Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,35
council, small-business owners, and rodeo heroes. The rodeo clowns roll around the street in brightly colored barrels and tiny cars to the delight of the kids lining the parade route. We’re laughing, patting backs, and passing food and drink to one another as the packs of North Star citizens pass by.
The float—and by float I mean a flatbed truck with silver tinsel along its bumpers—trundles by with the North Star queen and her court of three princesses. Merry Carole and I wave our flags and clap as the girls go by, but both of us are less than impressed. The North Star court is Laurel Coburn and Whitney McKay’s domain. Merry Carole and I would have killed to be in that court—waving to everyone in those pretty dresses. It was all I thought about as a kid. I later denounced it as “lame,” but I’m sure everyone knew sour grapes when they saw them. I certainly did. I could barely get the harsh words out before swooning into another fantasy about being crowned queen and Everett finally professing his love for me as he scooped me up onto one of those quarter horses and we rode off into the sunset. That was not quite how it played out. Laurel was queen to Everett’s king and I was the lank-haired interloper who said the parade was for “losers” as I watched out of the corner of my eye. Everett came by later that night . . . when no one was around to see us together.
Take that, Queen Laurel.
The queen and her court pass by and Merry Carole and I clear our throats. “Their hair looks great,” Fawn says to Merry Carole.
“Oh, thank you,” Merry Carole says, looking at their high hair with pride. She poufs her own hair that much higher.
I can hear them before I see them. The clop, clop, clop of the Paragon quarter horses. Two by two. Riders in crisp white shirts, jeans, and white Stetsons ride majestic animals that defy the expectation of what a horse should be. The crowd hoots and hollers for the pride of North Star. A chill runs down my spine as they round the corner by Merry Carole’s salon.
Felix and Arabella Coburn are right in front. Smiling and waving and looking down at all of us, as they always do. Right behind Felix and Arabella is their only girl, Everett’s sister, Florrie. Florrie was actually kind of a badass—and not into being the queen of the North Star court at all. She was one of the only female cutting champions and is on her way to making the National Cutting Horse Hall of Fame. She was a staple in rodeos in her time. Now she’s a sought-after rodeo judge and mother to her five little girls—who trot just behind her in the parade. Florrie married well, had beautiful babies, and is everything her parents could want. I always thought Florrie and I could have been friends. She was never anything but cordial to me. I always thought she knew about Everett and me, but never gave it away. She didn’t say a word when Felix laid down the law about never bringing a Wake into his home. But I can’t fault her for that.
Just behind Florrie’s brood is the youngest Coburn—Gray. Gray is catnip for the young women of North Star. He’s the vet at Paragon and perpetually single. I never saw any signs of him settling down, but I’m sure he’ll bow to his family’s pressure and find a suitable wife. Until then, he’s going to continue leaving a string of broken hearts behind him. At Gray’s age, Florrie already had two babies and a successful rodeo career. Florrie didn’t have the luxury of freedom that Gray has. Neither did Everett, I suppose.
Ranch hands, rodeo riders, and the rest of the men and women of the Paragon Ranch trot by two by two. I’m not breathing. I’m waiting. He’s always last.
Everett is riding by himself in the very back carrying the flag of Paragon. He might as well be on a white charger instead of the beautiful blue roan he’s on. I can’t help myself, and just like at the Drinkers Hall of Fame last night, I let my eyes wash over every inch of him. His crisp white shirt pulls tight across his broad shoulders. Stubble outlines his strong, yet always clenched, jaw. His full lips are pressed in a hard line, nary a crooked smile for the waving