“Deidre.” He stood at the door, not knowing whether he should go in or what he would say if he did. “I saw you at the rodeo.” It sounded like an excuse.
“Come in. Come in.” She practically squealed the invitation.
Chance squared his shoulders and stepped into the tiny apartment. The door opened right into a small space that contained a well-worn plaid sofa that most would have called a loveseat. There was a rocking chair covered in the same red-and-brown plaid as the sofa, with a skirt around the edge, and a pine coffee table that had seen better days. But the place was neat. As he scanned the room, he lit on a shelf, above the newer TV, that was jammed with photos in brass frames. He turned his gaze back to the small woman in a black uniform. She stared up at him with eyes that held too much emotion. Too much emotion to handle.
He’d made a mistake coming there. He’d no plan, and worse, no exit strategy.
“Can I get you something? Coffee? I’ve some crumb cake that still should be good. Are you hurting from your ride? Do you need something?” The words tumbled out of her in a big whoosh. She was trembling too.
This was a bad idea.
“Are you getting ready to leave for work?” Maybe that was his exit strategy.
“Not for another hour. I’ve the supper shift at the cafe near Route 30.” She was rubbing her hands one over the other. “It pays pretty good,” she added.
He nodded. “Coffee would be good.”
“Great. Have a seat,” she said, eyeing him as if she was afraid he’d bolt. She might have been right on another day. But, he’d come this far…
She hustled off to the kitchen, and he heard cabinets opening and cups clattering. Chance strode over to the collection of photos. A lump caught in his throat as he looked across the frames. Every one held a picture of him. Chance on his mother’s lap. Chance in his high chair. Chance riding a pony. Chance in his cowboy hat. Chance standing with his grandfather—the same picture he had on his mantel in his living room. There was even his official PRCA website photo printed on copy paper and framed, the only one of him as a man.
Chance’s legs felt wobbly. He needed to sit.
The plaid sofa felt soft as he plunked down. He could imagine Deidre sitting there night after night, alone, watching her TV. Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe she had a man in her life. Or friends. He knew nothing about her. And had never cared to know.
“Here we are.” She bustled in, easily balancing a tray of coffee cups, plates, and half a crumb cake cut into squares. She set it on the coffee table with ease.
“I didn’t know how you liked your coffee,” she said, sounding a little anxious, “so I brought cream and sugar.”
“Black is good for me.”
She nodded and, still smiling, sat on the edge of the rocker.
Chance took a sip of the coffee. It was hot, strong, and smooth, just the way he liked it. “Good coffee.”
Her smile widened. “I wouldn’t be worth anything as a waitress if I couldn’t make a good cup of coffee.”
Chance fumbled a piece of coffee cake onto one of the blue-and-white patterned plates and took a bite.
“You were at the rodeo today,” he said after a swallow of the sugary sweet.
Deidre lowered her eyes as if he’d rebuked her. “Yes. I’d never seen you ride. Live, that is. I’ve watched you on TV, of course. During the NFR. I’ve always wanted to go to that. To see you. But the tickets…”
“You didn’t stop back.”
“I thought about it. But then, I didn’t think you’d see me. Not after…” The sadness in her voice shot straight to his heart. Hell.
He shifted in his seat. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“You don’t need to give a reason. I’m just glad you are.”
He glanced up at the pictures of his young self. Behind that little boy’s smiling face was a lot of fear for the man standing off in the shadows. Except with his grandfather. Granddaddy Winslow had been a good man. A kind man. But tough if he needed to be. The beatings of his mother didn’t start until after his granddaddy had died. Because Granddaddy Winslow would have killed Jess Cochran if he’d touched his daughter or his grandbaby. The drinking hadn’t started until after Granddaddy’s death either. But his father’s temper had always been there. Lurking. Waiting.
Deidre followed his gaze. “You remember riding Stan Sherrington’s ponies when your father worked for him? You loved horses and riding. When your father had been working ranches, you got a lot of opportunities to ride. You were a natural.”
“I’ve a lot of memories from growing up. Can’t seem to get rid of them.”
Deidre’s mouth pulled in as she gazed down at her hands. She looked small, frail, vulnerable.
Okay. He shouldn’t have said it. But it was hard to remember the good among all the ugly.