He watched half a dozen ropers compete, barely noticing whether they were good, bad, or otherwise. Then Kylan Runningbird rode into the arena, and all the air in the Rocky Mountains wasn’t enough to keep David’s head from spinning. He knew that dirt-brown horse as well as his own face in the mirror.
Muddy, in the flesh, looking exactly as David had last seen him. Fit, glossy, and cocky as all get out.
David tore his gaze off the horse long enough to check out the rider as the announcer prattled on about Kylan Runningbird. A high school junior, state finals rookie, and here he was in fifth place so far with a solid shot at qualifying for nationals. The kid looked soft, slouchy, the brim of his beat-up hat crooked in the front, the tail of his shirt slopping out of his jeans on one side.
He also looked too nervous to spit.
Muddy, on the other hand, was all business, whipping around in the box and slamming his butt into the corner without waiting for the kid to steer him. The kid’s head jerked, enough of a nod for the gate to open. Muddy exploded out of the corner and arrowed in behind the calf.
Man, what a pup. The little potbellied Hereford loped out, head up, practically screaming Rope me. Kylan took two swings and threw. The loop bounced on the top of the calf’s head and, by some miracle, fell over his nose.
Muddy stopped, as quick and hard as the slam of door. The sight of it made David’s heart skip. Kylan flew off his side, more of an ejection than a dismount. His legs buckled and he went to his knees, but he got his left arm hooked over the rope. Muddy hustled backward, pulling the calf so when the kid stood up, it was right there under his nose. Kylan fumbled it onto its side, strung his piggin’ string on the top front leg, gathered up the hinds, applied three deliberate, two-fisted wraps and a hooey, and then threw up his arms.
The crowd went wild. One section of it anyway, a cluster of at least fifty people seated on the end of the grandstand. From the way they cheered and pounded each other on the back, David guessed they hadn’t expected Kylan to come through in the clutch. He could see why. The kid wasn’t much of a roper. Lucky for him, he was riding the best horse on the planet.
David’s horse.
Fury exploded in his head, as white-hot as those damn fireworks in Cody. David spun on his heel and strode around to the back of the arena, drawing startled looks from the people he shouldered past. By the time he got there, Kylan was surrounded by a huddle of friends, all slapping palms and bumping fists with him like he’d won the state championship instead of barely edging into fourth place. And there was Muddy, tugging at the reins, impatient as always to get back to the trailer now that his job was done.
The kid spotted someone in the mob of people streaming down from the grandstand and started in that direction. David stepped into his path. Kylan squinted up at him, confused.
“I need to talk to you,” David said, voice hard, muscles knotted as he fought the urge to yank the reins out of the kid’s hand.
Kylan looked past him, as if for help. David glanced over his shoulder to find two girls with their arms around each other, their smiles fading as they saw his expression. The smaller one pulled off her sunglasses. Her face was freckled under the brim of her baseball cap, but there was nothing childish about those eyes.
Not a girl. A woman. “What do you want with Kylan?” she demanded.
The tiny part of his brain still capable of logic could see she wasn’t old enough, but David asked anyway. “Are you his mother?”
“Close enough.”
“Good,” David said. “Maybe you can explain why your kid is riding my horse.”
She flinched. Surprise? Or guilt? “Who are you?” she asked, recovering fast.
“My name is David Parsons. That horse was stolen from me four years ago in Cody, Wyoming.”
“Nu-uh.” Kylan stepped back, arms extended as if he could hide the horse behind them. “He’s mine.”
The younger girl edged around David and grabbed the kid’s hand. “Don’t worry, Ky. He’s got the wrong horse.”
“No, I don’t.” David stared down at the woman, daring her to argue. “I’m betting you don’t have any papers on him.”
A crowd had begun to gather, the inner circle mostly dark-haired and dark-skinned, Kylan’s friends from the Blackfeet reservation and their parents.
“Do you?” the woman asked.
“Not with me,” David admitted. “I wanted to be sure it was him. Now that I am, I’ll have his papers faxed up to the sheriff’s office.”
At the word sheriff, a murmur went through the crowd, which had grown as bystanders realized something serious was happening.
“He’s mine!” Kylan was breathing hard, almost sobbing. “We bought him fair and square.”
The woman gave David a stony-eyed stare and spoke to the kid. “Take your horse back to the trailer, Kylan.”
“But—”
“Just do it. Go with him, Starr.”
Kylan hesitated, but the girl hooked his elbow, wheeled him around, and dragged him away toward the contestant parking area, darting worried glances over her shoulder. Muddy trailed along, supremely unconcerned with the whole drama.
The wall of people closed off behind Kylan, and several of the men looked more than willing to take David on if he followed. He seriously considered trying it anyway.
“I’m Mary Steele,” the woman said, pulling his attention back to her. “And, yes, I do have a bill of sale for that horse, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m skeptical. You get your papers and whatever other proof you have, and then we’ll see what’s what.”
“Fine,” David said. “I will.”
She gave a slight nod. “In the meantime, stay away from my nephew.”
