LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS)

by Hutchinson, Bobby

  “Want to go for a walk?” she suggested impulsively. “That’ll get us away from the saloon crowd, and I left my cell in my cabin. There are lovely trails all through those woods back there, and it won’t be dark for at least another hour or two.”

  He nodded, and she jumped to her feet, giving the sagging bikini a necessary hoist and bringing an appreciative look from Mitch that made her blush.

  “C’mon, I’ll put some clothes on. My cabin’s this way.” They strolled across the yard, and the sounds from the saloon grew fainter as they threaded their way through the tall old pines to where her tiny cedar cabin was, half-hidden among the trees. It had a small front porch nestled under the roof overhang, and Sara had brought an old rocking chair from the lodge so that she could sit outside in the evening, watching night fall, listening to the birds... and swatting mosquitoes.

  They climbed the three wooden steps and Sara opened the heavy door. The log cabin was a single large room, sparsely furnished, with a couch that doubled as a bed, a chest of drawers, a small wood-burning heater in one corner, and a table with several chairs.

  Sara had a coffeepot and a hot plate but no kitchen. There was a bathroom lean-to added on at the back of the structure; when Dave’s grandfather had first built the cabins, outdoor plumbing was the rule of the day, so Dave had added the bathrooms at a later date.

  Mitch looked around curiously, paying close attention to the framed certificate Sara had hung proudly on the wall declaring her a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. There was a framed photo of her graduating class on the bureau, and he spent several minutes picking her out of the group.

  “Ever miss your college days?” he inquired.

  “Not for a moment,” she assured him. “Those years were hard because there was never enough money, so I felt as if I was running from class to work without enough hours for sleep. It’s wonderful now, getting a paycheck every month, being able to live by myself and still be close to my family.”

  “This cabin is a lot like mine at the ranch,” he told her. “Mom wanted me to stay in my old bedroom in the house, but it made me feel as if I were smothering, living in the house again with Mom and Pop. So I fixed up what used to be the hired man’s quarters, a little cabin out behind the garage, and I like it fine.”

  “It’s like having the best of both worlds, isn’t it?” Sara pulled clothing out of the closet, underwear out of a drawer, and headed for the bathroom.

  “I’ll be ready in a minute,” she promised, hurrying in and shutting the door, then stripping off the bikini. She groaned when she took a quick glance in the mirror. There wasn’t a single trace left of the carefully arranged hairdo or the subtle makeup job she’d managed earlier in the day.

  Her face shone from the long swim in the mineral pool, and her hair was hanging in ropes down her back and drying into a stiff, impossible frizz at the front.

  Hurriedly she turned on the shower and rinsed her head, rubbing it with a towel and tying the entire unruly mass of hair back with an elastic. She donned denim shorts and a patterned blouse, splashed on cologne as an afterthought and opened the door.

  Mitch was out on the porch, rocking leisurely to and fro in the chair. He turned and smiled when she came out.

  “You look nice,” he assured her, and she smiled at him, wondering if a time would ever come when her grooming would coincide with their meeting. “What’d you do to yourself?” He touched the scratch on her cheek and then traced the other scratch marks on her arms as well.

  “Oh, there’s this miserable cat I had to do an operation on....” Sara explained about Queenie, and Mitch laughed as she outlined how the cat had attacked both her and Floyd.

  They wandered slowly along the trails where Sara usually jogged. The heat of the afternoon still lingered in the air, even in the depths of the forest, and the birds sounded sleepy as they sang their evening songs.

  “I saw a deer jump across this path the other morning,” she confided. “It’s thrilling to still see wild animals in their natural habitat. In many places, the wild things are disappearing.”

  Mitch had her hand clasped in his, fingers fitting between fingers. “Montana still has a lot of wild game. In fact, Pop was saying the other day that there’s a small herd of wild horses up in a canyon in the hills above the ranch. Of course, there used to be huge herds of wild horses ranging all around here, but there aren’t many left now. The town of Plains actually used to be named Wild Horse Plains.”

  Sara swung their hands back and forth between their bodies. “I’d love to see a wild horse,” she said. “It would be something to tell your grandchildren someday.”

