Chapter Three
Sunday morning I was looking forward to attending mass. It had been a long while since I’d attended the same church for a stretch of time. Neither of my sisters were churchgoers, although that may change if Diane’s new boyfriend had his way. My own attendance hadn’t been consistent, and I missed the weekly time that I treasured to reflect and connect with God in the way I’d been raised.
Once again I drove the winding hill country, but this time in a different direction, the route taking me closer to the city of San Antonio. There was a Catholic church in a small town on the northwest edge of the city that had a number of masses. I’d settled on an English one at 9:30. It was the service most likely to have some sort of coffee hour. I was ready to talk to people other than my sisters.
Some local ranchers could be there. I was hungry for some solid discussions about beef prices and the cost of feed.
I pulled into the parking lot of the modern-looking church. They could build things here in the warmer climate that would never handle the cold of Montana.
A number of people walked the path to the front entrance of the church. There were couples, a few old people depending on rolling walkers or a cane to navigate from one place to another, and a number of families with children. Some of those peeled off before reaching the entrance, no doubt to deposit the cherubs in someone else’s care so they could have a moment of peace to themselves.
I had always been grateful to wave goodbye to my two before having that precious half hour to myself before the kids came scrambling back in to find us and finish the service.
A Latina woman about my age looked over and smiled, making me feel welcome … a stranger in a strange church.
I politely chatted with the greeter, then entered the large, airy space. The pews were in a semi-circle surrounding the altar, their polished red wood matching the beams in the open space above us. With white walls and plenty of windows, it was almost like being out in the open air.
It was lovely.
The only thing lacking was a bit of padding for my rear end .
I settled into a middle row and looked around me, indulging in people watching. Two women were deep in a discussion that no doubt involved some upcoming event. They had the look of those who ran church functions. A solid group of she-who-must-be-obeyeds. A circle of men who looked comfortable in their sports jackets were no doubt boasting about their golf scores. A few others, less comfortable in their coats and flaunting dressy boots, were the ranchers. The women who walked next to them had taken the opportunity to look their best.
I understood. Getting gussied up for a cow was a no-win situation.
“This seat taken?” a voice I’d heard before asked.
It was the man from the ranch store.
Eerie.
“No. Not at all,” I said.
My expression must have shown my concern because as soon as he sat down, he said, “I’m not following you, really. It’s a small town.”
“I see.” Coincidences had abounded on our RV trip so far. I was almost getting used to them.
He was of the cowboy boot and ill-fitting sports coat set, which meant I didn’t have to pretend to know golf.
I took a chance.
“Are you a rancher?”
He chuckled, his mustache moving with his mirth. “Did you decide this because I was in a ranch store or because of my boots?”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “Both.” I picked up a missal, not sure of what to do next. Small talk with a rancher should be easy. I did it all the time. Why was I having problems talking with this particular one?
“You should have bought the hat,” he whispered as we all stood for the processional. “It suited you.”
I nodded and focused on the book I held, even though I didn’t need it. I could perform the mass as well as any priest … except for the minor technicality that women weren’t allowed to take on the role.
Would that ever change? In some ways, the world seemed to be going backward in terms of things women were allowed to do, not forward.
As the ritual continued, I drifted into its familiarity. It was almost meditative, except I was hyper-aware of the man next to me.
About midway through the service, the entryway door opened. Without turning around, I knew the children were here, their energy filling in all the emotional spaces that the adults had left for them.
One girl, about four or five, came running down the aisle next to us, her dark curls flying behind her as she ran in her pretty white dress and shiny black shoes toward the altar. “Papá!” she yelled. “Papá!”
I glanced to the front where the priest stood.
Had there been a major shift in church doctrine when I wasn’t looking?
The man next to me chuckled. “Watch.”
Right at the end of the aisle, the child veered to the right, to one of the altar servers.
The man hurriedly passed the cruets he was holding to the person next to him and turned back, right as the child launched herself into his arms.
The congregation laughed as the man grinned and held his child. He said something in Spanish to her, and she shook her head. He took on a stern expression and said it again.
This time she slid down, ran back toward the door, coming to an abrupt stop and sliding into a pew a few rows from the front.
“It happens every week,” the man next to me said.
“Oh.”
The congregation settled back down and mass continued.
Less than a half hour later, it was over. As we stood, the man next to me said, “My name is Rodrigo Ramirez. I am indeed a rancher.”
“So am I,” I said, waiting for him to ask where my husband was. Like driving an RV, some men were unable to fathom that a woman could run a ranch.
“Did you recently buy one here? I thought I knew everyone in the area.”
We started to move toward the door.
“My ranch is in Montana,” I told him. “My name is Kathleen O’Sullivan.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand.
