"Good thing. I don't have a penny budgeted for doghouses."
Meanwhile, the puppies had climbed out of the box and waddled around the muddy yard, their tails whipping back and forth. "They can sleep on the porch," Ava said, picking them up, one under each arm. She carried the muddy-footed puppies into the house.
Izzy held the door open. "Be sure to clean them up before you turn them loose," she said to Ava. She looked down at him and said, "See what you've done?" But he didn't detect true anger in her tone. "If you want to wash off the mud, you can come in and use the laundry sink."
John stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, scraped his boot soles and followed her to a screened-in porch that ran the length of the house in back. A wood-burning cookstove hunkered at the far end. Shelves lined one wall, filled with empty canning jars. He suspected Izzy's mom, like many Callister rural folks, had done canning out here on the porch, using this stove.
Izzy preceded him into a mudroom and pointed out a deep laundry sink. As John folded back his cuffs and began washing his hands, the aroma of something spicy and meaty wafted from somewhere and his mouth watered. Having not eaten since a combination breakfast-lunch hamburger at Betty's Road Kill Cafe at eleven o'clock, he was hungry. "Sure smells good in here."
"It's beef stew," Ava said, hanging on to both puppies. "Mama cooks it in the Crock-Pot. It takes all day. It's really good. She made some bread, too."
"Homemade stew? Homemade bread?" John grinned and looked into Izzy's mysterious dark eyes. "Oh, man, it's been a long time since I had home cooking. You wouldn't want company for supper, would you?"
She dragged a towel off a rack on the unpainted plywood wall and handed it to him, but didn't extend an invitation to eat. She spoke to Ava. "Sweetie, you can't bring those pups inside the house. They have to stay on the porch."
Damn. He had been dismissed. No home-cooked stew. No chance to learn more about his old schoolmate who, without even trying, had churned up his juices. His hands dry, he rolled down his cuffs and buttoned them. "Well, since we got the pups taken care of, guess I'll get back to town." He lifted his hat and smoothed his hand over hair weeks past needing a trim.
"Hopefully," she said, leading him to the back door, "these dogs won't be grown before that second doghouse shows up. I don't want dogs the size of horses living on my back porch."
Chapter 6
After what Billy had done, Isabelle had vowed to give up men forever. When she made the pledge she had suspected it was a hollow one and meeting John Bradshaw had just confirmed it.
Ladling stew into two bowls, she tried to steer her thoughts away from the image of him standing there at the fence stroking Dancer's neck, one tan boot propped on a rail and Wranglers pulled tight across his bottom. Good Lord, she had even caught herself several times sneaking a look downward from his trophy belt buckle.
Lust. Base animal attraction. It was the only explanation she had for the feeling that had slithered through her. As an animal breeder, she knew more than most about the mysterious and powerful drive in all animals to perpetuate the species. It was called mating. In human beings, it was called sex. Damn.
Starting her new life in her hometown, she should have made a hospitable gesture and invited the sheriff to supper, but the odd attack of yearning had flustered her, especially when she thought she saw the same thing in his eyes. Being caught in an unexpected man-woman encounter where sex was an underlying impetus had made her so nervous she could scarcely have a coherent conversation with him, much less share a meal.
In the middle of laying out silverware, Isabelle called Ava to come in from playing with the puppies, wash her hands and sit down to supper. Another of the new leaves she had turned over was putting meals on the table and making sure she and Ava sat and talked about school, about books Ava was reading, about her problems, whatever they were, while they ate. No more grabbing something to eat at separate times in front of the TV.
As she removed butter and milk from the old refrigerator, which had a personality of its own, she thought of how John's eyes slid over her, leaving a little trail of heat everywhere they touched. His gaze had lingered on her breasts. He had definitely stared at her breasts. Damn.
Sex, sex, sex. How long had it been since she'd had sex? She couldn't put an exact date on the last time, but at least four years had passed. For three of those years, she and Billy slept side by side in the same bed, night after night, month after month, year after year, with little or no physical contact. Then he left.