  Mitch hadn’t been thinking too much about grandchildren, but it sounded like a fine idea. “Why don’t I saddle up a couple of horses on the weekend, and we can ride up to the canyon and maybe get a look at them?”

  “That would be fun.” Sara grinned up at him. “Steamboat for me again, right?”

  “Unless you think he’s too spirited for you,” Mitch said, and Sara used her free hand to give him a poke on the arm.

  “I had your mom and mine laughing this afternoon about old Steamboat running off with me,” she said.

  “Did you tell them how I saved you, just like one of those heroes in an old movie?”

  Her cheeks grew pink. “I only told them some of it. There were parts of that rescue that were x-rated.”

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Were those the parts that went something like this?” He pulled on her hand, turning her neatly into his arms. His kiss was full of the hunger she roused in him. They stood for uncounted minutes, lost in the wonder of lips and tongue and hands, bodies straining together. When they reluctantly drew apart, an owl was hooting overhead and the first faint glimmers from a half-moon shone down through the tall pines.

  “We’d better go back. Gram’s liable to send out a search party if I’m gone too long.”

  On the way, Sara chatted to him about the afternoon she and her relatives had spent with his mother. “They got along famously, and your mom served such a big afternoon tea I couldn’t eat supper. She actually had several recipes for squares and things that Gram doesn’t have. And your mom and mine talked about grieving, too, which I think was good.”

  “They must have also talked a lot about this restaurant at Bitterroot your mom and Gram are planning,” Mitch remarked, “because Mom went on and on about it at supper time. Said she’s coming over early next week to see all the changes they’ve made.”

  Sara was quiet, wondering if she ought to tell Mitch exactly how the conversation about the restaurant had developed.

  “We could sure use another good cook a couple days a week over there, once we get properly set up,” Jennie had said halfway through the conversation, and Gram had agreed heartily, adding, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested, Ruth? Be the best thing in the world for you right now, getting out with people, having a job to go to.”

  “Work was the only thing that kept me sane when my first husband was killed,” Jennie added. “It would be the best thing you could do for yourself, Ruth.”

  Sara, sitting quietly back with a sandwich and a cup of tea, watched Ruth’s face and wondered if her mother and Gram had had this idea cooked up long before today’s visit. Most likely. They were smooth operators, those two.

  There was surprise first on Ruth’s face, then an expression of longing and regret.

  “Oh, I don’t think I could. I’ve never worked except at home, you know,” she said shyly.

  Gram snorted. “Hogwash. Anybody who cooks for threshing crews like you have could do the job at Bitterroot with one arm tied.”

  Ruth’s face flushed with pleasure. “Do you think so, really?” she’d asked in a wistful tone.

  That was why Ruth was coming over, so that she could look things over and decide if she wanted the job. Sara thought of Wilson and wondered what his reaction would be to the idea. Obviously Ruth hadn’t mentioned it yet to him or to Mitch. Well, it was her decision, her
secret for the moment if that’s how she wanted it.

  Sara didn’t say anything more to Mitch about it, and soon they were back at her cabin.

  “I’d best be getting home,” he said. “Pop’s a firm believer in starting the day at 5:00 a.m.”

  Sara chuckled. “He and Gram must’ve gone to the same school. She figures anything after eight in the morning is afternoon.”

  One last, long, tantalizing embrace, and Mitch settled his hat back on his head and turned down the path. “Want to go see those wild horses Saturday or Sunday?” he inquired.

  “Sunday,” she decided. “Late afternoon.”

  Maybe there wouldn’t be any emergency calls this Sunday. Maybe if there were she could get them taken care of early. And maybe she was being an incurable optimist to think she could get away at all.

  “Good,” Mitch said. “Then, we can use Saturday night to go to the dance in the hall at Plains.”

  Sara vaguely remembered seeing posters advertising the event.

  “That would be nice, as long as I don’t have to work,” she said.

  “It’s not until eight in the evening, you’ll be done by then, won’t you?”

