A Crazy Homecoming

1

In the middle of the night, and fifteen hours into a nineteen-hour drive, Daphne Simms was feeling a little loopy. Her only company was Neil Diamond and whatever desert debris passed in front of her headlights. In the dark isolation of the West Texas landscape, she sang the chorus of Love on the Rocks at the top of her lungs to break the silence.

After a gasp to catch her breath, she gulped the last dregs of her fifth bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper and tossed it over her shoulder. With a gusto fueled by caffeine and midnight adrenaline, she finished the song with an off-key flourish.

Life is good.

She cringed and had to fight the tears threatening to blur her vision. Who was she kidding? Life wasn’t good. She was thirty-seven, newly single, and unemployed. She was running away to lick her wounds.

She’d been on the fast track, one of the youngest marketing managers in the company. Early mornings, late nights, and barely anything in between except the job. Her career was her life. Her job even shaped her social circle, mostly defined by shallow connections with colleagues. She could see that now.

It all went so wrong, so fast.

It wasn’t every day you saw two professional women come close to exchanging blows. Sure, verbal sparring was as common as a cold in February. But even the most jaded corporate types could usually keep the curse words and rude hand gestures—at least above the table—out of it. Daphne felt haunted by the stunned looks around the conference table when it happened. She could still hear the outraged shrieks of the VP she showered with a glass of ice water.

It’s not my fault. Daphne clutched the steering wheel a little tighter. That bimbo had it coming.

Daphne put those angry thoughts out of her head and tried to refocus on the road in front of her and Neil’s voice coming through her speakers. Although she had planned to stop over in Ft. Stockton for the night, she felt compelled to get to her grandmother’s ranch no matter how tired she was or how long she’d been on the road. Nana was her safe haven, her only safe haven. Daphne shrugged off her weariness and steeled herself to keep going. Adrenaline wasn’t the best advisor, and with its reckless encouragement, she passed the last exit marked Ft. Stockton lodging and kept on driving.

Tired of Neil’s introspective ballads, she rifled through the stack of discs on the seat next to her looking for some angst, some fire. She was nearly drowning in her regret and sadness, and could almost hear Nana say, Girl, you gotta dump the sad and find your mad.

Just as she put her hand on Alanis Morrissette, she sensed something moving in her peripheral vision.

Daphne looked up and saw something scamper across the highway. She swerved but it was too late and the car bounced with a few loud thumps.

She screamed. Then she mentally slapped herself. She was hurtling down the interstate at seventy miles per hour—she needed to keep her composure.

The car was still running and under control. The gauges on her dashboard indicated everything functioned as it should. She didn’t hear the telltale thwap of a flat tire. So if there was nothing wrong with the car, she reasoned, she must have hit something.

Her stomach churned with immediate guilt. She loved animals! How could she live with herself after killing a helpless, innocent, furry animal?

It was probably just a raccoon. Better it than you.

That voice of self-preservation appealed to her to calm down and get a grip. Shit happens, right? No use dwelling on it.

It wasn’t that easy, though. Bad things happened to good people, and even good raccoons, she supposed. That didn’t mean she should accept it without thought for the consequences or desire for a better outcome.

She had taken her eyes off the road for only a moment! She had been distracted by finding what she wanted, or thought she wanted, and hadn’t seen the disaster looming in front her. Her path was set, the road in front of her was straight and safe. Or so she had thought. She should’ve been paying attention. Then she wouldn’t be in this mess.

Is this about you or the raccoon?

Even though she had genuinely tried to avoid hitting the raccoon, the instant mental images of all the baby raccoons that would be missing their mama or daddy was just too much for her to handle. In the guise of orphaned raccoons, all of her fear and disappointment and anger caught up with her.

Her adrenaline high evaporated and was replaced by hysterical sobs.

Raccoon families, her career, her life… All of it was in tatters and she couldn’t keep it in any longer. She pulled over to the shoulder and let the tears flow.

Around three in the morning, Daphne turned off the interstate onto a smaller road. She silently cursed the genius in the state government who had designed the tiny black and white signs that label the Farm to Market roads, as they were called in these parts, which were all numbered with four digits. In the dark, those itty-bitty signs with tiny, unreadable numbers became the bane of Daphne’s existence.

This particular Farm to Market road was terrifyingly dark this late at night. From her summer with Nana, she remembered that cattle guards across the road were common in this ranching area, but weren't always so good at guarding the cattle. Nana had complained about having to round up and sort cattle with a neighboring ranch. Daphne asked her what the cattle guards were for if the cattle got out anyway. Nana had snorted, cursed the blind luck of cows, and said, Despite the acrobatics a cow needs to master in order to successfully cross a cattle guard, they’re surprisingly good at achieving their freedom. I’m older than Moses, girl, and still haven’t figured out how.

