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After season finals, he drove up weekends to see her; she’d buck him naked for hours at a time. She’d flown to Vegas for Thanksgiving, calling to tell him she was relocating to an old boyfriend’s place nearby.
He hadn’t really been surprised; in fact, he hadn’t felt much at all. After Christmas, Buck passed. That started his mind back on Daisy.
Thursday morning, Hank roused his crew earlier than usual; they had a thousand four-foot rectangles to bale, transport and store. As sixty pound bales were spit from the twiner, his guys stacked them on a trailer. Once full, it was taken back to the hay barns, unloaded and the hay re-stacked, back-breaking, itchy, hot, arm-scratching, uncomfortable work.
As the sun dropped, Julio took the wheel of the tractor and Hank hopped down to hurry the crew along.
He tossed bale after bale up on the trailer, chaff settling on his sweaty face and neck, down his jeans, and into his shirt and boots. He couldn’t wait to be finished. Thursdays, Daisy left her job at McGreer Ranch early to wait tables at Hymie’s. Tonight, the Hill Country Boys played at nine. Dusk turned to dark as he tossed the last bale up on the trailer. Renardo grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “That sure sucked, boss.”
Wiping his brow with an itchy shirttail, Hank spit bits of hay from his chapped, split lips.“Yeah, it did, but a bale of hay brings eight, ten dollars in a dry year. And after tomorrow we’re done ‘til second cutting which is all round bales, no work at all.”
They rode back to the hay barn where they’d unload in the morning. As if he’d just thought of it, Hank said, “How ‘bout we head to Hymie’s for burgers and beers, ranch’s treat?”
Renardo nodded his head. “Sí, buena idea.” Then he grinned. He’d seen Gypsy Girl already on the big white trailer last Friday when Hank loaded Cuervo. And Daisy Antelerone had been in the passenger seat, smacking her lips with bee balm.
Hank got out of the shower, toweled off, pulled on a t-shirt, clean jeans, and his best work boots. He was nervous for no good reason, sorting through his belts. He found his BYR buckle, same as Daisy’s.
He’d taken Best Young Rider the summer, after graduation, and Daisy had, too. Happy for both of them, he’d picked up a bunch of flowers at the supermarket before the ceremony, hoping she’d let the bad times between them pass. ‘Gerbera Daisies’ the tag had said; they were bright-faced and flashy, just like her.
But when they were called up to accept their belt buckles, she hadn’t bothered to congratulate him.
Stepping off the platform, he broke through her crowd of well-wishers to give her the flowers. She’d sniffed and raised her chin, looking past him without a word, handing the flowers off to Daphne, and he’d wished the ground would swallow him up right there.
Later, he’d found the flowers strewn in the parking lot, crushed and wilted. He’d given up after that.
Maybe he was a fool to try again. She could still be as prickly, but her smile did something crazy to his insides. It always had. . . And he couldn’t forget the way she’d felt, leaping in his arms last Sunday when she’d taken first. His arms had felt empty since; he’d do just about anything to have her there for real.
Hymie’s Nine Band Armadillo Grill and Dance Hall occupied the old limestone firehouse smack in the middle of town. Downstairs, a dining room and pool tables were in the old truck bays. Upstairs, the second floor sleeping quarters had been converted to a dance hall with its own bar. It did a booming business.
The place was already buzzing when Hank and Renardo walked in. They took stools at the bar, a twenty-four inch wide polished pecan plank almost three inches thick.
“What’ll it be?” Daphne asked, tossing thick paper coasters in front of them.
“Two Shiner Bocks, Daph.”
She set down frosty glasses filled with amber liquid and just the right amount of foam. “You gonna eat?”
“Yeah, the rest of the crew’ll be along in a minute, just run a tab. Daisy here?”
Daphne smiled. “She’s in back, picking up orders. She’ll be out in a minute.”
Nursing his Shiner Bock, Hank tried not to make it obvious that his eyes followed Daisy’s tan legs as she hustled in and out of the squeaky kitchen door, hoisting trays filled with meals for crowded tables.
Renardo grinned out of the corner of an eye, and Hank knew he wasn’t hiding anything. “S’packed tonight,” he said, when Daphne set his second beer down.
She smiled at him, a friendly “can’t-fool-me” smile. “Yeah, grab that table when the family of four gets up if you guys are gonna eat, Hank.”
It was after nine by the time they were seated. Daisy slapped menus on the table, in all kinds of hurry as the bell dinged back in the kitchen. “Order’s up. I gotta go. You guys want pitchers, or you gonna ferry your own drinks?”
“Bring us six plates of wings and four pitchers of Shiner Bock, Daize. We’ll know what we’re eating when you get back, and I’ll grab the rest of our drinks from the bar, okay?”
******
Ponytail sagging, already beat, Daisy blew a long strand of stray hair from her face. Worse than the pull of sore muscles in her back and arms, worse than the cramps in her calves and feet, she was tired of being nice, tired of plastering a smile on her face while fetching this for that one and that for this one.
Waitressing wasn’t exactly her gig, but she had rodeo fees to cover, and a vet bill was coming, too; Doc Timpson would be out to geld Gone Gypsy next month. She might as well forget that she was tired and achy and stick to it, make what extra cash she could since she’d blown finishing in the money last weekend at Odessa when her foot took the barrel down.
It got easier as the families with whiny kids cleared out. Her last customers came in from ranches around town before dancing started upstairs. Guys with dates, they were fair tippers and easy enough to please. She put orders in and went to the bar, hot and flustered. “I need a shot, Daph.”
