Chapter One #3
“Could’ve been seventy if he’d have quit smoking his infernal cigars.
But—” she lifted her cast, palm upward “—Wilson wasn’t one to change.
Oh, he was more adaptable, let’s say, when he was young.
But by the time you get older and more set in your ways?
Gets harder.” She clicked her tongue. “Sometimes I worry about youngsters these days. Too prone to call it quits at the first glimpse of adversity. You don’t get to sixty years without commitment meaning something.
” She waved her cast. “And I’m not talking about looking the other way and taking it when your spouse has plain bad character.
Bad character rarely changes, in my experience.
But disagreeing over the million things two people can disagree about?
Money. Raising kids. That sort of thing can be overcome if you’re both dedicated enough.
If you’ve chosen good character to start with. ”
“I think that’s what Mindy and Rod have.
Neither one will turn tail and run when they hit a bump in the road.
Rod is devoted to her.” She wouldn’t say the same about Brad.
Finding another woman’s leopard-print panties stuffed behind his sofa cushion after he and Cheyenne had been exclusive—so she’d believed—for six months had been less a bump in the road than a flashing red sign warning Do Not Proceed! !
If Cheyenne had heeded the warning, she might have avoided a summer of humiliation.
Moving away from Dallas had helped. She’d relocated here in early August and getting to know the raft of distant cousins who lived around Emerald Ridge, and generally feeling welcomed by them, had been a sorely needed balm after the Brad business.
Now the only ones still determined to dwell on her breakup were Binnie and her nieces, Summer and Autumn Bledsoe. From the very get-go, they’d all been on Cheyenne about how “challenging” things would be for her at Mindy’s wedding. Even before Brad had officially replaced Cheyenne with his fiancée.
All Cheyenne could think about the woman was that she’d worked faster than Cheyenne had. From panties between sofa cushions to an engagement ring in the span of three months? In a year and a half, Cheyenne hadn’t even gotten a drawer of her own at his place.
“I still want to believe in the possibility of sixty years with someone,” she told the patient. “And I don’t think I’m alone on that score. Us youngsters’ belief in commitment might be stronger than you think.”
“Maybe.” Mrs. Gentry tapped her cast on the arm of her chair.
“Theresa’s oldest recently filed for divorce from her second husband.
” She shook her head and sighed. “The marriage lasted all a’ two years.
Same as the first. Says she wasn’t feeling fulfilled.
Admits right out that her husband hasn’t done a single thing wrong.
Calls him the—” she sketched quotation marks in the air “—perfect man. Hardworking. Faithful. A real manly man, in fact.” She tutted again.
“Mebbe, if she stuck it out with the perfect man for more ’n a few seasons, she’d learn that feeling fulfilled is as much about yourself and what you contribute as it is the one snoring beside you every night.
People think it takes a long time to fall in love, but when it’s right, it’s an instant.
Staying in love? That’s a treasure you spend a life together figuring out. ”
They’d reached the street and Cheyenne stopped on the sidewalk at the corner, waiting for the light to change.
The traffic wasn’t particularly heavy this time of day, and if she had only herself to consider, she’d jog across during one of the lulls.
But she had Mrs. Gentry, so she waited, her gaze aimlessly settling on the filthy truck idling at the corner as it, too, waited for the light to change.
Mud caked the lower half of the truck and only two half moons of glass were cleared on the spattered windshield. The driver’s window was rolled down, and in the seconds before the light changed, the cowboy behind the wheel turned his head, looking their way.
Manly man.
The thought drifted through her mind as he dipped his cowboy hat slightly in their direction and smiled. Then he drove through the intersection, but not until an impatient driver behind him honked his horn.
The guy could have been anywhere from twenty to sixty for all she’d seen of the rest of his full face. But something about that brief moment left her feeling bemused.
What would Brad say if she showed up to the wedding with a mud-caked cowboy on her arm?
She smiled to herself.
“Ahem!”
She blinked slightly and looked down at Mrs. Gentry.
“You finished daydreaming, girl, or we gonna lollygag through another light?”
“I wasn’t daydreaming.” She quickly pushed the wheelchair into the crosswalk.
“Yeah,” Mrs. Gentry said dryly, “And I’m fixing to run a marathon next week. I may be old, missy. But my vision is still intact. You’re thinking that was some hunka man that just drove past.” Her laugh verged on cackle. “And so was I.”
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