Definitely, Maybe in Love

come home a few times a year.”

I held up a hand. “You’re telling me Henry lived here?”

“I believe she just confirmed that, Springer,” Mel said with a grin.

“Shhh,” I hissed, knocking her away with my shoulder.

“The children come home every summer and the occasional weekend,” Bird’s Nest said. “Trip is usually here in June and July.”

“Trip,” Mel repeated, glancing at me.

“That’s what everyone’s always calls young Henry.” She leaned forward. “He’s the third.”

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “I know.”

Mel snickered beside me, hanging onto my arm. “This is too delicious.”

I looked at Bird’s Nest. “Do you know if… Is Henry—”

“Trip,” Mel corrected.

“Shut up,” I hissed. Then, “Trip.” I coughed, stumbling over the name. “Is he home now?” I held my breath, not knowing which way I wanted Bird’s Nest to answer.

“No.” She frowned. “But they’re expected next week for the festival and ribbon-cutting. You probably already know this, since you know Trip, but the family takes great care of our town. Saved most of us from welfare or worse when the beef recession hit.” She ran a cloth over a gold frame. “A decade ago, they revamped all the schools. Eighty percent of the graduates go on to college, most of them on the Knightly scholarship. They bought and donated all the historical sites that help keep tourists coming through.”

“So they’re do-gooders,” Mel asked Bird’s Nest while grinning at me.

“Absolutely,” she replied. “They employ only locals to work the dude ranch during the summer season.”

“Dude ranch?” I nearly choked again.

“The Diamond W,” our guide clarified, “is one of the most successful working ranches for a hundred miles, and our town’s biggest commodity. Folks come to experience the Old West.” She rolled her eyes, but I didn’t miss the proud look she carried. “A team of retired ranchers takes groups on horseback up into the foothills. Rodeo every Saturday. Barbeque and cobbler. Folks sure love it.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I muttered.

“About what, dear?” Bird’s Nest asked, tilting her head.

Mel was literally doubled over, snorting and cackling. I gave her a shove and she staggered back. “Don’t mind her,” she said, popping up at my side, one arm tight around my shoulders. “She’s just in the middle of a nervous breakdown.”

“O-oh, yes, well, should we press on? Or would you rather visit the Diamond W? Next bus leaves in ten minutes.”

Chapter 31

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said as the bus rocked and bounced us up the hill. My fingernails dug into the torn vinyl seat in front of me.

“This is epic!” Mel exclaimed. “Aren’t you curious?” She peered out the dusty window. “I know I am. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me where we were going today.”

“I didn’t know he lived here lived here,” I defended. “I feel like we’re trespassing.”

“No one will know you’re here.” She patted my arm. “We’ll just tool around for a while, check out the back of some Wrangler jeans, then split. It’ll be fun.”

I exhaled, still mildly freaked, but at least Mel was excited about something and not complaining about the weird smell coming from the back of the bus.

Along with the dozen other passengers, we were dumped off in the middle of what felt like an outdoor madhouse. People and animals bustled wildly, some loners rushed about, while large groups moseyed. Mel and I stood close together holding hands. Two city slickers.

I spied the house farther up the hill. Of all places to see, that was first on my list.

“Where should we go?” Mel asked.

“I’m feeling overwhelmed,” I admitted.

“Down by the gate”—Mel gestured—“there’re more maps and pamphlets. I’ll run down and grab some.” That seemed like a smart idea. “Hey.” She shook my arm. “You’ll be okay here?”

“Sure,” I replied, nodding manically. “I’m good.”

She eyed me skeptically. “Okay. I’ll be back in a flash.”

All alone, I felt like a refugee fresh off Ellis Island dropped on an intersection of Times Square. The throng was a mixture of tourists, ranch hands, and what might’ve been local kids from the town below. Perhaps the Diamond W Dude Ranch was a popular hangout for teenagers.

I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, settling on standing in place like a stuffed dummy, my arms pinned at my sides. After a few minutes, passersby started walking around me like I was a flag pole in the middle of the opening.

During our fifteen minute bus ride, I’d thumbed through a slim guidebook that I’d snagged when first arriving at the museum. Seemed “Diamond Dub” (as it was affectionately known) was quite the happening place.

For the adventurous camper, there was horseback riding, cattle drives, catch and release fishing at the trout stream, 4x4 racing, hiking, round-ups, and skeet shooting. City folks could enjoy the hot springs, stroll through wildflower strewn meadows, and visit a souvenir shop. At sunset, the ranch featured hayrides, firesides of cowboy poetry, and a square dance on Friday nights.

On a more economical note, I also read that Diamond Dub raised, broke and bred quarter horses. Its 1,500 head of cattle and other livestock produced beef, pork, milk and cream, many of which were shipped across the country, and all of which provided hundreds of jobs to local families.

“Cowboy up!” someone whooped over the crowd. People whooped back and yee-hawed in reply. I didn’t understand why.

Still trying to keep my limbs intact, I pulled the guidebook from my bag and flipped through it again, in search of any information about the proprietors. There was nothing. I was about to toss it in my backpack, but what I spotted on the back cover made my heart stop.

It was a picture of a sunset on the prairie, and silhouetted in the center of the orange and gold glowing ball was a man in a cowboy hat, down on one knee, petting a dog. Even though it was ensconced in shadows, the profile of the cowboy was easily recognizable to me.

It was Henry.

I stared at the picture for what felt like hours, until someone bashed my shoulder.

“’Scuse me, ma’am,” a dude said over his shoulder as he walked past.

Ma’am? What the snot? Seeing Henry’s picture rattled me. My body felt hot and sticky as I stood beneath the mid-morning sun, and I was suddenly parched. Maybe someone could direct me to a drinking fountain.

I approached a guy who looked like he worked at the ranch. “Pardon me,” I said after clearing my throat. But the cowboy rushed past like a gust of smelly farm wind, probably not even hearing me. “That went well.”

I tried again with a teenage girl wearing a bright western shirt and a frayed jean miniskirt. “I beg your pardon.” She shaded her eyes from the sun. “Can you tell me who I can speak to at the house?”

She smiled, showing a chipped front tooth. “Dunno,” she said, then walked away with her friends.

What was with this place? I thought the country was supposed to be helpful and friendly.

Resolute this time, I zeroed in on the man coming straight at me. He was carrying a saddle on one shoulder. A battered black cowboy hat sat low on his sweaty head. He was wearing a dark T-shirt, jeans and brown leather chaps covered with what I hoped was only mud.