Oh, hell, water over the dam. Why waste energy thinking about sex? Or John Bradshaw? When it came to women he probably was as bad as Billy. No doubt he had a stable of women younger than the thirty-five she would turn in a few weeks. Buckle bunnies with pierced navels and cute rear ends that filled a tight pair of jeans. If she knew cowboys—and she did—rodeo groupies were the more likely reason the sheriff was divorced.
Sex, or lack of it, was the least of her worries.
* * *
John had left Izzy's house with more aroused than just his appetite for food. And Isabelle Rondeau hadn't been the cause of that particular affliction since he was fifteen years old. Amazing.
What a woman his former schoolmate had become. Teenage Izzy paled in comparison to Isabelle full grown. When he looked at her, all he could think of was fire and earth and sunshine. And sex. Just like when he was a teenager and she had occupied his every thought. Plumb spooky.
He reined in those thoughts. She probably couldn't be trusted any more than any other woman he had met in the horse world.
Besides, he was the sheriff. Or at least he had the title and collected the paycheck, such as it was. He had to file Izzy away in a far corner of his mind, just as he had filed away that soft-looking blond schoolteacher who had moved here from Pocatello and surprised him when she did everything but undress him after hours one night in the courthouse.
Or Rita Mitchell. When he first came back to Callister months back, Rita and her tall, willowy body and long, silky hair had caught his eye. She was pretty and she appeared to be a promising companion. He took her to dinner once at the ski lodge, then another time to a movie in Ontario. Two evenings were enough to show him they had little to talk about. Since becoming single, he had learned something about sex and women and himself: Even if a woman was hell in bed, sooner or later you had to have a conversation.
With Rita, he recognized early on the shortfall in the communication department and he didn't even try to reach her bedroom. Now he was friendly if he ran into her, but he gave her a wide berth except to drop in at her store and buy coffee. She did sell good coffee.
He gave all women in Callister a wide berth. Sleeping around didn't seem like a great idea for the county sheriff in a small town that thrived on gossip. And beyond that, he wasn't the dog he had been for a while after Julie and he split. He no longer felt the need to prove it was only his ex-wife who found him offensive enough to reject and replace with another man. He guessed he had grown up a little.
One-night stands, or one-rodeo stands, had brought him a lot of trouble. The last sobering incident with the fairer sex had taken place in Reno, when a pretty little thing whose last name he wasn't sure of to this day tried to drag him off to a wedding chapel. When he balked, a crying, screaming episode erupted, followed by the wanna-be bride ramming her SUV into his horse trailer. She refused to separate a hot night in the sack from love.
Like a glass of ice water in the face, the near-wedding, plus the danger to his horses and the cost of repairing his trailer, had shocked him into spending his nights on the road with a couple of Budweisers and TV reality shows. The alternate choice turned out to be just as bad in a different way, because two Buds became three, then a six-pack, and all of a sudden he found himself on a downhill slide going nowhere but the nearest liquor store.
Deep down, he believed himself to be a one-woman man, even a family man like his dad, despite how that image was at odds with the way he had lived up to this point.
; Izzy crept into his thoughts again. A little voice told him he didn't have to worry about her going out of her way to attract his attention. Like porcupine quills, independence stuck out all over her. She had been as standoffish tonight as she was in school, hadn't revealed a significant word about herself or why she had returned to Callister. He could see she had her hands full with a wide-eyed little kid and that run-down place, not to mention those three horses.
At last, he reached the highway. A half hour of thinking had shrunk the pressure behind his zipper. A good thing, too. It was Saturday night and he had the bar scene to patrol.
* * *
The next morning Isabelle overslept. Now she had to hurry. Her cousin, Nan, had called and offered to pick up Ava and take her to Sunday school with her kids, then to a matinee in Ontario. Isabelle had told Nan her desire to have Ava get acquainted with her family and she was grateful that Nan made the effort. She couldn't offer much in return, but she could teach Nan and Roger's kids to ride if she ever got a couple of good "kid horses."
