‘The Thing About Cowboys’ was a story that initially ran back on March 16th of this year. It was a tale of Jolene, her 1959 Chevrolet Bel Air, and misplaced love for a cowboy.
Readers wanted to know whatever became of Jolene. Turns out there was a much bigger story. It will run all week.
Jolene sat in the driver’s seat of the Bel Air, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. The paper tacked to the barn fluttered in the wind, the signed title flapping like a white flag of surrender.
She should’ve known. She did know.
Her mother had told her, warned her in that tired, gravelly voice of hers, the one that carried the weight of knowing better and the effects of unfiltered Marlboros. But Jolene had ignored it, just like her mother probably had 17 years earlier.
She climbed out of the car, the soles of her shoes crunching in the dirt as she walked to the barn and yanked the paper free. She stared at his name scrawled in ink, a name that still made her chest ache. Emory Easton.
Gone.
The picnic basket sat untouched in the car, the fried chicken she made that morning growing cold. She had wanted to tell him in a way that felt like them—out here, away from the world, just the two of them. But there was no “them” anymore. Just her. And soon a baby.
Jolene looked around, as if maybe he’d left a clue, a note, something. But there was nothing. Just the wind blowing dust from the Davis Mountains all the way to Fort Stockton.
She climbed back in the Bel Air and started the engine. The V8 rumbled to life, solid and steady, unlike the man who’d bought it for her.
Back in town, she pulled into the Rusty Hammer’s parking lot, gripping the gearshift hard enough to turn her knuckles white. As she climbed out, old Manny from Manny’s Motor Mart was standing outside, smoking a cigarette, watching her with that look men always gave women who’d been left behind. A mix of pity and “should’ve known better.”
Jolene squared her shoulders and walked past him, straight through the front doors. She had a job to do. A baby to think about.
And Emory Easton wasn’t the first cowboy to roll through Fort Stockton and disappear like a ghost.
But she’d be damned if he was the last thing she ever thought about.
A Few Years Later
The years hadn’t been easy, but Jolene had managed.
The Bel Air was still running strong, even if the paint had dulled under the relentless Texas sun. A new car had been so far outside the realm of her possibilities she’d never even considered trading in the dated sedan. She felt lucky to just keep it running well enough to get around town. She wore the old green Bel Air proudly, like a scarlet letter on her dress. A symbol of mistakes made, sure. But a sign of resilience, as well.
The Rusty Hammer paid her enough to keep a roof over her and little Emory’s heads—because of course, she’d named the boy after his father. It wasn’t spite or sentiment, just the simple truth that the past was written in ink, and some things couldn’t be erased. Like a child.
At four years old, Emory Jr. had his daddy’s blue eyes and his mama’s stubbornness. He spent his days being watched by old Mrs. Handley down the road while Jolene worked, but every night he fell asleep in her arms, his tiny hands clutching the soft cotton fabric of her blouse like he was afraid she’d slip away like his father had.
She wouldn’t, of course.
One late afternoon, just as she was finishing up at the register, the bell above the hardware store’s door clanged. Jolene looked up, half-expecting one of the regulars, maybe Mr. Landry needing more nails or Bobby Callahan looking for an excuse to flirt.
Instead, it was someone new.
A cowboy, of all things.
Glancing out the front window of the store, Jolene noted the 1964 Ford F-100 Custom long-bed 4×2 Styleside pickup the cowboy had pulled up in. Not from around Fort Stockton that she could remember, and she remembered the pickup trucks of nearly every cowboy in town, just like she did their pickup lines.
Steel 15″ wheels wore Ford-branded hubcaps and thin-whitewall tires. Rare is the cowboy who will put whitewall tires on their pickup truck. That was just a little too fancy for most. It looked to Jolene like the truck had unassisted steering and drum brakes. Made up for those white walls. The extended length caught her eye. It always did. In this case it was due to the extended 128″ wheelbase that was introduced on 1964 F-100 models. The bench seat had patterned cloth inserts that extended to the door panels, and the cab had a perforated headliner, a heater, and an AM radio, from what she could tell.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of easy swagger that made women notice him and men size him up. He wore his hat low, his denim shirt faded but clean, and when he stepped inside, he carried the scent of sun-warmed leather and dust and either an after shave or soap Jolene didn’t recognize.
Jolene watched as he strode up to the counter, his boots echoing against the wooden floor.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, his voice deep, but not rough like Emory’s had been. His had a certain smoothness to it, like slow whiskey poured over ice. “Name’s Sam Snyder. Just got into town. Looking for some fencing staples.”
Jolene arched her brow. “Back of the store, next to the exit out to the fencing. Right side of the door.”
He tipped his hat. “Much obliged.”
As he walked away, she did what she always did—watched. His jeans, his boots, the way he moved. But there was something else there too. A quiet confidence. Not the kind that screamed trouble, but the kind that whispered that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the type to run. He had the gait of someone who would put white walls on his F-100 and not think twice about it. Someone who lived by his own rules and would take any consequences that came as a result.
She wasn’t looking for anything. Not anymore. Too much time had passed for her to have any expectations.
But when he returned to the counter, setting a box of staples down with a steady hand, she caught herself holding his gaze a second too long.
Maybe it was just curiosity.
Or maybe, it was something else.
