The Cowboy's Return. Linda Warren
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He removed his hat and spoke. The women eyed him with a strange look. He walked to the counter where a young girl was putting a quilt in a box; which was adorned with a fancy needle and thread logo.
“Can I help you?” the girl asked.
“I’m looking for Camila Walker.”
“She’s in the back.”
“Thanks, I’ll—”
“You can’t go—” The girl stopped as another woman interrupted with asked a question.
Tripp went through the door to a large back room. Two quilting frames with quilts in them hung from the ceiling. One wall held spools of thread of every color. At the back were rows of fabric and a large table the size of a king-size bed, obviously a working area. A sewing machine was in a corner.
He didn’t see Camila. There was another door and he opened it. A pungent smell almost sent him reeling back, but then he saw her. Camila, in rubber gloves and apron, was stretching plastic wrap over large molds of soap.
She glanced up, startled, her dark eyes like lasers ready to cut him in half. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to apologize for my rudeness last night.”
“I don’t allow people back here,” she said in a sharp tone.
He should leave, but he couldn’t. He was curious. Intrigued. “Are you making soap?”
“Yes.” She continued to work with quick, sure movements, covering all the molds, then she placed boards on top and covered the whole thing with blankets.
“What are you doing?”
“The soap has to be kept warm while it sets for twenty-four hours. I then clean and wrap it, but it has to cure for three to four weeks before I sell it.”
He twitched his nose in distaste. “What’s that smell?”
Her eyes softened for a second. “It’s the lye. This batch is almond scent and olive oil.”
“Very impressive operation you have here.”
She turned to face him, her dark eyes back in laser mode. “You said what you wanted to, now please leave.”
Tripp nodded, knowing it was time to back off. Camila wasn’t too friendly and he couldn’t blame her—not after suggesting the DNA test. That was way out of line. Even a blundering cowboy knew that.
He headed across the street to the diner, straddling a stool at the counter. With plastic red gingham tablecloths and chrome-and-plastic tables and chairs, the place was a typical diner, like he’d seen all over the country. A jukebox stood in a corner and country music played in the background.
Melvin and Bert Boggs sat at a table and Tripp nodded in their direction.
“Hey, handsome, what’ll you have?” Rose, a woman close to seventy, but nonetheless spry and energetic for her age wore an apron over jeans and a T-shirt. Her blondish-gray hair coiled at the back of her head had a pencil stuck in it. She’d owned the diner as long as he could remember and still looked the same.
“Coffee, and do you have any suggestions for supper for my parents?”
“Mmm.” Rose poured a cup of coffee. “They’re not doing too good?”
“They’re just getting older.”
“Aren’t we all, hon.” She placed the coffee in front of him with a napkin. “But you’re looking mighty fine. Where you been all these years?”
“All over. Settled around Mesquite.”
“That’s too far away, hon.”
“Yeah.” He took a swallow of coffee and thought he’d steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. “So do you have anything I can take home?”
“Grif loves my meat loaf and it’s on the menu today with all the trimmings, even homemade corn bread. How does that sound?”
“Great, I’ll take three orders for my parents and Morris but I’ll take a chicken-fried steak. No one can beat your steak, Rose.”
“Now, hon. You’re gonna make me blush.” She turned toward the kitchen and Tripp thought her blushing days were probably over.
He glanced out the window and saw Camila loading packages into a Suburban. What was she doing?
“Watching her, huh? All the guys watch her.”
He swung around to face Rose. “What?”
She gestured toward the window. “Camila. All the men watch her, but that’s all they do.”
“I’ve heard differently.”
“Depends on who you listen to.” She refilled his cup. “Once you get to know Camila, you’ll soon realize the truth.”
“Which is?”
Rose lifted an eyebrow. “Now, hon, you need to find that out for yourself.”
His eyes strayed back to Camila with her arms full of lavender boxes. “Is she taking those somewhere?” The more he learned about Camila, the more curious he became.
“Boy, you’ve been gone too long. Camila bought out Millie’s gift shop and she makes homemade soaps and quilts she sells over the Internet. She’s going to the post office.”
“Looks like she’s doing very well.”
“You bet, hon. Never seen anyone work harder.”
The bell over the door jingled and Jilly ran in. She paused when she saw Tripp. “Oh, hi, Mr. Daniels.”
“Hi, Jilly.”
“Hi there, hon,” Rose said. “What do you need today?”
“When I finish helping Mama, I’m going to put out Mrs. Shynosky’s trash and I thought I’d take her a piece of your coconut pie ’cause she likes it.”
“You got it, hon.”
Jilly fished in the pockets of her jeans and pulled out some change. “Oh, wait a minute. I have to get more money.”
“That’s okay,” Tripp offered. “I’ll pay for it.”
“No.” Jilly shook her head. “I can’t take your money. I’ll get some from Mama.” She darted out the door before he could stop her.
She talked to Camila and soon Jilly came running back. She laid the correct change on the counter and picked up the Styrofoam box. “Thanks, Rose.” Then she was gone.
“Does she do that often?” Tripp asked.
“All the time,” Rose replied. “We call her the angel of Bramble. I tried giving her the pie, but Camila makes her pay.”
He remembered last night and Jilly’s offer to help his parents. He thought that was unusual, but then, Jilly seemed to be an unusual girl. Then again, maybe not—Patrick had been the same way.
Tripp’s grandmother had lived with them until her death. Their paper had been delivered to the mailbox at the road and Patrick would ride his bike every morning to get the paper so she could read it with her coffee. When Leona had discovered a rat in the house, she’d had Morris set a trap. Patrick had had a fit, unable to stand the thought of killing the rat. He’d promised to hunt it down and catch it, which he had. He kept it in a cage until the rat had died from old age. So many similar episodes ran through Tripp’s mind. Patrick had been soft-hearted and kind and…
The bell over the door jingled again and Vance and Wallis Boggs came in. They had been in Patrick’s year at school, but Tripp wasn’t sure what kind of friends they’d been.
Melvin and Bert walked over and they all shook hands. “Damn. It’s good to