She had awakened plagued by a jumble of annoyances. Her brief conversation with John about the horses had scrolled through her dreams off and on all night, badgering her about the need to do something about the ownership papers.
She stepped into the shower, absorbed by the problem. Seventeen years of living with Billy had taught her not to trust him in anything to do with money. She had seen too many dollars blown in expensive bars and restaurants and fancy clothing stores, not counting all that had melted away on the craps and blackjack tables when they had worked for a brief time in Nevada.
When he left her and Ava in Weatherford, he said she could have everything—their home, the truck and trailer and the horses. But when confronted with the closing of the sale of their home and land and the substantial amount of cash from the equity, he reneged and refused to sign his half over to her. Remembering that put dread in her heart every time she contemplated calling him about the horses.
The antiquated shower in the bathroom was incapable of beating her to life, but it scalded her well, which was equally stimulating. The hot water heater was the only new appliance in the house.
After she dressed in worn jeans and a warm sweater, she cooked a bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave for Ava's breakfast and made hot chocolate. She sat at the table and sipped coffee while Ava ate, listening to her daughter relate a story she had finished reading about a girl and a horse.
She needed to look for a horse gentle enough for Ava. They'd had one in Texas, but she sold it before they left. Thinking back, she didn't know why. She could have brought it to Callister just as easily as she brought Dancer, Polly and Trixie. A frown tugged between her brows at the reminder of another disappointment she had thoughtlessly added to her daughter's life.
Nan came for Ava and trundled off with her van loaded down with kids. The sky was clear, the sunshine warm. Isabelle snapped leashes onto the puppies' collars and set out on a dog walk around the small pasture nearest the house. The puppies dawdled along on their short little legs, stopping at every plant and rock to either sniff or pee. Damn John Bradshaw anyway. She had no time for puppies. They might be cute now, but she hated thinking how big they would be when they grew up. And they had to be trained. The last thing she wanted was another dog problem with her neighbor.
She felt more energized at the end of the walk. She returned to the kitchen and, armed with a ballpoint, a yellow tablet and her address book, picked up the phone and carried it to the dining table.
She opened the address book to "B" and stared at the Ardmore, Oklahoma, phone number. Billy hadn't given her the number. She had found it written on one of the closing documents when she sold the place in Texas. Knowing him, he wouldn't appreciate her calling him at his girlfriend's house and an argument would probably ensue. Not a good way to start a conversation where she wanted him to do something for her.
Well, even if it angered him, she had to make the call. She had to. Because spending the money advertising the sale of the horses was a waste unless Billy signed off his interest in them.
She picked up the pen and doodled circles across one line of the blank tablet, remembering a scene in the barn in Texas when, after spending big bucks for semen and an expensive vet to do artificial insemination, they had learned Polly hadn't conceived. Someone popped off and suggested the ten-year-old mare might be sterile. Billy flew into a rage, stormed around the barn ranting that a mare that couldn't breed was worthless. When Isabelle tried to defend Polly, Billy shouted that if she thought a useless horse was so great, she could just have Polly.
Isabelle loved Polly and was glad to claim her. Ambivalent about the mare's ability to have babies, she hadn't pursued tests to verify fertility.
Another worry cropped up. Even if Polly turned out to be sterile, Trixie wasn't. Trixie had given birth to beautiful foals and was younger than Polly. But with Billy's name on the papers, a foal from Trixie couldn't be registered in only Isabelle's name. And if the foal sold, no doubt Billy would want half the money. Damn.
For that matter, even if she were to enter Dancer or Trixie in some local-area shows, their winning money could present another problem with Billy. Double damn.
She sighed, took a sip of coffee, picked up the receiver and was poised to dial the Oklahoma number when Paul came through the back door. He walked into the kitchen and poured coffee for himself. "Want some breakfast?" she asked him, unable to resist the diversion from making the call.
