Cowboy Valentine by Mia Hopkins

he’d failed. “I’m doing all right. We knew it was coming.”
    “I know, I know. Never mind me.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen, sniffling a little. “I just want to see you happy, is all.”
    For the first time that he could remember, Caleb parked his truck right in front of Cora’s grandmother’s house. The smell of home cooking filled the air. Cora answered the door wearing a starched white blouse, dark skirt, dark tights and black shoes. Her long hair was coiled into an old-fashioned swirly thing on the back of her head.
    With a sideways glance toward the kitchen, she kissed his cheek. “Not a word about what I’m wearing. Not a single word.”
    “I wasn’t going to say anything, Sister Cora,” he whispered.
    She pinched his ass hard enough for him to stifle a yelp.
    The living room was sparsely furnished but immaculately clean. As he hung up his hat, Caleb realized that there was, in fact, a sheathed machete in Cora’s grandmother’s hat rack, at the ready for castrating any man who threatened her granddaughter’s honor. Caleb gulped like a cartoon character.
    A little iron-gray-haired woman dressed identically to Cora stepped out of the kitchen. Caleb shook the old lady’s hand as Cora introduced him as her amigo .Not novio .He knew both words— friend and boyfriend —two very different things.
    Though Caleb had been expecting a formal meal, he felt welcome at their small, cozy table. After she said a blessing, Cora’s grandmother served Cora’s favorite dish— birria , goat stew.
    She and Cora watched with anticipation as the güero examined his food. Would he be too squeamish? Or would he eat it? Caleb smiled. He would, and he’d enjoy it too—it tasted like lamb. Along with vegetables from their garden and fresh homemade tortillas, the stew was one of the best things he’d ever had.
    With Cora translating, Caleb talked about his time as a ranch hand in Montana and Nevada. He asked Cora’s grandmother questions about her life in Jalisco.
    Before he’d died of a heart attack, Cora’s grandfather had been a farm worker in the sugar-cane fields there. The machete by the door was in fact his cane knife. Cora’s grandmother had brought it with her to the United States; it made her feel like he was always looking over the family.
    Over cups of dark coffee, the cookies his mother had made and a sweet custard called jericalla ,Caleb tried out the phrases he’d been practicing.
    “Gracias por su hospitalidad, Señora Gomez.” Thank you for your hospitality. “Estoy muy orgulloso de Cora.” I’m very proud of Cora.
    Smiling, Cora’s grandmother said in halting English, “And thank you for making my granddaughter so happy. I’m proud of her too.”
    Between them, Cora blushed like a stoplight.
    After the meal, Caleb parked his truck around the block and waited. The minutes stretched out into an eternity. A half hour after he’d bid Cora and her grandmother goodbye and pretended to drive home, his phone buzzed with a text.
    She’s asleep. Window by the tomatoes.
    He took off his white hat and left it on the seat. Saying a silent prayer of apology to Cora’s grandfather, he crept along the side of the house and used an old potting bench to boost himself up into the open window where Cora waited for him in bed.
    Shelves stuffed with books lined the walls of her bedroom. A large rolling suitcase stood by the door. A little ceramic nightlight shaped like an angel glowed on her bedside table.
    “You clean up nice, MacKinnon,” she whispered between the hot kisses he dropped on her lips as he stumbled to get out of his clothes. “And you said such nice things to my grandma. She loves you.”
    How about you? Do you love me?
    “Stop talking and find something to bite on, girl,” he said.
    She stifled a giggle and welcomed him under the covers. She was naked and warm. Her hair was loose, freed from its Victorian cinnamon roll. “Jesus Christ, your feet are cold,” she