  She hesitated. If past Saturdays were anything to go by... “I sure hope so,” she sighed, and Mitch seemed to take that as a positive answer.

  “It’s a date. See you then.”

  She watched him walking away, admiring his loose-limbed cowboy’s stride, until at last the deepening evening turned his form into an indistinguishable mass against the darker background of the trees.

  Then, slowly, she went inside, turning on the small lamp on the bureau and catching sight of herself in the round mirror above it. Her shiny, makeup-free face was somber, her eyes worried, and she stared at her reflection.

  A dance on Saturday, a ride on Sunday. In Gram’s old-fashioned lingo, Mitch was courting her with a vengeance. She’d told him that she was falling in love with him, and she was... more intensely each time she was with him. Already her job had interfered with their time together. It was ridiculous to think that it wouldn’t go on doing so; having a vet practice in a small community and keeping regular hours were diametrically opposed.

  So what was there to do about the inevitable conflict? Give up her job? It wasn’t even a consideration. Give up Mitch? Just as unthinkable.

  She’d simply have to bungle along, juggling work and romance as best she could, hoping Mitch would understand when one thing conflicted with the other.

  Friday began with Emily Crenshaw waiting for Sara on the steps of the clinic at just past seven in the morning. “I’ve been here over twenty minutes already,” the little woman announced with more than a trace of irritation in her high-pitched voice. “I thought there was someone here all the time. I’m shocked you leave the poor animals all alone for hours and hours. Does this mean that my poor Queenie has been alone all night, no doubt in pain and with no one to take care of her?”

  Sara stepped past the woman and fitted the key into the lock. “One of us always does a late-night check if we think it’s necessary, Miss Crenshaw. I looked in on Queenie yesterday afternoon, and she was recovering nicely.”

  Fat lie that was. The abominable feline had pretended to be pathetically groggy and totally docile—until Sara opened the cage door and reached in to check her incision.

  The cat went berserk at that point, hissing and spitting, and Sara narrowly escaped a bite just like the one Floyd was nursing. Queenie was one bad-tempered cat, and Sara looked forward to giving the animal back to its owner as fast as possible.

  The clinic’s female cats, Agnes and Tinker, were voicing their impatience for breakfast and half tripping the two women as Sara led the way into the infirmary. She opened the door, became immediately aware of sounds that shouldn’t be occurring and came to a halt so quickly that Miss Crenshaw bumped into her and then peered under Sara’s arm to see what was going on

  “Ohhhhh... Queenie, my poor darling Queenie...”

  Miss Crenshaw’s wail fitted right in with the howling, hissing and spitting erupting from the cage where Queenie was being kept. Sylvester, back from wherever he’d been for the past week, had climbed on top of Queenie’s cage, and, with both front paws batting feverishly, he was doing his best to subdue the hissing female demon inside, cursing and spitting at her, tail waving madly from side to side.

  Queenie, the stitches across her shaved midsection raw and angry-looking, was lying on her back, ears laid back as far as they’d go, murderous intent in her eyes and voice as she sought to grab Sylvester’s paws as they swiped within inches of her belly.

  The noise seemed much greater than two cats could make between them, and Emily Crenshaw’s immediate wails of anguish and outrage filled any momentary seconds of quiet there might have been. She darted past Sara like an avenging demon and, plastic handbag flying in Sylvester’s direction, went to Queenie’s rescue.

  “Shoo, you bad animal, get, get, go on...”

  Sylvester saw her coming and beat a hasty retreat, leaping down and scurrying out the front in a clever zigzag pattern that got him safely past the virago with the handbag.

  Miss Crenshaw promptly turned the force of her wrath onto Sara, brandishing her purse as if she might wallop Sara with it.

  “What kind of place is this,” she shrieked, “allowing a vicious animal like that to terrorize poor Queenie after what she’s just been through? I have half a mind to report you, young lady! This is a disgrace. Queenie is the gentlest of cats, and that ugly monster...”

  She went on and on the entire time it took Sara to prudently don a pair of canvas gloves and gingerly open the cage door to find out whether any real harm had been done to Miss Crenshaw’s cat.

