurgle of laughter escaping her. “‘Shouting like Baptists on a Sunday,’ huh? That’s one I haven’t heard.” There was a moment’s hesitation before she plunged, “You’re Jake’s father, aren’t you?”

  “Ray Ryder.” There was a groan of stretching to give her his hand as she told him her name. He then fell back against the wall and patted the space next to him. “Have a seat, Carrie Bennett.”

  “No, I really—”

  “Jake is with your baby, isn’t he? He’ll be takin’ real good care of her. I should leave ’em be for a while.” Eyes like saucers, Jake had said about the daughter. Well, there was no doubt where the girl got them. “Let ’em have a few dances at least. They’ll be fine. I promise.” He patted the floor next to him once more. When she didn’t move, he said, “Oh. I guess you don’t want to dirty those jeans, huh?”

  “No, that isn’t it.”

  Pique slid into outright annoyance as she got shoved toward him and almost tripped thanks to a rowdy bunch of youngsters surging into the dancehall.

  “Look.” Ray ran his thumb around the rim of the can before dropping it down by his side and sliding his legs around. “Sit here on the edge with your legs hanging off, have a beer and relax. Enjoy yourself.”

  He extended his hand again, and this time Carrie clasped it, gingerly squatting next to
him before letting her rear hit the deck and scrunching over so her legs could hang off the side.

  “Have a beer,” he repeated. “Or should I go get you a white wine. My guess is that’s what you drink.”

  “You have me all figured out, huh?” She flicked some hair behind one ear. “Well, you’re right—I don’t drink beer, but I’m not drinking anything more tonight, thanks. I’m the designated driver, so I had better stay sober.”

  “‘The designated driver?’ Wow.” He couldn’t keep humor out of his voice. “That must be some responsibility. The designated driver.” He mulled this over a bit, toying with the idea of winding her up. He brought out the flask and had a long pull, and spied her glance at her hands as if she were considering a manicure. “That sounds sorta like being one of the good Lord’s chosen people.” He swallowed his laughter as he tucked the flask back in his pocket. “I tell you, that must be some big East Coast thing, you know. ‘The designated driver,’” he repeated again, enjoying her annoyance.

  “Okay. Look. I’m sure you find it very funny, but it’s not so funny if one of us loses our license—or, indeed, our life. I need to be able to drive.”

  “I’m sure you do, sweetheart, but how many drinks did you actually have? One?” He shoved his hat back and nodded to the clusters of people hanging around outside the hall. “They’ll all be at least slightly over the legal limit and likely not a one of them will be stopped unless they’re really far gone. And I promise you, all of them will make it home safe and sound.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself. Tell all that to the Mothers Against Drunk Driving who have lost children thanks to folks with your attitude, Mr. Ryder.”

  “Ray. No, I’m just stating a fact of life. Sheriff might come by and give someone a warnin’ every so often, but he knows the folks. They’ve all grown up together, and ’less someone’s really off the deep end, he knows it isn’t worth his time pulling ’em in. Won’t do to embarrass your friends’ families. Anyway, none of them will be going far and, mostly like myself, down ranch roads.”