Page 45 of Cowboy

We should keep our distance. Is this how she’d done it?

Closing my eyes is a mistake. Behind my lids, I see two things—a mixture of the woman on the screen, chuckling as she tugs at her glasses and the woman who was under me this morning, filling my heart with her tenderness as we joined as one. I shudder and quickly reopen my eyes, focusing on my hands curled over the back of the couch, veins extended with my anger. This is worse than being divorced, left at the altar, or a broken engagement to a thief. This is my heart being ripped out of my chest as the woman I thought I loved, who I brought into my family, who might be carrying my kid . . .

I spin to face her, and my insides twist like a snowstorm, cold and out of control. “I think you should leave.”

Blade gasps beside Scarlett, and she slowly nods, looking up at him with dark, tearstained cheeks. Her lids blink before she looks back at me, but I instantly turn away. Shifting to my right, Canyon has his head lowered as well, shaking it side to side in disbelief. I find my father staring at Scarlett, his eyes full of concern.

“Don’t look at her,” I snap. Does my father not remember all that happened? We almost lost this place. People didn’t want our milk. The slaughterhouse didn’t even want the cows we had to sell to cover the legal costs. Farms tied to MoosHaveRights2 didn’t want to sell us new heifers at first because they were skeptical of our practices. Generations of dairy farming were almost down the drain by a careless story.

Dad’s eyes shift and narrow at me. In the background, Scarlett’s sandals tap on the hardwood floor as she exits the room, and I watch as my dad disappears into the front hall. Left in silence, my brothers remain as the quiet support they’ve always been. The dairy king’s men were ready to put my heart back together again. Only this time, I’m not certain they can.

14

Gossip Girl

Scarlett

I trip over my own feet as I stumble down the gravel lane. A pebble gets stuck between my toes, and I try to bend forward to remove it, struggling with the added weight and bulge of my belly before jiggling my foot in the sandal. I flap my ankle around until the small rock flips free, and I can continue forward.

I recall the story as I walk. The reason the Eaton name sounded vaguely familiar returns to me. The report was three summer’s old. We’d gotten word of a man who’d been stood up at the altar similar in fashion to the Runaway Bride. Three times he’d been left behind, and we wanted to know why. Based on his picture, I remember the girls in the office wondering what could be wrong with him. He was good-looking, solidly built, and had a glint to his eye. We’d come up with several hypotheses as to how a man such as him could be alone, and none of the possibilities were flattering. We didn’t know the truth—that behind the image of a handsome silver fox was a good man who’d had bad luck with women.

It was a fluke that our investigative team arrived after the rainstorms of that spring and captured the images of Bull fumbling in the field with his cows. Frolicking is how the cameramen had captioned his video. We laughed, wondering unfairly what they were doing in the meadows of Vermont. I recall feeling uncomfortable reporting such a suggestion as the fine-assed cowboy was humping his animals, but it was a slow summer season, and I remember thinking the story wouldn’t be viewed by many. It hadn’t, actually. The statistics showed it was one of our least watched episodes, but something happened over on social media, and the video went viral. Perhaps it’s what Bull said; an animal activist group got involved. We didn’t follow up. Without a direct interest in the television airing, we moved forward.

I’m so ashamed.

The story made a revival all these years later due to the social media sensationalism. Lex wanted to try a new segment, highlighting old news with follow-ups. We sat around in office chairs, and he reported out former stories, flashing snippets of them before we commentated. We filmed an entire series about eighteen months ago, intending to use the news flashes as this one was used as a filler. I’m a little surprised the network would play a video with me in the picture, given I no longer work for them, but they hold all the rights to what they’ve produced, present example included, even if I’m currently not employed by them.

My pace slows as my feet grow heavy, the weight of what just happened pressing me down. Bull will never forgive me, and I don’t blame him. Reporting on the average person never made me comfortable, but then again, mega-stars are just people too, and it shouldn’t have felt right to expose their dirt either. I’d always had a twinge of guilt covering divorces when the husband cheated with a nanny or reports of a woman losing her child before birth. How is that newsworthy? It’s not. It’s private, and a good reminder that I no longer have what it takes to report such sensationalism.

As I continue down the gravel drive to Bull’s house, my thoughts race. What will I do? Rita is my first thought. Bull will not want me at his place, and I’ll need to call my best friend once again for support.

“Scarlett, hold up.” A deep male tenor behind me stops me in my tracks, and I turn to find Bull’s father coming down the lane.

“Harland?” I walk toward him, wondering if something else happened after one of the most humiliating moments of my life.

“Hang on,” he says, drawing closer to me, moving faster at sixty-something than I am.

“Harland, are you okay?” He’s my first concern as he’s breathing fast when we catch up to one another. He reaches for my hand extended toward him.

“Let’s walk a bit,” he says to me, waving out an arm, turning us back in the direction of Bull’s home. We begin in silence, and the anticipation of what he has to say rattles my weary bones. The evening is warm, and I’m suddenly exhausted. With the tension between us, I break first.

“I’m so sorry, Harland. I never meant any harm to your family or the farm.” I wish I could explain myself better. Saying it was my job feels like a weak and unworthy excuse. I don’t have a good reason for what I’ve done or what the network did.

“Darlin’, I’ve never met a person without regrets, and anyone who says he doesn’t have any is lying.” He softly chuckles. “Everyone makes mistakes. Bull’s made at least three, named Jennifer, Sabrina, and Gisela. Might even be a few more in there I don’t know about.”

I offer a weak smile, recalling my own major mistake named Dr. Shelton Blake. Somehow, my error seems so much bigger than anything Bull could have ever done. He deserves someone better than me. Better than Jennifer, Sabrina, Gisela, and now Scarlett on his list of women who have scorned him.

“It's what you do about a misstep once taken that’s the real lesson. Once you learn the wrong you’ve done, what matters is the next steps you take to make it right.”

I nod to agree as I look up at the dirt path before us. In some ways, I’ve just learned a valuable lesson. Reports such as the one the network made have consequences. It’s a lesson taught to a child but not necessarily understood until you’re standing in the middle of a poor decision. It occurs to me that Harland is patient and calm as he speaks to me. He isn’t scolding me or accusing me of wrongdoing as my parents would.

“I don’t know how I’ll make this right.” My eyes scan the lane and the pasture fenced in beside it. Somewhere off in the distance is that romantic tree, and Bull could have lost all this because of the network’s false reporting.

“Things happen on farms. Sometimes, it’s misinterpreted. Typically, it doesn’t make the news, but . . .” Harland shrugs.

I find little comfort in what he’s said as the initial story wasn’t really about the farm but a man who’d headed to the altar more than his fair share of times.

“I’ve hurt him,” I whisper. “I’ve hurt all of you.”