Daphne smiled at the memory. She had always loved to listen to Nana’s stories, if only to laugh at Nana’s catchy phrases. The memory also reminded her that a sleep-deprived driver and several hundred pounds of bovine wouldn’t mix well at three in the morning.

To be fair, they probably don’t mix well at any time.

Even though she was practically crawling along the road, she couldn’t believe it when she somehow managed to cruise past the ranch’s entrance. Cursing raccoons, tiny road signs, and the world in general, she pulled over to turn around. She was letting the steering wheel spin back around to straighten when she felt the back tire drop off the road onto the soft shoulder.

Please don’t get stuck.

While cattle could master the tricky cattle guards, Daphne wasn’t sure she could. The last thing she wanted was to have to walk the rest of the way. So with a silent prayer and gentle, encouraging stroke of her dashboard, she floored it.

Her tires squealed as they gripped the pavement and the car lurched toward Nana’s ranch. Forewarned now about the blink-and-you-miss-it entrance, she was ready to make her last turn to safety. When she finally passed under the arched entry sign, a huge wave of relief washed over her.

The car rocked and shook so much on the dirt road that she worried it wouldn’t survive this last leg of the trip. On her last visit, she’d been too young to drive the route herself, so she wasn’t sure how far she had to go before she reached the house. All she could do was keep following the path illuminated by her meager headlights.

As she pulled around a curve, dozens of eyes glowed in the dark around her. With a shriek, she skidded to a halt.

It’s only a herd of cattle.

Sleepy cattle, apparently, because they just stood there staring at her, without any indication they planned to move before dawn.

She waited.

And waited some more. Still no movement.

At that moment, the gallons of soda she had consumed set her bladder to critical mass, so she decided to pull forward and hope for the best.

The first few cows slowly shuffled out of the way, but by and large they were still disinclined to move. Her bladder cramped and out of desperation she honked, thinking she could scare them off the road. They started to clear a path and she crept forward.

Please don’t let it be too much farther.

After a few moments, she glanced in her rearview mirror and was horrified to see the cattle loping along behind the car. She hadn’t remembered until now how huge cows were, and quite frankly, their sheer bulk made them more than a little terrifying. She pressed on the gas pedal and zoomed ahead with the cows trotting after her.

The discomfort of a full bladder urged her on. She careened over the small dirt road, ignoring the scrape of the axle against the high side of the enormous potholes, and fishtailed around turns. Finally, she saw a porch light in the distance.

She zoomed ahead, cattle in tow, and ground to a halt on the gravel of the wide driveway. She recognized the wrap-around front porch and colorful shutters from the summer she spent here as a teenager so long ago.

I have never been so happy to get someplace!

A full bladder waits for no one, so she didn’t dawdle to celebrate. Daphne grabbed her purse and overnight bag, and scrambled out of the car. Silently begging forgiveness for waking Nana, she pressed the doorbell and didn’t let up.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!

She started rocking back and forth doing the desperation dance and rapped on the screen door. Finally the door opened, and there, in a flannel robe and fuzzy slippers, was Nana. With a smile shining straight out of Daphne’s most-loved memories, Nana stepped forward and beckoned her inside. Nana’s smile faded as she looked past Daphne with a surprised gasp. What on earth?

After an unusually long day, Mick Williams stumbled home sometime after midnight wondering if he had enough left in him to make it to his bed. Every day on a ranch was a long one, but some days sure felt harder than others.

Life on a ranch was all about adapting. Every day was full of things to check off the list, and almost every day’s list had to be rewritten to deal with the unexpected. A truck breaking down. A cow going into labor. A freak weather system. A ranch hand injuring himself. A grass fire. A cowboy has to deal with a little bit of everything.

Despite the exhausting pace, Mick loved his work and the ranch he tended. He’d never had a true home before finding Crazy. Rather, before Missus B, Crazy’s owner, had found him.

Mick grew up way too fast and hard as the illegitimate son of a druggie mother and deadbeat rodeo cowboy. His dad left so long ago he didn’t remember anything about the man. In truth, he didn’t care to know anything about the man responsible for pushing the self-destruct button on his mother’s hopes.

His mother attempted to find comfort and redemption with other men, but only found one disappointment after another. Cowboys on the rodeo circuit lived on a fast train full of danger, women, and booze. Rarely did a hardcore cowboy give up the lifestyle, and Roseanne and Mick learned that the hard way.

When the string of men in Roseanne’s life couldn’t fill the void, she turned to drinking and drugs. Soon the booze and drugs weren’t just a balm for the latest heartbreak. They carried her through her highs and lows. She wasn’t a picky druggie, after all beggars can’t be choosers. She’d take whatever she could afford or whatever her latest beau was willing to give her.

