Page 120 of My Cowboy Freedom
Already, my life, my clothes, even my skin felt too tight. Like they were made for someone seven sizes smaller, someone too fond of scratchy fabrics and starch.
Panic won out for the count of several too-rapid heartbeats, because I couldn’t go back.
I couldn’t listen to this anymore.
I couldn’t be silent anymore.
My heart beat ominously as rage built up inside me.
Still, I said nothing and my mother went on as if I’d agreed to everything.
In her mind, I had.
“We’ve spoken with Elena. She’ll be bringing you back to the ranch in the morning. You’re to pack your things immediately. We’re sending a car for you. I can’t wait to see you, darling. We’ll go shopping for new clothes first thing, and then to that barbecue place you like so much.”
My head said no. My heart said hell no.
“I won’t go.”
Silence enveloped us while I imagined my mother making ferocious eye contact with my dad.
I didn’t have to see them to know it was happening. They have an exceptional partnership. Like an Olympic curling team, my parents were both flawlessly in sync and incomprehensible. Also deadly serious.
In my imagination, her eyes expressed frustration. Her look said,Do something.
My father showed confusion. “What?”
She widened her eyes until the whites were visible all around. “Say something anyway. Say anything.”
“Er...” Dad’s throat-clearing could be heard over the speaker. “Son. Your mother is right. This is no time to presume on the Chandlers’ friendship. Surely you can see that.”
“No,” I repeated.
“You wish to continue presuming on their—”
“I’m notpresumingon anything.” I went to the desk where the hotel management had left two bottles of brand-name water. Cracking one open, I took long sips. Yes, it was petty. If I hadn’t been so angry, I’d have poured myself a glass from the tap.
“I have a job here. I’m needed. I know that’s a foreign concept, since I’m useless to everyone at home, but—”
“Watch how you talk to your mother,” my father ordered.
Unrepentant, I continued. “I have a job. I need to do my job.”
My mother ignored my words. “Jackson will pick you up at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’d hate for you to keep him waiting, but as always, you must make up your mind whether to be mature about things or to cause others grief.”
“I will not go.”
“Jackson’s under orders to bring you to the house. If you refuse to come, I suppose we could look for assisted living, but—”
“I live at the Rocking C!” I shouted. “I have a job there. I’m not coming home.”
“Sweetheart. Be reasonable, for Sterling’s sake.”
Her patient voice grated.
She will not win. They will not. Not this time.“No.”
“Tomorrow. Three p.m. Jackson will expect to find you packed and ready to go. Depending on your cooperation, he will either bring you here to the house where you will enjoy all the privileges you grew up with”—her voice was so sharp it hurt—“or he won’t.”