  Sara did her best to ignore the invective, checking the patient and dodging teeth and claws in the process. “There’s absolutely no harm done, Miss Crenshaw,” Sara finally announced. “Queenie’s incision is healing nicely.”

  Too bad her disposition wasn’t as well.

  Gingerly Sara lifted the demon cat out and placed the animal into the arms of her owner. “Sorry about all that, but Queenie’s fine, and that’s really all that matters, isn’t...”

  Miss Crenshaw clasped her cat to her flat bosom and gathered verbal steam. Gone was the meek, pathetic little woman Sara had felt sorry for; in her place was a vicious, nagging little troublemaker threatening, of all things, a lawsuit against the clinic in general and Sara in particular. “I have friends, you know, people in positions of authority who wouldn’t hesitate to take the stand in a court case against you.”

  It took fifteen exhausting minutes to edge Miss Crenshaw and her ill-mannered cat to the door and half shove her through, still yattering.

  Sara had managed to hold her temper, but only barely. She promptly locked the door and, shaking, went about making a pot of coffee, double strength.

  Sylvester was sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter, happily lapping up milk from an overturned pitcher.

  “Traitor,” Sara accused, lifting him down none too gently. “Troublemaker.”

  Days like this these she definitely knew she ought to have taken computer science and forgotten all about vetting.

  Mitch pulled a cigarette out of the package in his shirt pocket and lit it as his father opened the thermos and poured them each a cup of lemonade. It was hot, and they’d been fixing fences all morning under the cloudless sky. The break was more than welcome.

  Mitch slumped down against the shady side of the pickup, drawing the smoke in and breathing it out, enjoying the peacefulness of the surroundings, the smell of open country.

  Even the old man was in good spirits today, not finding one thing yet to complain about. It might be just the right time to discuss what Mitch had been planning.

  “I’m gonna have Misty bred,” he announced, handing his cup back for a refill.

  “Good idea. She’s a fine mare.” Wilson sat down heavily in the shade from the truck. “Hank Shorten has a pretty good-looking st
allion over at Buffalo Ranch,” he said, filling the cups to the brim and handing Mitch his.

  “I’m taking her to a place outside of Missoula where they breed top rodeo stock,” Mitch announced.

  Wilson paused, cup halfway to his mouth, and gave his son a disbelieving look from under the brim of his hat. “What kind of stupidity is that?” he demanded. “Taking time off to transport a mare to be bred when there’re perfectly good stallions right around here. Pack of nonsense, I say.” He snorted. “Damn fool waste of time. And money, too. Bet they soak you a bundle for stud fees on a deal like that.”

  “Yeah, it’s expensive,” Mitch admitted. “But it’s the route to go if you want top quality colts,” he insisted, recognizing the growing irritation in Wilson’s voice and thinking he should probably just shut up about the whole thing. But damn it, this was important to him. Wilson had to know sooner or later, anyway. Might as well make it sooner.

  “I’ve been talking to Bill Forgie. He’s starting a breeding stable for Arabs, and that’s what I want to do eventually, Pop, only mine will be quarter horses for rodeo stock. There’s good money in it once you get started and develop a name for yourself.”

  Wilson snorted. “Why the hell can’t you just settle down and work the ranch? I never saw anybody as restless as you are, always after some dream or another. Starting a breeding stable’ll cost you a bundle, maybe cost you the ranch in the long run when you end up pouring all your time and energy and money into horseflesh. We’ve got a good balance now, with the hogs, sheep and the cattle. Hell, Mitch, I haven’t worked my whole damn life just to watch you fritter away a good ordinary living I’ve spent my lifetime building up.”

  Mitch felt his temper escalating.

  “I’m not suggesting going to the bank and mortgaging the damn ranch, Pop. I’m not buying a dozen horses right away or asking you for anything. I’m trying to tell you about an idea of mine.”

  “You were always full of flighty ideas, all right.”

  Mitch threw the cigarette away and lurched to his feet, glaring at his father. “You want me to be Bob, don’t you, Pop? You can’t forgive me for not being the son who did everything right, who was your fair-haired boy.”