days.”
“Possums.”
“Huh?”
“It’s possums,” she said, grasping at any excuse. Lame. Truly lame. Why had she thought of possums?
“Possums?”
“Yeah.”
“The marsupial possum?”
“Yes.”
“What about possums?”
“They’re ugly.”
“What’s your point?”
“They’re just big rats who hang upside down from trees and carry their babies around in a pouch. The females have two wombs and the males have bifurcated penises. It’s unnatural.”
“Not to the female possum. Can you imagine if he showed up with a regular penis? She’d be all like, ‘Freak,’ ” Cordy said.
Ila pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Possums are obnoxious. A family of them lives in the oak tree above my roof. They scamper around all hours of the night keeping me awake.”
“So this has got nothing to do with Joe?”
“Maybe. If I named one of the possums Joe.”
“That’s all your moodiness is about? Possums?”
“Yep.”
“I could come over,” Cordy offered. “Get rid of them for you.”
“Cordy, I’m an officer of the law. I carry a gun. If I really wanted to get rid of them I’d shoot them.”
“So you don’t want to get rid of them?” Cordy sounded confused.
“If I got rid of them, what excuse would I have for being bitchy?”
“Good point.” Cordy’s soulful eyes met her. Those eyes said, I get you, Ila Brackeen. “So . . . um . . . possums, huh?”
A hard shiver gripped Ila. Shit. Was it true? Could Cordy see straight through her? Well, she wasn’t about to let him know it. “Yep. Possums.”
Chapter Seven
Tug on enough reins, eventually one of them will give.
—Dutch Callahan
F ollowing her lunch with Joe, Mariah spent the rest of the day scrubbing and dusting, sweeping and mopping the disheveled cabin. She made room in the dresser drawers and unpacked her clothes with more than a smidge of reluctance. Unpacking her things felt like she was moving in, and moving in felt like resignation.
It felt like defeat.
To drown out her feelings, she turned on the old transistor radio she’d found on the windowsill in Dutch’s bedroom. She’d sold her iPod on eBay weeks ago—along with most of her other extraneous possessions—when she was desperate for rent money. It was tuned to a country-and-western station, not Mariah’s cup of tea, but when she went to turn the dial, the worn-out old plastic knob broke off in her hand. She tossed the knob in the trash. She was stuck listening to WBAP.
Stuck.
That seemed to be her current life theme.
Dolly Parton came over the airwaves, singing “I Will Always Love You.”
She remembered that Dolly had been one of Dutch’s favorites. She reached out to the picture on the wall of Dutch and Joe. She traced an index finger over her father’s face and listened to Dolly singing about lost love and her heart hurt so badly she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t cry. She wanted to cry. Wanted to fully mourn her lost father, but the tears refused to fall.
Resolutely, she turned from the picture, closed her eyes against the pain, and mentally shook herself.
Okay then. She was here. This was the situation. No more wallowing in self-pity. She needed to accept things as they were, get any job she could land, and just ride it out until Joe had the money to purchase the ranch from her. After that, after that . . .
After that, what?
One step at a time.
She’d seen the help wanted sign in the window of the Silver Horseshoe when they drove past it. Clover, the woman on horseback she’d met the day before, said she owned the place.
Why not start there?
T he next morning, Mariah got up, showered, and started to dress in the one decent interview suit she still owned, but thought better of it. Talk about standing out like a sore thumb. The Chanel suit might have worked in Chicago, but what closed a deal here in Jubilee were cowboy clothes. Of which she had none.
She stood peering into the closet, wrapped in a thin cotton
“Possums.”
“Huh?”
“It’s possums,” she said, grasping at any excuse. Lame. Truly lame. Why had she thought of possums?
“Possums?”
“Yeah.”
“The marsupial possum?”
“Yes.”
“What about possums?”
“They’re ugly.”
“What’s your point?”
“They’re just big rats who hang upside down from trees and carry their babies around in a pouch. The females have two wombs and the males have bifurcated penises. It’s unnatural.”
“Not to the female possum. Can you imagine if he showed up with a regular penis? She’d be all like, ‘Freak,’ ” Cordy said.
Ila pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Possums are obnoxious. A family of them lives in the oak tree above my roof. They scamper around all hours of the night keeping me awake.”
“So this has got nothing to do with Joe?”
“Maybe. If I named one of the possums Joe.”
“That’s all your moodiness is about? Possums?”
“Yep.”
“I could come over,” Cordy offered. “Get rid of them for you.”
“Cordy, I’m an officer of the law. I carry a gun. If I really wanted to get rid of them I’d shoot them.”
“So you don’t want to get rid of them?” Cordy sounded confused.
“If I got rid of them, what excuse would I have for being bitchy?”
“Good point.” Cordy’s soulful eyes met her. Those eyes said, I get you, Ila Brackeen. “So . . . um . . . possums, huh?”
A hard shiver gripped Ila. Shit. Was it true? Could Cordy see straight through her? Well, she wasn’t about to let him know it. “Yep. Possums.”
Chapter Seven
Tug on enough reins, eventually one of them will give.
—Dutch Callahan
F ollowing her lunch with Joe, Mariah spent the rest of the day scrubbing and dusting, sweeping and mopping the disheveled cabin. She made room in the dresser drawers and unpacked her clothes with more than a smidge of reluctance. Unpacking her things felt like she was moving in, and moving in felt like resignation.
It felt like defeat.
To drown out her feelings, she turned on the old transistor radio she’d found on the windowsill in Dutch’s bedroom. She’d sold her iPod on eBay weeks ago—along with most of her other extraneous possessions—when she was desperate for rent money. It was tuned to a country-and-western station, not Mariah’s cup of tea, but when she went to turn the dial, the worn-out old plastic knob broke off in her hand. She tossed the knob in the trash. She was stuck listening to WBAP.
Stuck.
That seemed to be her current life theme.
Dolly Parton came over the airwaves, singing “I Will Always Love You.”
She remembered that Dolly had been one of Dutch’s favorites. She reached out to the picture on the wall of Dutch and Joe. She traced an index finger over her father’s face and listened to Dolly singing about lost love and her heart hurt so badly she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t cry. She wanted to cry. Wanted to fully mourn her lost father, but the tears refused to fall.
Resolutely, she turned from the picture, closed her eyes against the pain, and mentally shook herself.
Okay then. She was here. This was the situation. No more wallowing in self-pity. She needed to accept things as they were, get any job she could land, and just ride it out until Joe had the money to purchase the ranch from her. After that, after that . . .
After that, what?
One step at a time.
She’d seen the help wanted sign in the window of the Silver Horseshoe when they drove past it. Clover, the woman on horseback she’d met the day before, said she owned the place.
Why not start there?
T he next morning, Mariah got up, showered, and started to dress in the one decent interview suit she still owned, but thought better of it. Talk about standing out like a sore thumb. The Chanel suit might have worked in Chicago, but what closed a deal here in Jubilee were cowboy clothes. Of which she had none.
She stood peering into the closet, wrapped in a thin cotton
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