by Kim Redford
“What about the foreman on the Lazy Q?” Fern asked.
“He’s being cagey,” Sydney said. “Basically, he’s telling us to mind our own business, but he says Daisy Sue is okay.”
“Guess there’s not much more you can do for now, is there?” Craig asked.
“Once we reach the top dog, we ought to get answers,” Slade said. “Till then, best we can do is help Storm and Fernando.”
“Bert and Bert Two are friends with the Tarleton family, so we’ll probably go to them next and see if they can get some information about Daisy Sue for us,” Slade said.
“Good idea,” Craig replied.
On the edge of the pond, Storm picked up her bucket of oats and rattled it. “Please, come on. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Fern gave everyone a smile before she walked over to the pond with Craig beside her. She adjusted her guitar strap, strummed a few chords, then leaned toward Craig.
“Follow my lead,” she whispered. “I know the perfect song for Fernando.”
“You got it.”
And she hit the first notes of “The Lonely Bull,” a big instrumental hit from the sixties by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. She hummed the original sizzling trumpet part, and Craig added more depth to the number with his guitar.
As she played and hummed, she watched Fernando to gauge his reaction. He tentatively raised his head, gave her a curious look with his big luminous eyes, and a peaceful calm radiated out from him. She could almost see a smile settle across his face as he raised his head and sniffed the air in her direction.
She glanced at Storm, who was holding out the bucket of feed and crooning in time with the music.
Craig added his deeper voice to hers as they looped the song, adding their own variations to keep it going, since the music was obviously having a soothing effect on their own lonely bull.
As they played, Fernando stretched out his neck toward Storm’s bucket and sniffed the air. She shook the oats in time with the music like a tambourine, luring him to the sound and smell of his favorite food.
Finally, he stepped forward, powerful muscles sending out concentric waves from his massive body as he slowly, gracefully moved through the water. When he reached Storm, he didn’t go for the oats. Instead, he lowered his massive head and gently bumped her small chest until she set down the bucket and wrapped her thin arms around his neck. He blew air out his nose in a deep sigh and laid his head on her shoulder for a long hug.
Fern kept the music going, but tears filled her eyes as she watched the little girl and the big bull comfort each other. She glanced up at Craig. He was watching her with a smile on his lips. She got it. Love came in all forms under the rainbow…and it was the most precious gift of all.
Storm turned her head and looked at Fern and Craig. “Fernando needs a distraction while we’re waiting to get Daisy Sue back.”
Fern stopped humming but continued softly playing her guitar. “What do you have in mind?”
“Y’all are in charge of Wild West Days, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Craig said.
“Fernando’s online fans have been asking to see him.” Storm frowned in concentration. “I didn’t want to take him off the ranch, but now I think it’d be good for him to get away for a bit.”
Fern glanced over at Sydney and Slade to get their reactions. Both looked surprised but nodded in agreement.
“I don’t see why not if he’s in a controlled environment,” Craig said.
“We could surely find a place for him in Old Town.” Fern didn’t want to disappoint Storm, and the big bull would be an added attraction.
“We could sell Fernando T-shirts and stuff.” Storm’s hazel eyes glinted with excitement.
Slade chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s always the budding entrepreneur.”
“We can use the proceeds for his special feed,” Storm said. “We can even share with Daisy Sue when she gets back.”
“Can you set up a corral or something to hold him for viewers, in case he gets upset or takes it in his mind to wander?” Craig looked at Sydney.
“We’ve got time, so I imagine we can come up with something if that’s what we decide to do,” Sydney said. “You know, it took a little time, but Storm worked magic with Fernando until he came to trust her…and he tamed her wildness a little bit, too.”
“Yeah.” Slade glanced at his sister. “They were both pretty wild till they formed a friendship, but then wildness is a little on the standard side for Steele women.”
Sydney chuckled, nodding in agreement as she turned toward her daughter. “Storm, why don’t you see if you can lure Fernando up to the barn with that bucket of oats? I’d feel better if he was safely confined in his old place.”
Storm patted Fernando on the head. “Come on, we’ve got plans to make if we’re going to wow folks at Wild West Days.”
Chapter 17
By Sunday, Craig decided they were making good progress on Wild West Days. Everybody was on board with what they’d dubbed the Wildcat Bluff Musicians stage near the Chuckwagon Café. They were getting forms filled out at the stores and on the website. Things were moving fast. It was time for a break, and they needed to get out of the Park to do it. And so they were on Wildcat Road, headed out of town.
Fern looked good, but she had natural style and pizazz no matter what she wore, so that was a given. Today she’d thrown on a pair of her sister’s Wranglers, a red shirt with white snaps and white piping, along with a pair of red cowgirl boots. He wore his usual jeans with a big brass rodeo buckle, shiny black boots, and a blue-striped, pearl-snap shirt. All in all, they made a fine-looking pair that appeared to belong together much like they did onstage. That was another thing good about the day—they were together. They were in love. And nothing was going to keep them apart, not even a stranger with white roses who, fortunately, hadn’t been heard from or seen in the area since that night, so Craig was cautiously optimistic on that front.