"Naw, I ate something at home."
Home to her brother was a thirty-foot travel trailer parked behind a friend's house. She wouldn't venture a guess what he might have eaten for breakfast. He was clean-shaven, she noticed. "You don't look hungover."
He laughed. "Have some faith in me, sister. I was good yesterday. Went snowmobiling up on the other end of Callister Mountain. Had two beers and went to bed early."
Isabelle grinned. "See? That didn't hurt you a bit, did it?"
"Sun's been shining several days now. The barn roof oughtta be dried out. I'm ready to tackle those holes."
The big barn's roof was made of cedar shake shingles that were at least fifty years old. They absorbed moisture like a sponge. She and Paul settled into a conversation about the work to be done and she postponed her call to Billy. Again.
* * *
For the rest of the week, between sessions of caring for and teaching the puppies, Isabelle helped Paul with the repairs to the barn. He worked from early morning until dark every day. By Friday, more than half of the roof shingles had been replaced. A new sheet metal roof was what she really wanted, but that would have to wait until she had an income. Paul had braced and strengthened the stall doors, replaced a few two-by-fours and screwed on new hinges and latches. Now she could pen up a horse and feel confident it would stay put. Paul told her he would start shoring up the roof structure next.
He quit work late in the afternoon and announced he was headed to town for a get-together with Jim Beam. Isabelle tried to persuade him to stay and eat supper with her and Ava, but her invitation fell on deaf ears. She had already pushed him to his limit, she supposed, keeping him busy and sober for a week. She suspected he would be meeting Merle Keeton in town and they would consume a river of whiskey.
After supper, while Ava dressed the puppies in costumes, Isabelle sat down with her budget. She had invested the cash she received from the sale of the Weatherford property in a CD that earned disgustingly low interest. An acquaintance in Texas, an investment planner, had tried to persuade her to put the money into the stock market or some other paper investment. She had refused. She didn't dare risk the only thing she could call hers in a venue about which she knew little. She couldn't even read the stock quotes on a newspaper's financial pages. She didn't trust stockbrokers anyway, knowing how many of them treated their horses.
No, she would take care of her money herself. If she lived frugally and nothing catastrophic happened, she could survive for two years, which should be enou
gh time to get her business going and producing income.
Unfortunately, she didn't see how she could avoid hiring help, even with the tightness of her funds. If she intended to shape up the horses for sale and/or cutting competitions, she had to buy a shipment of eighty to a hundred calves for the horses to work. More animals to feed and look after.
The horses hadn't been ridden more than a few times in recent weeks and part of her dilemma was finding the time to work each of them forty-five minutes or an hour several days a week, along with cleaning the barns, repairing them and the house, advertising her services as a handler and more important, spending time with her daughter. And now, housebreaking dogs.
Though vexed about the expense of hiring help, tomorrow she would call her aunt and her cousin and put out the word she needed a part-time hand. She would ask Nan to help write an ad to put in Callister's newspaper, which was published on Tuesdays and Fridays.
She might even ask Nan to help write a letter to Billy. In the long run, a letter to her ex-partner might be more effective than a phone call.
* * *
"Here's a part-time job for you, John T."
Dana leaned against John's office doorjamb reading the local newspaper. It was no secret that John's child support payments kept him strapped. Callister County sheriff's pay wasn't an executive salary. He frequently joked he needed a second job so he could afford to be sheriff.
He peered at her through half-closed eyelids, didn't move his feet off his desktop. "Doing what? Sweeping floors at the Rusty Spur?" He covered his fact with his hat and closed his eyes.
"Izzy Rondeau's advertising for help with her horses."
"The hell." John lifted his hat off his face. His boot heels hit the floor. He sat up and leaned forward. "Lemme see."
Dana passed him the newspaper. He read the ad, then handed the paper back and resumed his relaxed position. "Doesn't say what she's paying. Has to be minimum wage. She probably wants a grunt."
The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 Page 6