For nearly fifteen years, she lived a vicious cycle of love, loneliness, and regret, never realizing she already had a little man in her life who was aching to love and be loved.

Mick never understood why his love and companionship couldn’t alleviate some of Roseanne’s pain. Every time she rejoiced in a new lover or raged at that lover’s departure, Mick’s heart closed off a little bit more.

The first time he felt wanted was when Missus B plucked him out of trouble and gave him a home. He’d never forget it. And he’d never stop trying to pay her back for the gift.

So managing Crazy became his life. He took great pride in ensuring the ranch’s success, even when it meant nights like this when he came home filthy and bone tired.

The creak of his screen door was a loud contrast to the hum of crickets, which provided a constant nocturnal soundtrack this time of year. He didn’t even bother to flip on his door-side lamp. All he wanted was sleep, nothing else.

He shuffled through his tidy living room and past the bathroom, stripping as he went. He couldn’t have cared less about tidying up his small cabin, much less himself, so he skipped his nightly shower and shave. Stripped bare, he fell to his bed with a thankful moan, pulled a sheet up to his chest, and immediately dozed off.

He was jerked out of a deep, dreamless sleep by the blare of a car horn. At first he didn’t know where he was or what was going on. Another honk helped him shake off the grogginess and come fully alert.

What the hell?

Then he heard a car, going entirely too fast, driving down the dirt road toward the main house. Cursing at his rude awakening, he flung the sheet off and felt in the dark for his pants.

In such a tight-knit community as theirs, he wasn’t worried about cattle rustlers as much as troublemakers. All it took was a little bit of cheap booze and a surge of testosterone to turn a teenager into a jackass who was convinced he could tip a cow.

Mick heard another few honks and the scrape of tires skidding past his cabin as he pulled on his pants and grabbed the shotgun that was propped up behind his door.

Goddammit, I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.

As he jogged off his patio toward the main house, he saw a late model sedan grind to a halt. The driver door flung open and a woman burst out of the car. Trailing empty plastic bottles and papers behind her, she hurried up the porch steps to the front door. She didn’t even bother to turn off the engine or headlights.

Mick stopped in disbelief when a couple dozen cattle trotted up behind the car and milled restlessly in the yard.

Well, shit. How did they get out?

He had spent most of the day sorting cattle and getting them back where they belonged. An accident-prone neighbor had mowed down part of their adjoining fence the night before, leaving quite a mess for Mick and his men to deal with.

And how am I going to put them back when they think it’s chow time? Everyone knows the only thing you get when you honk at a cow is a hungry cow. His attention was directed back to the house when he heard the woman start banging on the screen door.

When she had jumped out of the car, he wondered if she was in trouble. Country folk may not lock their car doors, but they don’t commonly leave the car running, either. But the mooing cows and late hour trampled Mick’s last nerve. He jogged toward the house, tightening his grip on the shotgun. Whether this woman was in trouble or not, she was going to get a piece of his mind. He’d had it up to here with drunks and troublemakers.

His stomach leapt into his throat when he saw Missus B open the door. She was a strong woman but who knew what this stranger wanted or was capable of? Worried for Missus B, Mick charged up the steps, cocked his gun, and aimed it at the intruder.

Hold it right there, lady, he boomed, affecting as menacing a tone as he could muster.

Looking down the barrel of the gun, Mick surveyed the woman standing before him. She was a curvy brunette with fancy designer clothes. Between the BMW idling in the driveway and her obviously expensive clothing, the city slicker vibe oozed off her. Maybe, Mick thought, she’s not drunk or crazy, she’s just stupid. After all, who would speed down a dirt road on private property in the middle of the night and then bang on a stranger’s door?

Explain yourself, and do it quick. Mick snarled.

Daphne started to remind Nana that she had phoned ahead yesterday but was interrupted by the ominous sound of a cocking gun. All panicky thoughts of urinating right there on the porch left her mind when she saw the barrel of the gun pointed right at her. Then she screamed like a little girl.

Gasping for air, heart pounding, Daphne raised her hands in an instinctive gesture of surrender. All those years living in big cities, she’d never been mugged. Now, out in the boondocks at her grandmother’s ranch, someone pulled a gun on her? It was crazy.

The sight of the shotgun was staggering enough, but the fine specimen of shirtless man holding it completely robbed Daphne of all sense. Even in the dim light of the porch bulb, she could clearly see his rippling arm muscles, taut shoulders, and muscular belly, all leading to the narrow hips beautifully highlighted by denim pants that were apparently donned in such a rush that the top button was unfastened. And