She angled past David. The crowd parted to let her through and then closed ranks again. Over their heads, David watched her leave, her stride confident, her shoulders square. He continued to watch until she disappeared into the maze of pickups and trailers in the infield. Then he faced the angry mob. “You got no right accusin’ that boy,” a woman declared.
“I’ve got every right,” David said. “Give me an hour, and I’ll prove it.”
Chapter 4
So much for not making a scene. David could feel the angry stares boring into his back as he strode away, could see the gossip rippling across the rodeo grounds, expanding in rings from the humongous splash he’d made. But the more he thought about it, the more it twisted him up. Four years of Muddy’s prime wasted with a kid who roped like he’d never seen the inside of a practice pen.
David stumbled and ran square into the side of his own pickup. He braced both hands on the fender, dizzy with pent-up emotion. Exhaustion. Shock. He hadn’t really believed it. Not until he’d seen Muddy in the flesh, still ugly as a mud fence, untouched by the years that had aged David a decade.
Dear sweet God. He was alive.
David needed to touch him. Lay his hands on Muddy’s neck, feel the hard quiver of muscle, the warm pulse of blood. David had honestly believed he was dead. Otherwise, why hadn’t he surfaced? If the person who’d taken Muddy had had any idea of his true worth, he would’ve tried to sell him at some point. A horse that good would attract attention. Someone would recognize him.
But what if the guy who took Muddy didn’t know what he had? He could’ve stolen him just for the tack. David’s saddle and bridle were worth a couple thousand dollars, even at pawnshop prices. As for what he’d done with the horse—the thief might’ve figured he was disposable. Or realized how much he really was worth and panicked.
Either way, it would have ended badly for Muddy, a thought that had made David sick every time it had weaseled into his head over the past four years.
Well, Muddy was definitely not dead. David straightened, wiping the sheen of sweat from his face with a shirtsleeve and getting a whiff of body odor in the process. Yikes. He could use a shower. First
, though, he had to round up the proof needed to repossess his horse. He started to dial his parents’ number and then stopped, remembering they were out of town. He dropped down to the next number in his speed-dial list.
“Hey, baby bro,” his sister said. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I can’t just call to say hello?” he asked, his announcement so huge he couldn’t push it off his tongue.
“Not that I’ve noticed. What do you want?”
“I need your help.”
“With?”
“I found Muddy.” He held the phone away from his ear while she shrieked, and then he tried to get a word in edgewise while she peppered him with questions, for which he was short on answers. He intended to have those, too, by the end of the day.
“You think they knew?” his sister asked.
“I’m not sure,” David said. “But that’s not my problem.”
“Tough deal for the kid, though.”
No tougher than the last four years had been for David.
Computer keys clicked as his sister searched the internet for information on Kalispell, Montana. “Guess I have to take back what I said about how you were an idiot for not cashing in your insurance policy.”
“Guess so.” And thank God. The temptation had been huge when David had found himself buried under that mountain of debt, but he’d hung tough.
“That would’ve seriously sucked,” his sister said, echoing his thoughts. “Finding Muddy and having to turn him over to the insurance company.”
As far as David was concerned, the decision had been a no-brainer. Accepting payment meant if Muddy was found, the insurance company took possession and could sell him to the highest bidder, like any other piece of stolen property. He wouldn’t have taken that deal even if he hadn’t had his horse so ridiculously underinsured.
He’d canceled the policy without filing a claim, gambling a $20,000 insurance check that Muddy might show up some day. Damned if he hadn’t won.
“Got it,” his sister said. “Flathead County Sheriff. I’ll call them, get an email address, and send a copy of Muddy’s registration papers and a couple of pictures of you roping on him. That ought to do the trick.”
“Thanks, Sis.”
“You’re welcome. Are you gonna call Mom and Dad?”
“Not until I’ve got Muddy tied to my trailer.”
“Probably best that way.” She hesitated the way she always did when she had something to say that he wouldn’t want to hear.
“What?” he asked.
“What if he’s not the same? You don’t know where he’s been, if he was hurt. Plus, it’s been four years…” And she was afraid David might get his hopes too high, fall off another emotional cliff.
“I’ll be fine,” he promised. “Believe me, I know it’ll be a miracle if he’s the same horse he was when he disappeared. I’m just thrilled I found him and he looks okay. As for the rest…we’ll see when I get my hands on him.”
And the sooner, the better. He hung up and unhooked his horse trailer. Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the sheriff’s office. The woman behind the desk eyed him warily, standing back from the counter as he explained his situation, her expression skeptical. “Do you have any identification?”
“Uh, sure.” David pulled his wallet out and slid his Colorado driver’s license across the desk. She took her time studying it, then him. “Well, this may be a first. ’Cause I gotta say, you look a lot better in your picture.”
She tilted her head toward a mirror on the far wall. David turned and did a double take. Geez. No wonder she was acting like he was an escaped convict. He looked it, his eyes more red than gray, his hair standing on end from all the times he’d run his hands through it during the endless night behind the wheel, and his beard a day and half past a five-o’clock shadow.
“It was a rough trip,” he said.
“Looks like it.” Then she smiled. “But I bet you clean up pretty good. Let me go see if that email has come through.”
