Page 14 of My Cowboy Kiss
Getting to ranch doesn’t take long even at this time when everyone’s starting to get off work in town because Lucky River doesn’t have rush hour traffic. The town is too small for that.
I’m pulling into the driveway at the ranch when my phone rings.
“I need your help,” Courtney says, her voice taut and thick with tears.
“On my way.” Tires spit dust as I spin the truck around and head back the way I came.
I don’t even see the trees blurring by as I race back. At her place, the minute I stop the truck, I jump out and stride to her.
She’s standing in the lot in front of her car. The hood is raised, and she’s leaning her forehead against the edge of it. When she hears me, she lifts her head.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and her cheeks are wet. “Point me at what you need me to fix,” I say. Physical, emotional, doesn’t matter. I’ll take it on.
“I have to get to Clover County. Mom called and said she’s hurt. She sounds scared.”
“Forget trying to get this going.” I slam the hood of her car and take her by the hand. “Get in the truck.”
“There’s no need for you to go. I already know I need to get a new battery. But if you have cables and can give this one a jump?—”
“We’re wasting time.”
“You’re right.” She gets in the truck and as soon as she’s settled, I take off, heading to her mom’s place.
I know the address because I’ve been there multiple times. Courtney doesn’t know I hounded the hell out of her mom for weeks until she finally agreed to give up custody.
It was the only way I knew to save her.
Because she lives at the far end of the county, it takes a little over an hour to get to her mom’s house.
When I pull in, the truck bounces on the deeply gutted driveway. This place is a train wreck just like all the other places she lived. Here, the grass is almost knee high. Junk cars dot the yard rusting away on cinder blocks.
A couple of trashcans overflow, and flies are everywhere. The front porch sags over broken steps. The large bay window in the middle of the house is missing glass in two panes and cardboard is taped over the holes.
I take Courtney’s arm and help her navigate the steps. “Careful.”
She’s not saying anything but the tension radiating from her body speaks volumes.
The front door is propped open and the smell wafting from inside is one of dampness and decay.
Her mom, Deedee, who goes by the nickname Darling, is on the sofa in a miniskirt and halter top sitting on a scraggly haired guy’s lap. A second guy is on the end of the sofa, his pants unzipped, his hand inside them cupping his junk. All of them have glassy eyes.
When she sees us, Deedee climbs off the guy and staggers around a coffee table piled with overflowing ashtrays and crumpled beer cans.
A cockroach scurries on the wall behind the sofa as a man wearing a pair of boxers steps out of the kitchen, hollering, “Darling, you get any more beer yet?”
“Working on it,” Deedee giggles, approaching Courtney and reaching for her arm.
I pull Courtney back and around behind me.
Her mother tips her head, staggers a step and frowns up at me like she’s trying to place where she knows me from.
“You said you were hurt,” Courtney moves to stand beside me, accusation in her voice.
Deedee giggles. “I am hurt. I need alcohol and I’m broke. Withdrawal hurts and I can’t deal with that.”
Junk clutcher laughs. “Yeah. That’s a bitch alright.”
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. “How can you ask your daughter to come to this shit hole? How can you put her in a situation like this?”
