My Christmas Cowboy. Shelley Galloway
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Two
“Trent? Trent, you home?” Ginny called out as she let the back door slam behind her.
Trent was just about to answer when another voice rang through the house. “Virginia Anne, I swear, you’re going to be the death of me,” their father bellowed seconds later. “Trent Wallace?”
Trent scrambled to his feet and started toward the kitchen. Honestly, what was it with everyone calling him by his full name today? “Sir?” he asked.
“Look at your sister.”
Dutifully, Trent looked. And then looked again. “Ginny, you’re covered in mud.”
His father cussed, “No shit, Sherlock.”
To Trent’s astonishment, Ginny didn’t even flinch. If anything, she looked about ready to roll out her own list of profanities.
“What happened?” Walking forward, he stuck out his right hand—the one not contained in a brace—and lifted her chin. “Is that a black eye?”
“Uh-huh. But Peter’s got one, too.”
Trent couldn’t care less what some little pip-squeak was sporting. “A boy’s been beating up on you? Dad, who’s Peter?”
But instead of looking worried, Cal Sr. just looked peeved. “Peter is the poor boy who’s become Ginny’s object of affection. She’s been torturing him something awful.” With a grimace, he pulled a pink note out of his back pocket. “Look at this.”
Trent took the paper and scanned it. As he read it again, some of the terrible rage slipped away, only to be replaced by shock and awe. “Ginny’s about to be suspended?”
“Worse than that. She’s about to be kicked out of school for good.”
Turning to her, he raised his eyebrows. “Virginia Anne, what the heck?”
But instead of looking cowed, she stuck up her chin. “It ain’t my fault, Trent.” When he continued to glare, she finally had the sense to lower her chin and the attitude. “Not all my fault, anyways.”
“Not all your fault?”
“Peter deserved it. Some.”
His sister had turned into some sort of itty-bitty bully. “Dad, what have y’all been doing with her? She needs some discipline.”
“Oh, what in the Sam Hill haven’t we been doing?” his dad retorted. “This is an ongoing thing, son. Your brothers and I have been doing the best we can with her. It’s just a challenge, that’s all.”
“Can I go to my room now?” Ginny asked. “I want to go take a bath.”
“Sure, honey. I’ll be in to talk to you soon,” their dad said wearily. When the room was empty, his dad leaned up against the wall and shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this, but I would have preferred five more boys than this one six-year-old girl. She’s going to be the death of me.”
When they were alone, Trent suddenly felt a whole lot less than six feet tall. “Guess I’ve been a little out of touch, huh? I had no idea y’all were struggling with her so much.”
“Don’t feel bad. You can’t help that you weren’t here. You’ve been on the circuit.”
“Since I’m here now I’ll start trying to do more.”
“That’s real good of you, son.” He paused. “I better go make sure she actually got in the bathtub. And think of something to say to that girl.”
Two things occurred to Trent. One, his father didn’t expect him to follow through. And, even if he did follow through, his dad didn’t think he’d be any good. “I’ll go talk to her.”
His dad paused on his way out the door. “Sure you’re ready for that?”
“‘Course. You go relax, now.” He turned and walked upstairs to her room before he changed his mind. After ascertaining that she was in the bath, he told her to holler when she got out.
Fifteen minutes later, he was inside a room covered with enough pink, purple and horses that he felt as though he was living in the middle of some Barbie Dream House.
From the top of her comforter, his sweet-smelling sister watched him approach. “You mad at me, Trent?”
That made him pause. Was he? “I don’t rightly know.”
Obviously puzzled, she scrambled to a sitting position. “How come?”
“Well, your black eye for one. I hate to see my best girl hurt like you are.”
“I’m not your best girl.”
“And why’s that?”
“You’re never home.”
Ouch. “My work takes me around the country, sister. I can’t help that. And you watch that tone of voice with me, too. I may be a rookie at dealing with little girl fights, but I’m no pushover.”
“I guess you’re not.”
Crossing the room, he sat next to her. “Here’s what I don’t get. How come you fight so much?”
Her eyes widened. “No one’s ever asked me that before. They just told me to stop.”
“You got an answer?”
“Maybe.” When he crossed his arms over his chest, she eyed him carefully, then spoke. “Some days I’m just mad at everyone.”
“And why’s that?”
She lowered her voice. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
He was probably a fool to promise such a thing, but he nodded.
“I get mad ‘cause I don’t have a mommy.” Her voice turning stronger, she added, “And she didn’t die and go to heaven like yours did. She took off ‘cause she didn’t want me.”
If a bull had gone and kicked him in the head, Trent couldn’t have been more winded. Valiantly, he tried to imagine what Jarred would say to that. Or Junior. Junior always had the right words.
But it was just him sitting there.
“I know,” he finally said, and that was the truth. Carolyn, Cal Sr.’s second wife, might have hated their father, but she left her daughter without even a second look back.
Warily, he glanced at Ginny, half sure he’d just broken her heart. But instead of looking surprised, her eyes were a little wider—and trust was lingering there.
That suddenly made him a whole lot braver.
“Ginny, here’s the deal. It’s real sad that your momma took off. I don’t know why she did, and maybe we’ll never know. But growing up and being a good person means that you make do with what you have. And you have a whole lot more than most.”
She blinked. “‘Cause we live in a fancy house?”
“Nope. Fancy houses don’t count for much at the end of the day. What counts are having people who love you. You’ve got a lot of those.”
“Daddy and Jarred and Junior?”
“And me. And Serena and Susan and Gwen.” He leaned back a little so he could look into her eyes. “You hear what I’m saying?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. Now listen to this. You need to stop making everyone try so hard to do right by you. Next time you want to hit someone, you flat out got to make yourself stop. You hear me? What you’re doing is mean and bad and you’re making us all ashamed.”
“But—”
“Ginny Riddell, Riddells don’t hit. They don’t go out of their way to be mean to folks. They try and listen. You’re