Inn’s been closed for twenty-five years.”
“I told you old Bob was soused.”
Hap hoisted the plywood up with his shoulder and drove in another nail. “My daddy had his two-ton hay truck stolen one time
when I was about ten. They took it right out of the shed. They got as far as Belfry before it ran out of gas. Daddy’s ever’day
spurs was in the jockey box. He stewed more about losin’ them than the truck. A wrecker from Bridger called us. Said he had
the truck in his yard and retrieval cost $167. Daddy pondered it a while, and then we went up to fetch it. He did it for the
spurs.”
Laramie pulled nails from his mouth and shoved them into his shirt pocket as he climbed down the six-foot aluminum ladder.
He watched as narrow headlights of a small convertible bounced into the parking lot. It was a crisp powder blue like the late-afternoon
sky over the Bear Tooth Mountains in summer. The music from the stereo died when the car door opened. “Now, there’s a pretty
one for you.” The pain in his right shoulder melted away and he scratched his cheek to hide a boyish grin.
“It’s one of them little Mazdas. It’s got two bucket seats and no backseat. I hear they’re fun to drive in the mountains.
I reckon the mileage is good, but it would be kind of cramped with the top up.”
“I wasn’t talking about the car, Hap.”
A very tall, slender lady, with straight black hair pulled back behind her ears, swung out of the convertible. She wore white
crepe-sole oxfords, a short-sleeved white dress down to her knees, and opaque white hose, but she strolled the parking lot
like a lissome model on a designer’s runway.
Laramie’s voice lowered. “There’s one fine-looking nurse… sort of a young, olive-skinned Audrey Hepburn.” He searched for
lines that he’d practiced for years. He’d always told himself that someday a lady would appear who might erase his bad memories.
As he tried to exhale slowly, he realized he wouldn’t mind if she erased everything on the face of the planet except the two
of them.
“Hi, I’m Annamarie Buchett. You must be the cowboys mother hired to help clean up.”
Hap pulled off his hat. “Sam is your mother?”
“Yes, is she inside?”
Laramie shook his head. “She sure is beautiful.”
Annamarie narrowed her eyes. “My mother?”
“Eh… no… I…” He stammered as if his
witty but friendly
file had been deleted.
“My partner, Laramie, was admirin’ your…”
“Your sports car,” Laramie gasped. “She sure is a beauty.” Images of some movie with Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts came to
mind, but he couldn’t remember any of the suave lines.
“Thank you, Laramie. You have good taste…” she turned and grinned at Hap. “… in sports cars.”
He tipped his hat. “My name is Hap, Miss Annamarie.”
She shook his hand. “Laramie and Hap? I don’t suppose those are the names your mothers gave you.”
“Hap was my dad’s idea.”
“And Annamarie was my father’s.”
“Say,” Hap added. “Is Buchett a French name?”
“My mother’s father was French. That makes me one-quarter French, one-quarter Vietamese, and one-half stubborn Texan. Buchett
is a good, east Texas pioneer name.”
“You don’t say,” Laramie murmured. “Mighty pretty…”
“My car?”
Laramie cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” He watched her disappear into the store, hoping, somehow, she favored shy, pathetic
bumblers.
With all the boards in place, they toted the tools and ladders around to the shed in the back. Hap snapped the padlock. “I
ain’t never seen you tongue-tied like that.”
“I spent most of my early years too scared to talk. This is different. Real different. It all became clear to me in an instant.”
“What became clear?”
“For weeks I’ve been trying to figure out why in the world I am down here in Laredo, Texas.”
They hiked back around to the front of the store and watched as an ambulance,
“I told you old Bob was soused.”
Hap hoisted the plywood up with his shoulder and drove in another nail. “My daddy had his two-ton hay truck stolen one time
when I was about ten. They took it right out of the shed. They got as far as Belfry before it ran out of gas. Daddy’s ever’day
spurs was in the jockey box. He stewed more about losin’ them than the truck. A wrecker from Bridger called us. Said he had
the truck in his yard and retrieval cost $167. Daddy pondered it a while, and then we went up to fetch it. He did it for the
spurs.”
Laramie pulled nails from his mouth and shoved them into his shirt pocket as he climbed down the six-foot aluminum ladder.
He watched as narrow headlights of a small convertible bounced into the parking lot. It was a crisp powder blue like the late-afternoon
sky over the Bear Tooth Mountains in summer. The music from the stereo died when the car door opened. “Now, there’s a pretty
one for you.” The pain in his right shoulder melted away and he scratched his cheek to hide a boyish grin.
“It’s one of them little Mazdas. It’s got two bucket seats and no backseat. I hear they’re fun to drive in the mountains.
I reckon the mileage is good, but it would be kind of cramped with the top up.”
“I wasn’t talking about the car, Hap.”
A very tall, slender lady, with straight black hair pulled back behind her ears, swung out of the convertible. She wore white
crepe-sole oxfords, a short-sleeved white dress down to her knees, and opaque white hose, but she strolled the parking lot
like a lissome model on a designer’s runway.
Laramie’s voice lowered. “There’s one fine-looking nurse… sort of a young, olive-skinned Audrey Hepburn.” He searched for
lines that he’d practiced for years. He’d always told himself that someday a lady would appear who might erase his bad memories.
As he tried to exhale slowly, he realized he wouldn’t mind if she erased everything on the face of the planet except the two
of them.
“Hi, I’m Annamarie Buchett. You must be the cowboys mother hired to help clean up.”
Hap pulled off his hat. “Sam is your mother?”
“Yes, is she inside?”
Laramie shook his head. “She sure is beautiful.”
Annamarie narrowed her eyes. “My mother?”
“Eh… no… I…” He stammered as if his
witty but friendly
file had been deleted.
“My partner, Laramie, was admirin’ your…”
“Your sports car,” Laramie gasped. “She sure is a beauty.” Images of some movie with Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts came to
mind, but he couldn’t remember any of the suave lines.
“Thank you, Laramie. You have good taste…” she turned and grinned at Hap. “… in sports cars.”
He tipped his hat. “My name is Hap, Miss Annamarie.”
She shook his hand. “Laramie and Hap? I don’t suppose those are the names your mothers gave you.”
“Hap was my dad’s idea.”
“And Annamarie was my father’s.”
“Say,” Hap added. “Is Buchett a French name?”
“My mother’s father was French. That makes me one-quarter French, one-quarter Vietamese, and one-half stubborn Texan. Buchett
is a good, east Texas pioneer name.”
“You don’t say,” Laramie murmured. “Mighty pretty…”
“My car?”
Laramie cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” He watched her disappear into the store, hoping, somehow, she favored shy, pathetic
bumblers.
With all the boards in place, they toted the tools and ladders around to the shed in the back. Hap snapped the padlock. “I
ain’t never seen you tongue-tied like that.”
“I spent most of my early years too scared to talk. This is different. Real different. It all became clear to me in an instant.”
“What became clear?”
“For weeks I’ve been trying to figure out why in the world I am down here in Laredo, Texas.”
They hiked back around to the front of the store and watched as an ambulance,
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