The Cowboy and Vampire - By Clark Hays & Kathleen McFall Page 0,3
bills, overdue bills," I grumbled.
"Hey what's this?"
"What's what?" Melissa asked.
"It's a postcard from Lizzie." I held it up. It was a close-up photograph of Dorothy's ruby slippers, the heels clicked together, and "There's no place like home" written under them. Well now, maybe today would be better than I had thought.
"That your city girl?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know what she sees in a washed up old cowhand like you," she said, a trace of what's-she-got-that-I-ain't in her voice.
I shook my head. "Me neither. Must be my rugged good looks and keen intellect."
"I think she's just naturally attracted to bullshit," Melissa said as she pulled a bunch of envelopes out of her mailbox. "Hey look at this, I may already be a winner!"
I didn't want to read the postcard with Melissa standing right there watching me so I slipped it into my back pocket. "I'm gonna get some breakfast. See ya later."
"Next time she comes out, you bring her round, Tucker. Don't be stashing her up at your trailer. She'll get bored as hell up there."
"Like she won't in town. She's from New York City for Christ's sakes. There's more people living in her goddamn apartment building than in all of LonePine together."
I left the post office and went on inside the Sagebrush Cafe, counting up the money in my pocket which, frankly, wasn't very much more than all the money I had in the world. It was still enough for biscuits and gravy and coffee and some scrambled eggs.
The spare change I found in my jacket would cover a double order of hash browns. Hazel, a waitress at the Sagebrush since the American Revolution, or at least in the thirty-five years I'd been eating there, took my order. I had her bring round a cup of coffee first and then pulled out Lizzies postcard. It might've been my imagination, but it seemed to smell like honey and oranges.
Didn't say much, just that she missed me and thought maybe it was my turn to visit; and something about her latest assignment on Dracula. For the life of me, I will never understand city people. Hazel delivered a plate full of food, so I slipped the postcard back into my pocket and let my mind drift back a ways.
I met Lizzie about six months ago. She's a journalist from New York City, one of those intellectual types. I'd like to say it was her smarts that caused me to fall for her, but that would be a lie. I was first struck by how dang pretty she was, but I knew even then that behind them looks was a powerful mind capable of rankling me without even trying. She'd come out to do a story about cowboys and ended up in LonePine with a bunch of notebooks and a camera, looking sort of lost. The first time I seen her was at the Silver Dollar, all made up in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, skin-tight jeans with someone's name on the label, shiny, leather-fringeed cowboy boots that looked like they pinched her feet, and a bandanna knotted around her neck. She looked like an extra from one of those fancy catalogs, a big city notion of country. Despite the fact that she was breathtaking to look at, my day had been pretty dismal, so I did my best to ignore her and took a stool at the far end of the bar for a nice, quiet beer.
She was setting with a broken-down old alcoholic, name of Vince McCready, who we all call "Reride," due to the number and extent of his rodeo injuries that grow in proportion to the number of times he's retold his story It all dated back to one unfortunate incident he'd had with a milk cow that formed the whole of his rodeo experience, and was as close to cowboying as he'd ever get. She was making a real point of not noticing me not noticing her, which I noticed much to my chagrin, and it began to interfere with the enjoyment of my beer. I paid for it and left it sitting half full on the bar and strolled nonchalantly for the door.
Reride saw me and grabbed hold of my arm.
"Tucker, I'd like you to meet Lizzie Vaughan. Lizzie, this here's Tucker, an old friend of mine. We go way back."
She stuck out her hand, smiling mischievously. I touched the brim of my hat.
"She's here from New York City, writing a story about cowboys."