I shook it, the familiar callouses of a hard-working rancher rough in my palm. His handshake was solid without trying to prove a point.
His attention was caught by another couple, and we drifted apart.
That was fine by me. While I hadn’t noticed a wedding ring—why had I looked?—that didn’t mean he wasn’t married. Although if he was, where was his wife?
I made it through the gauntlet of priest and attendees and automatically walked toward the parking lot. I didn’t have the energy to face a bunch of strangers over coffee.
“Kathleen!”
I turned. Rodrigo came toward me.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I was curious as to what you are doing here if your ranch is in Montana.”
“My sisters and I are taking a road trip for a year. We’re halfway through. We decided to stay here for a few months until the snow leaves the mountain passes.”
“Will I see you again?” There was too much eagerness in his question.
“Probably.” I’d need to find another mass to attend. In spite of my sisters’ fondest wishes, I had no desire to fall into the same trap they had. After forty years of marriage, the last thing I needed was another man. Especially a Latino rancher from Texas. While we had lots in common, we had ranches to run that were over fifteen hundred miles apart.
A woman with a mass of bottle-blond hair and a slim build that was obviously enhanced in the right places came toward us. I had to keep myself from staring. It was a stereotype come to life; a stereotype that I’d thought had gone out of existence in the last century.
“Hi, Rodrigo,” she purred as she put a possessive hand on his arm.
“Hey there, Trixie Lynn. I’d like you to meet Kathleen O’Sullivan from Montana.”
“Oh, hi.” Her Texas drawl was charming, and her slim hand small in mine as we shook.
I tried not to feel intimidated, but high school memories of the clutch of cheerleaders lording it above us mere mortals flooded my brain.
“Are you here long?” she asked. “I hear Montana’s a beautiful place. You must miss it.”
“I do,” I answered honestly. “There’s no other place like it.”
“Kathleen’s taking a road trip with her sisters. Doesn’t that sound fun?” Rodrigo asked.
“If you knew my sisters better,” she said, “you’d know that sounds like a nightmare.” She laughed, a noise that was as staged as everything else about her.
Except her eyes. There was a warning in her eyes.
Rodrigo many not have a wedding ring now, but she intended to put one on him.
I kept it light. I had no interest in her man.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I was totally against the idea in the beginning, but they convinced me. It’s turned out okay. We’re closer than ever. There’s only three of us.”
“Who’s running your ranch?” Rodrigo asked.
“My son and the ranch manager we hired. ”
“We? You’re married?” Rodrigo sounded disappointed.
“Widowed,” I answered. “My sisters and I own the ranch collectively. I … well, my late husband and I … managed it for all of us. He died last year.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Trixie Lynn said. And then she added, “Bless your heart.”
It was one of those Southern expressions I was never going to get used to.
“Yes,” Rodrigo said, “Condolences.”
“Thank you.” I looked toward the parking lot.
“We need to be going,” Trixie Lynn said to Rodrigo. “Remember you’re having that barbecue this afternoon to celebrate your son’s birthday. I’ve made up a big batch of coleslaw and some berry pies.”
“I haven’t forgotten. We have plenty of time. Alejandro has been smoking the ribs since early this morning. It will be an amazing feast.” He turned to me. “My son is turning thirty today. He’s going to be taking on increased responsibility for the ranch that will someday be his. You have a son. You understand.” He looked directly into my eyes, and there was an odd moment of intense connection I hadn’t expected.
I nodded.
Then he smiled.
“You should come! You and your sisters! We’ll introduce you to Texas properly.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Trixie Lynn said. “It’s a family event. And I’m not sure we’ve planned enough food for three more guests.”
“The neighbors will be there,” Rodrigo said. “So not entirely family. And there is always enough food for strangers. Isn’t that what tradition and our teachings tell us?” He gestured to the church.
“I’m not—” I began.
“I am. It’s settled. You’ll come?” He looked at me.
There were dozens of reasons why we shouldn’t. One was looking at me with ice chips in her tiger-green eyes.
“I’ll discuss it with my sisters,” I said. “If we come, we’ll bring something,” I gave Trixie Lynn one of the looks I usually reserved for men who were being jerks.
“If you want … no need,” he said. “There will be more than enough. I promise.”
“We will. It’s part of our tradition,” I said.
He gave me the address, and we bid goodbye .
After I got into my car, I debated. While attending a barbecue at a Texas ranch might be interesting, this particular event might be uncomfortable. None of us spoke much Spanish, and I was the only one who had any real interest in ranching.
Then there was Trixie Lynn. She’d already decided I was the enemy, even though I had absolutely no interest in Rodrigo in a romantic sense.
I had no interest in any man. The one I’d loved, the man I’d given my heart to, had turned out to be domineering and secretive, almost destroying my entire family.