When he walked out, he had Muddy’s registration papers and crisp color copies of the photos from his sister, plus a promise that a deputy would be dispatched to assist him as soon as one was available, but the whole process had taken longer than David had expected. Back at the fairgrounds, he found the rodeo was over and the stage in front of the grandstand was set up for the awards, which appeared to be in progress. He made a beeline in that direction. When he reached the gate, he paused to search the crowd.
He spotted Kylan among a cluster of his friends. The kid shot David a murderous glance, then slouched to stare down at his hands. Kylan’s girlfriend was snuggled up beside him, petting him like an agitated dog, but David didn’t see the aunt. Mary. Such a soft name for a very prickly woman. He found a spot to lean against the fence while the awards ceremony wound up and the crowd began to shuffle out.
Obviously, word had spread. A large percentage of the people stared at David as they passed, openly curious. He avoided eye contact for fear of encouraging any of them to strike up a conversation. Kylan and crew remained seated until most of the others had left. Then the girlfriend got up and made her way down to where David was standing.
She was shaped like Humpty Dumpty—narrow shoulders, widening to her waist, then rounding off again—all perched on stick-skinny legs. David couldn’t fathom what kept her low-cut jeans from sliding off the bottom end of the egg. She marched straight up to him, dark eyes flicking side to side.
“No sheriff?” she asked.
“They were tied up with an accident out on Highway 2. They’ll send someone quick as they can.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip and then dug her fingers into the back pocket of her jeans to fish out a piece of paper and offer it to David, who unfolded it to find a roughly sketched map.
“What’s this?” he asked.
The girl lifted her chin and did a fair job of staring him down, her gaze sharp in an otherwise soft face. “Mary said to bring your papers and stuff. She’ll meet you at her attorney’s office in Browning in the morning. That’s the phone number and directions how to get there. You can put your horse up at the rodeo grounds.”
“Browning?” Panic spurted adrenaline into David’s system. “She doesn’t expect me to let her haul Muddy out of here?”
“She already did,” the girl said, then turned and fled.
David’s heart dropped like a stone to the pit of his stomach. This couldn’t be happening. He’d lost Muddy…again.
Chapter 5
By the time he topped the Continental Divide and rolled down the east slope of the Rockies, David’s fists were sore from pounding the steering wheel in frustration. At the town of East Glacier, Highway 2 spit him out of the mountains and onto the prairie without warning. He arrived in Browning twenty minutes later, low on fuel, so he drove on through town to find a station that could accommodate his extra-long rig.
The four-lane main drag was cluttered with out-of-state RVs, campers, boats, and other tourist paraphernalia heading into Glacier National Park. The locals drove rattletrap Buicks with mismatched doors and beefy four-wheel drives caked with enough mud to make David squirm with envy. Obviously, the drought hadn’t dug its bony fingers into this part of the plains.
He stopped at a red light and waited for a greasy, bearded man to shuffle across the street, followed by a mangy dog. They joined a pair of equally grungy women lounging against the boarded-up front window of what had once been a gas station. One of them passed a paper bag to the newcomer.
Street people? In a little town like this?
The light turned and David went on, past more boarded-up buildings interspersed with businesses making a visible effort to attract the tourist trade—a mercantile with Indian patterns stenciled around the top of the walls and a row of miniature metal tipis along the front sidewalk, a motel that had some age on it but no trash al
ong the curbs, a brightly painted burger joint with one whole wall sided in shiny chrome and colorful flags snapping in the breeze out front.
The road made a ninety-degree turn in front of a massive tipi built of concrete. The sign out front advertised espressos. Then another stretch of derelict buildings before David spotted a large gas station and convenience store called the Town Pump. Traffic whizzed by in both directions as he maneuvered into the jam-packed lot, around an SUV towing a pair of Jet Skis and a dually pickup covered in decals that declared the owner the champion of a team roping held three years earlier. The process was complicated by several stray dogs wandering aimlessly through the chaos.
Both diesel pumps were occupied, as were most of the gas pumps. As David waited his turn, a constant stream of people trickled in and out of the store carrying snacks, sodas, and beer by the case or the extra-large bottle.
Just past the Town Pump was a cluster of pristine, newer buildings that a sign declared to be Blackfeet Community College. Beyond that, the town ended and the hills rolled away. There wasn’t a tree in sight, but the green of the grass was still fresh as spring, which he supposed it was this far north. Where the Blackfeet reservation ended, Canada began.
When his turn came, he filled his tank, wincing at the hit on his gas card. Not only was Browning eight hours out of his way, but he’d lost all the income he would’ve made from the horses he’d lined up to shoe in Hermiston. He pulled around the back, locked his rig, and went inside for a soda and something cheap to eat. The deli served damn near anything that could be made in a deep fryer, plus individual pizzas and precooked burgers and such. David shelled out five bucks for chicken strips with ranch dressing and half a dozen potato wedges.
He accepted his change—yes, even the penny, because they added up—and stuffed it in his pocket. “I was told there’s a rodeo arena in town?”
“Yah.” The big guy at the register had a glossy black ponytail that hung to the middle of his back. “The Stampede Grounds. Right past the casino.”
Last Chance Rodeo Page 3