Today he wanted nothing more than to have fun with Fern. And they both deserved it, even needed it. If he could get away with it, he’d make their outing a date, almost like a first date to get reacquainted with each other and what made them tick beyond entertainment. As important as music was to both of them, and although that was at the heart of what brought them together and kept them together, music wasn’t everything. They ought to mesh the rest of their lives, or eventually their relationship might fray like a ragged rope coming apart. And he had no intention of letting that happening to them, so it meant a fun day in Sure-Shot.
Fern was humming to the radio, seemingly as content as he felt, when he turned west onto Highway 82. He watched as the fence lines that stretched along both sides of the road changed from barbwire to white pipe or four-slat wood enclosures, announcing they’d moved from cattle country to horse country. One ranch after another flashed by, announcing their names—from whimsical to practical—in black sheet metal cutouts or burned into wood arches that towered over entryways.
Thoroughbred horses with rich chestnut coats in a variety of shades grazed in some pastures, while in others, brown-and-white painted ponies sought shelter from the sun under the spreading limbs of live oaks and tall elms. Crimson barns and metal corrals—along with houses ranging from single-story, redbrick, fifties ranch style to cream-colored stone, two-story contemporaries—nestled well back from the road for privacy.
Soon he turned south at a sign with western-style letters that read SURE AS SHOOTIN’ YOU’RE IN SURE-SHOT! under the black-and-white silhouette of a smoking Colt .45 revolver.
Fern chuckled as she pointed at the announcement. “I’d forgotten that fun sign. Annie Oakley is still alive and well in Sure-Shot.”
“Yeah.” He joined her laughter, feeling lighthearted heading into his hometown. “The founders probably knew her or at least heard of her. I mean, back in the day, who would
n’t know about the famous sharpshooter and exhibition shooter known as Little Miss Sure Shot on the Wild West show circuit?”
“I bet somebody knew her.” Fern cast him a thoughtful look. “If you name an entire town after someone, then you probably know them pretty well.”
“Maybe they just admired her.”
“Could be. But I like the idea that she’d been through here a time or two…maybe even spent a night or more with a special gentleman.”
Craig chuckled, reached over, and squeezed Fern’s hand. “You’re a romantic at heart, aren’t you?”
“I just kind of identify with her. Entertainers live in their own fantasy worlds, so reality is rare and it’s what’s special to us. Maybe Annie found that down-to-earth, once-in-a-lifetime love here with a rancher, but then fame and fortune lured her from reality back into her fantasy world.”
“But he never forgot her.”
“And she never forgot him.” Fern cocked her head to one side, glancing at Craig from the corners of her eyes. “Today…their great love lives on in the name of a small Texas town named Sure-Shot.”
“Never to be forgotten.”
“Exactly.” She appeared sort of wistful as she watched the western town come closer. “I want our Annie Oakley story to be real, even if it is fantasy.”
“It’s real for us now. Far as I know, nobody remembers how Sure-Shot got its name anymore beyond a tribute to the famous lady.”
“That makes our story just as good as any other.”
“Better.” He felt her story touch his heart, adding even more to the song about her that was gaining strength in his head all the time. “Maybe I’d better change the name of my family ranch.”
She glanced over at him and shook her head. “Tradition is important. Best not mess with it.”
“We could always start a new tradition.”
“Aren’t we doing that at Wildcat Hall?”
“Yes. Still, I’m thinking about rancher tradition of protecting and working with land and animals.”
“That’s important, too. But you know as well as I do that you can’t just go around changing brands and ranch names and all. It’s not done.”
He felt his heart fill even more with her—every little bit of her—at those kind words for his family heritage. “Okay. We’ll leave it be…for now.”
And then they were in Sure-Shot as he drove down the asphalt two-lane road that turned into Main Street. The small town still nestled at what had once been the vital intersection of an old cattle drive trail that ran north to south and the railway line that crossed east to west.
Sure-Shot looked similar to the set of an Old West film. Old Town in Wildcat Bluff was built of brick and stone, while Sure-Shot had a classic wooden false-front commercial district. A line of single-story businesses connected by a boardwalk, covered porticos, and tall facade parapets extending above the roofs were individually painted in green, blue, and yellow with white trim. Small clapboard houses with wide front porches and fancy double-wides fanned out around the downtown area.
Once upon a time, Sure-Shot had catered to cowboys on their cattle drives from Texas to Kansas and back again. Lively dance halls and noisy saloons, along with the mercantile, café, blacksmith shop, livery stable, bathhouse, bank, and freight depot had all done a brisk business, just like the same types of stores had in Wildcat Bluff.
As always, Craig felt as if he’d stepped back in time. A few pickups and Jeeps were parked in front of the businesses, but a couple of saddle horses with their reins wrapped around the hitching post in front of the Bluebonnet Café swished their tails at flies. He had no doubt their riders wore hats, boots, and spurs while they waited for takeout or sat down for an early supper inside the café. Life around here had its own tempo. It might not be fast, but it was steady.
He neared an open area created by two buildings being lost to a fire years ago. For a long time, it had been a stubble of dry grass in winter and a colorful swathe of wildflowers in spring that ranged from orange Indian paintbrush to bright bluebonnets to crimson clover. In the last year, enterprising folks had added a white Victorian style gazebo with landscaped gardens of native plants and wildflowers in the center of the two town lots.
