see it.
“More or less. Someone's not suing for a change, and some lousy magazine is going to run another ugly story. No big deal, I guess.” But it was as though they broke off a piece of her soul each time they did it, like an old, stale cookie. And one day, there would be no pieces left at all. She would have no soul left. But to them, it made no difference.
“Don't pay any attention to it,” Zoe suggested. “Just don't read it.” There had been some critical articles about her when she'd first started the clinic, but that wasn't the same thing and Tanya knew it better than she did. This was so personal, so hurtful, so invasive, and always so ugly.
“Try to forget it,” Mary Stuart said, and both women put their arms around Tanya's waist, and the three of them walked up to the dining room, talking like that, with no idea of the powerful impression they made as they walked along. They were three very striking women. And from his deck, unnoticed by them, Hartley Bowman was watching Mary Stuart.
Chapter 13
Their ride that afternoon was just as pleasant as the one that morning, and they rode out again in the same groups and configurations. They were assigned the same wrangler and the same horses for the duration of their stay, so Liz, the head of the corral, was anxious to know if everyone was satisfied with their mounts and their cowboys. And no one seemed to have any complaints that she knew of.
Zoe chatted with the doctors again that afternoon, and Tanya tried not to listen as they had moved on to transplants, which was no better than the discussion about severed limbs earlier that morning. And trying to leave Mary Stuart alone with Hartley as they discussed a book they'd both read, she moved ahead again with the wrangler. Once again, they rode for what seemed like miles, in silence. And then finally, Tanya couldn't stand it, and she looked at him from across her horse's neck, but he never even looked at her. It was as though he had no idea who she was beside him. It was entirely up to her to keep up with him, he never once acknowledged her presence.
“Is there something about me that bothers you?” she asked, with an irritated expression. He was really beginning to annoy her. She was not having fun, and she didn't even like him.
“No, ma'am. Nothing at all,” he said, without a change of expression. She thought he was going to lapse into silence again and she wanted to hit him with her cowboy boot. He was the most taciturn man she'd ever met, and she couldn't stand it. Usually people at least talked to her, or looked at her, or something. She had never met anyone with reactions like Gordon. But he surprised her after another half mile, while she was debating whether or not it was worth the trouble of trying again, just to see if he would answer. “You're a real good rider.” At first, she couldn't believe he'd spoken, and this time he glanced at her sideways, and then looked away just as quickly. It was almost as though her light was too blinding. It was that that was troubling him, but she didn't know that.
“Thank you. I don't like horses.” Or cowboys. Or people who don't talk to me. Or anything about you.
“I saw that on your card, ma'am. Any special reason? You taken a bad fall sometime?” She suspected it was the most he'd said all year to anyone, but at least he was trying. He was clearly a man of few words, but she was beginning to wonder if Hartley was right, and he was shy and not used to city people. He should have taken a job doing shoes then, not riding with hotel guests, she thought as she watched him.
“No, I've never fallen. I just think horses are dumb. I rode a lot when I was a kid, but I never liked it.”
“I grew up on a horse,” he said matter-of-factly, “roping steers. My daddy worked on a ranch, and I worked right along with him.” He didn't tell her that his father had died when he was ten, and he had supported his mother and four sisters until they all got married and he still supported his mother, and he had a son he helped out from time to time in Montana. Despite what Tanya thought of him, Gordon Washbaugh was a good man, and a bright one. “Most of the people who come here say they can ride, think so too, but they're just plain dangerous. They don't have any idea what they're doing. They all wind up in the dust first day out. Not many like you, ma'am.” It was a classic understatement and he knew it. He looked at her sheepishly, and she was surprised to see that he was smiling too then. “I never rode with anyone famous. Makes me kinda nervous.” He was so honest it impressed her. And she was suddenly embarrassed by her complaints to the others at lunchtime.
“Why would it make you nervous?” His perception of her amused her. It was so rare that she could see herself from that perspective. She never really understood why people were so fascinated, nor why he would be frightened of her,
“Don't want to say the wrong thing, ma'am. Might make you angry.”
And then she laughed suddenly, as they rode through a clearing. The light was beautiful on the hills, and in the distance they could see a coyote. “You really made me mad when you wouldn't talk to me this morning,” she admitted with a grin, and he glanced at her cautiously. He had no idea whether or not to relax with her, if she was real, and could be trusted. “I thought you hated me or something.”
“Why would I hate you? The whole damn ranch wants to know you. Bought your CD's, want autographs. Someone's got a video of you somewhere. They told us not to say anything to you, not to ask questions, not to bother you. I figured it was just better not to talk at all. Didn't want to bug you. The others make such damn fools of themselves. I tried to get them to let someone else be your wrangler. I'm not much of a talker.” He was so honest with her that in spite of her earlier assessment of him, she actually liked him. And he was surprisingly clean and well-spoken for a cowboy. “I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings.” He brought it down to such real emotions, she started to say he hadn't, but he had, that was the whole point. It hurt her that he wouldn't talk to her. It was something new for Tanya. “I figured it'd be more restful for you if I kept my mouth shut.”
“Well, make a little noise from time to time just so I know you're breathing,” she said with a lopsided grin, and he guffawed.
“Someone like you, the whole world must chew your ear off. I couldn't believe how crazy they all got before you got here. Must be hard on you,” he said matter-of-factly, getting right to the heart of the matter, and she nodded.
“It is,” she said softly, able to be honest with him, out in the middle of nowhere, as they loped toward the mountains across a field of wildflowers. It was like seeking truth, or finding nirvana. There was something about the place that touched her deeply. She had come here to amuse her stepchildren originally, and then her friends, but instead she was finding something she had lost from her soul a long time ago, a kind of peace she had long since forgotten. “All those people grabbing at you, taking something from you, taking something away from you, it's as though they suck out your spirit and they don't even know it, but they do… sometimes I think that one day it will kill me, or they will.” The nightmare of John Lennon being murdered by a fan was vivid for all famous people who had mobs of fans as she did. But there were other nightmares as well, just as lethal in the long run, though less obvious than the gun that had killed him. “It's a crazy life where I come from,” she said thoughtfully, “it didn't used to be in the beginning. But it got that way. And I don't think it's ever going to change now.”
“You ought to buy a place here,” he said, looking straight ahead toward the Tetons, “a lot of people like you come here, to get away, to hide for a while, get their spirit back. They come here, or go to Montana, Colorado, same idea. You could go back to Texas.” He smiled at her and she groaned.
“I think I've outgrown that,” she confessed, and he laughed. His laughter was a fresh, easy sound that suited him perfectly and made her smile in answer.
“I think I outgrew Texas a long time ago too. Too hot, too dusty, too empty. That's why I came here. This suits me better,” he said as she looked around them and nodded. It was easy to see why. Who wouldn't it have suited?
“Do you live here all year long?” she asked. This was much better than the morning. Even if she never saw him again, at least now they were human beings. He knew something about her, and she knew something about him. She thought maybe she'd write a song about him. The Silent Cowboy.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said.
“What's it like?” She was thinking of the song now.
“Cold.” He smiled and glanced at her sideways again. She was so beautiful, she scared him. It was easier not to see her. “We get twenty feet of snow sometimes. We send the horses south in October. Can't get around except by snowplow.”
