“They are lovely,” Ma said as she accepted a bouquet of withered flowers from the Cowboy. He was looking at me as he replied.
“A gift of Mrs. Beasley,” he said, still smiling in my direction. “A little wilted now from the ride – once that sun goes down the air changes instantly. She said her garden is doing better than it has in years and you should stop by,” the Cowboy told Ma, as if he had been here before and was just casually sharing news of a shared acquaintance. I took another step into the dining room.
“This is my son, Levi,” Ma said as I approached and extended my hand. He took it firmly, and with an exuberance not usually seen in the cowboys the Beasleys employed. The ones before and after this Cowboy were shy and quiet, to the point of ornery if you didn’t know how to read a cowboy’s specific quiet. I prided myself on speaking their language, and always got on with them. This one was instantly likable, his affable countenance I took as a product of his years, since he seemed older than most cowboys.
“You can call me Leve,” I said. “Everyone does.” He was still grasping my hand, still smiling.
“Pleased to meet you, Leve!”
I pulled my hand away more quickly than I intended, like I’d touched a frayed electric cord as it was being plugged in. The Cowboy crinkled his eyes as if about to laugh, then looked down. Ma and Pa both started talking at once, and whatever spell had been cast on us dissipated in the din of voices and the scraping of chairs on the floor as we awkwardly took our places at the table.
“Everything should be out,” Ma said, “So please help yourself. What would you like to drink? Water, milk, and I might have a Coke somewhere.”
“Milk would be great,” the Cowboy said. “This smells amazing, Mrs. Vaughn – I don’t remember the last time I had fresh bread like this,” and he tore off the end of it, taking a bite before he even bothered with the butter.
He won Ma over then and there, I could see it when she paused in the doorway bringing in his milk with mine – in the slight prideful smile she immediately stifled.
“How are things at the Beasleys?” Pa asked, and soon the three of them were having a lively discussion about cattle and farming and livestock, and I was free to focus on my food, and the man who sat across from me. I didn’t have the experience then to know what it was like to fall in love, and it certainly didn’t cross my mind that it might be happening at that moment. In all the times I’ve looked back on this night, however, and there would be many, I’ve discovered certain things that clued me in, though it came with hindsight rather than anything I realized or understand in real time.
If you asked me to describe him physically I’m not sure I could. Not in any way that would do him justice, not in any words that would capture how beautiful he was to me – and how could I even know that he was beautiful to me at that early moment? A dark beard, full but not unkept, even after the wind of the afternoon. His hair, slightly tamped down in a ring from his hat but also lushly wavy, was the texture I imagined the surface of the sea to be, and catching light in the same way despite its darkness. Dolefully dark eyes were wide except when he smiled, which he did more often than any other cowboy we knew or would come to know – and then they were surrounded by the lines that gave him an air of wisdom that his easygoing mirth would counter at every turn. A study of small contradictions, his quiet politeness belied a rugged stature that left him slightly awkward in our little kitchen. He seemed too big for it, but that’s how most of the cowboys seemed when they were suddenly inside instead of riding in the distance.
The main difference from the other cowboys came with his wide-eyed engagement and earnest curiosity. He looked into our faces and listened, he asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answer. The other cowboys sat quietly with heads down, the only noise their chewing and swallowing and brusque cutting of knife against plate. They had all been only a few years older than me, so I shared and understood their silence, and I knew their apparent shyness was not intended to be rude, but merely an overwhelming response to crippling insecurity and doubt. This Cowboy was nothing like them; he was sure of himself in the most intoxicating way, inspiring confidence in anyone within earshot because that sort of thing was contagious when genuine. He held his own with Ma and Pa, his respectful attitude bringing them to his side then challenging them in a way so friendly and benign that they actually came around to some of his points – something I still couldn’t manage to achieve. He was completely at home in our dining room, which was different from all the others – in the same way he was completely comfortable in his dress shirt. Some cowboys sweated through their stiff collars, some itched and scratched at their starchy best (usually supplied by Mrs. Beasley) – this Cowboy moved smoothly in his striped shirt, rolling up his cuffs with practiced ease. This Cowboy also seemed alive in a way that no one else had – and he had all of us under his spell by the time Ma got up to bring in dessert.
“I hope you don’t mind a buttermilk crumb cake,” Ma proclaimed. “And will you take some coffee or tea?”
“Would you have a little more milk? Coffee would keep me up all night and I have an early morning,” the Cowboy said. Ma smiled and hurried back with the milk jug. I watched her pour out another glassful, and then I watched the Cowboy as he smiled his thanks. Ma gently touched his shoulder as she passed back to the kitchen.
The universe nudged and the faintest whisper came from the near future. Sitting across the table, the Cowboy was staring at me, candlelight flickering in his eyes, which reflected my face, and I couldn’t tell if I was looking at him or myself. Pa was occupied with his dessert and Ma was already rinsing something in the kitchen. I looked back at the Cowboy. Creases won by sun and wind surrounded his eyes, which crinkled in kindly form as he spooned sweetness into his mouth.
An involuntary smile lifted the corners of my mouth and in my struggle to stop it I let out a half-snort and a half-laugh, spitting out a dribble of milk. Pa shot me an annoyed look as Ma asked what happened.
“Nothing,” I said, wiping milk and smile away. The Cowboy only stared.
Once he left, I bounded upstairs to watch him from my window. Lit only by the moon, he galloped off into the night. Long after the murmurs of my parents died away, I still couldn’t sleep.
~ The FALL of The COWBOY ~ Autumn 2026