On the other side rose the old gas station with the same tall, flat, wooden false front as the other structures. It had been repurposed to serve a new clientele. “Sure-Shot Beauty Station” emblazoned in a western-style typeface, in bright turquoise against a white background, replaced the original green-and-white Sinclair logo. Instead of double bay front doors, the entire front was now glass, so passersby could see the goings-on inside and customers could watch the goings-on outside. Mirrors dominated the interior walls, and a row of turquoise chairs sat facing them from a few feet away.
“Looks like folks are gathering for the band’s concert,” Fern said.
“Guess it’s time to park and join them.”
“Don’t they appear happy to be here?” She pointed at the women dressed in tight jeans, short cutoffs, flirty skirts, and bright tops, while the men wore Wranglers, colorful western shirts or T-shirts, and boots. Everyone wore a hat or cap to protect their faces from the hot sun beating down overhead. They were mostly in family groups, from babies to grannies. And they all carried chairs of various types.
“Sure do.” He glanced at folks setting up in haphazard rows on the manicured lawn around the gazebo, while he looked for a place to park among all the pickups. He continued down the street until he found an empty place across from the beauty station. He quickly parked and turned to Fern.
“I’m excited to be here,” she said. “It’s like getting back to our roots before we became professionals.”
“Hope you like the band.” He pulled two bottles of water out of the cooler and handed her one. “No way to get around the afternoon heat, so let’s stay hydrated.”
“Right. Texas in August.” She chuckled, amusement filling her eyes. “It just means I’ll glow and—”
“I’ll sweat, because Southern ladies wouldn’t think of doing anything more than glow no matter how hot they get.”
She laughed harder. “So true. At least, no guy would ever say anything else.”
“Right. I wasn’t raised in a barn.”
“Not even close.” She leaned across and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “But I might not mind meeting you up in a hayloft.”
He grinned, feeling a burst of sheer happiness just to be with her. “I’ve got a hayloft on the ranch.”
“Is it available?”
“If it’s not, it can be.”
“Maybe that’s something to put on our to-do list.”
“Before or after Wild West Days?” No way was he was losing out on an opportunity like this one. He needed to get it nailed down fast.
“Let’s catch your hayloft at the first opportunity.”
“I’m with you on that one.” He’d make sure it was before the big event. There was fresh hay from July in the loft, all ready for winter. He could toss several quilts on top of it and they’d be good to go. He was almost losing interest in the concert. If they left right now, they could go straight to the ranch and fulfill that fantasy.
“Too bad we can’t go now,” she said thoughtfully.
“Yeah.” Maybe the concert wouldn’t last too long, but he didn’t have much hope of that idea. He’d just have to put the hayloft on a back burner till he could get her there and make up for lost time.
He got out, opened the back door, pulled out two folding chairs in their cloth cylinders, and looped them by their straps over one shoulder. By the time he walked around to her side of the truck, she was already standing on the ground, smiling at him. He clasped her hand and felt an instant blaze that had nothing to do with the ninety-five degree heat.
They walked hand in hand across the street to tread on the soft, closely-trimmed gr
ass on their way to the gazebo. Several people called to him, recognizing him from living there and from entertaining at the Hall. He greeted them in return, smiling as he kept moving with Fern until they reached a spot to one side but with a good view of the open-sided gazebo.
He set up their chairs, side by side, so they’d be close together, then waited for her to sit down. When they both were seated and had placed their bottles of water in cupholders, he sighed in contentment. It was good to be home, good to be with Fern, and good to be waiting to hear an up-and-coming band.
“How does it feel to be on this side of the stage?” she asked, leaning toward him.
“Good. How about you?”
“Odd…but good, too.”
“The band is setting up. How do you like their look?” He gestured with his head toward the group, which had a singer, lead guitar, bass guitar, fiddle, Dobro, and drums. They wore black cowboy boots, blue jeans, and black T-shirts with “Red River Wranglers” emblazoned in crimson Old West type across the front.
“Simple is smart. And I like the band name, too.”
“It’s a good place to start.”
“Yeah.” She reached over and squeezed his hand as her smile reached from her lips to her eyes.
“We’re in a good place, too.”
As she nodded in agreement, Elsie—owner of the Bluebonnet Café—sashayed up to the front of the gazebo. She wore cat-eye, rhinestone eyeglasses and her bright red hair in a curly ponytail. She’d squeezed her long-limbed, athletic body into a turquoise tunic worn with hot-pink tights and purple cowgirl boots. She wrapped a long-fingered hand around the mic on a tall stand while the audience grew quiet in anticipation.
“Welcome to another Sunday afternoon at the Summer Music of Sure-Shot!” Elsie called out as she gestured toward the group in front of her.
She was met with wild applause and whistles as folks reacted to the coming performance.
“That’s right,” Elsie said. “You’ve got a good reason to be excited because our very own Red River Wranglers from right here in Sure-Shot, Texas, are about to set your toes tapping with their western swing favorites. Let’s hear it for them!”