Page 40 of A Cowboy Home for Christmas
“Really?” Her gaze tours back to me.
“But I didn’t hit Auntie Savi like you hit Clara.”
Her nostrils flare with her ragged short breaths. “What did you do?”
“I’ll show you.” I stand and take her hand. She doesn’t pull away this time. I guide her through the arcade to the Whac-A-Mole game. I swipe the arcade card in the machine. The game lights up and repeats its catchy phrase. Small plastic cartoonish moles begin to pop out at random.
I hold the rubber mallet to Lark. She doesn’t take it. She doesn’t look at me either.
“Mommy said no more games.” Her eyes bounce back and forth watching the popping moles.
I bend down in front of her again. I turn her to face me, and pull her until her stomach bumps my knee.
“I am also real angry your daddy left. Like growly, raging bull angry.” I growl deep in my chest.
“Bulls only attack when they’re spooked.” She says it so matter-of-factly. It’s adorable.
“Truth be told, your daddy’s death did spook me. We were brothers and riding partners. I spent my whole life training, touring and competing with him. One day he was there, and then, the next day, he wasn’t.”
She pinches her quivering lips.
“Maybe you were spooked, too. Maybe you have some growly, raging, angry bull in you.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “Maybe.”
“There are good ways to express your anger and bad ways. Hitting people is the wrong way.” Lark has never been aggressive. “I know you know that.”
Her gaze drops down. Her arms unfold and she rests her hands on my leg. “I know.”
“When I feel angry, I hit a punching bag.”
“Did it make you feel better?”
“Eventually I didn’t want to hit it anymore.” I hold the mallet between us. “Why don’t you try hitting the moles.”
Her small fingers wrap around the handle.
“And when we get back home and you start to feel angry, you call me. I’ll drive you to the arcade, at any hour, of any day, to whack a mole. You understand?”
She nods. A small smile creeps up.
“Alright, show me whatcha got.” I swipe the card in the machine again.
This time when the moles start popping out, Lark attacks. Her whacks bring all her strength down on the mole. The plastic rattles. The buzzer dings. And the persistent moles give my niece a good workout.
When the game ends, her growly snark is a smile. “Again.”
I swipe the card. She plays until we’ve used all the tokens, and are denied.
“I’ll get more,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “I’m okay.” She sets the mallet down. “Can we go to story time?”
I glance at the time on my phone. “If we’re quick, we’ll make it.”
She raises her arms in the air and squeezes her hands open and shut. “Uppie.” She melts my heart a thousand times over.
I scoop her up and she lays her head on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re my uncle.”
