Cole Ryder's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

The date was set, but Cole had a problem. He'd never eaten a proper supper in town. He owned two shirts, both stained with soot and horse sweat. Lilly deserved better than a man who smelled like the forge. He stood in the ranch hand house and stared at his empty pegs. Nothing he owned was fit to wear. He dug through an old trunk under his bunk. At the bottom, wrapped in paper, he found his father's clothes. A clean white shirt. A dark jacket. Boots his father had kept polished till the day he died. Cole held the shirt up. The shoulders looked wide enough. His hands shook a little as he pulled it on. It fit. He fastened each button slow, like he owed the shirt some care. His father would have wanted him to wear it well. He washed the soot from his face. He trimmed his beard at the cracked mirror. Then he climbed into his truck, the dark blue Dodge with the big tires and the deep, polished shine. He'd saved that truck through lean months when he could have sold it. Tonight he was glad he hadn't. The engine growled low as he drove to fetch her. Lilly waited outside her place. She wore a black dress that hugged her curves. Her long blonde hair was pinned up, and diamonds caught the porch light at her throat. She stopped when she saw him step down from the truck. "Look at you," she said. Her blue eyes moved over him. "I didn't think you owned a jacket." "I don't." Cole opened her door. "These were my dad's." She paused, one hand on the frame. "Then he raised a good one." She climbed up, and he shut the door soft behind her. The steakhouse glowed on the corner, lanterns burning by the door. Cole had passed it a hundred times but never gone in. He held the door for her. Inside smelled of seared beef and woodsmoke. White cloths covered every table. A man in a vest led them to a booth by the window. Cole watched Lilly, then copied her. He laid the napkin on his lap when she did. He waited for her to lift her fork first. When the steak came, he cut it clean and slow. He didn't spill. He didn't fumble the strange row of forks. He talked easy about Spirit, about the forge, about the hills he'd grown up in. Lilly laughed at something he said and touched his hand across the table. "You clean up better than any man in this town," she said. Cole grinned. He'd walked in fearing shame. He walked out with her arm through his. In the truck she leaned against his shoulder, and the fear was gone for good. But as he drove her home, a harder truth sat with him. Tonight he'd borrowed a dead man's clothes to look worthy of her. If he wanted to keep her, he'd need more than one good night. He'd need to become the man that shirt made him look like.