No Ordinary Cowboy

by Mary Sullivan

  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed the number in Billings.

  “Hello?” Mother’s voice quavered more with each passing week.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “I was expecting you to call a long time ago, you know?” Rarely did her mother make a statement that didn’t end with a question mark. Maybe the habit came from watching Jeopardy! every night for twenty years.

  “Yes, I know, but it was a long drive then I had lunch.”

  “When are you coming home, dear?”

  Amy sighed. She’d already told Mother a number of times she’d be here until she solved the problem. If Mother had Alzheimer’s or dementia, Amy could understand her behavior. But Amy knew this was an attempt to make her feel guilty about leaving Billings.

  She also knew how lonely Mother was.

  Caught in a bind between impatience and love, she asked, “Have you gone to any of those socials your church organizes?”

  “No. I don’t know anyone there, do I?”

  “That is the point of the socials. To get to know other people.”

  “But I don’t know anyone now, do I? So I would have to make new friends. That’s hard for me, you know?”

  Amy counted to ten. Oh, Mother, darling, get a life.

  The silence stretched until her mother broke it. “When are you coming home?”

  “I’ll come back on the weekend for a visit. I’ll stay with you on Saturday night. How does that sound?”

  “Today is only Monday,” Mother said, a thread of desperation running through her tone. “Saturday is a long way away. Can you come on Friday night?”

  Amy squeezed the top of her nose to ease a building headache.

  “Yes. I’ll see you at dinnertime.”

  She closed her phone with a click and sat with her eyes closed. When had the child become the parent and her mother, the child?

  She opened her purse and took out the small jade cat she carried everywhere. Her dad had given it to her after her pet, Princie, had been hit by a car. It sat in her hand, cool and green.

  “She’s the exact shade of your pretty green eyes,” he’d said. “This little cat will never die. She’ll be your friend forever.”

  That day, she’d felt nothing could harm her while Dad was around.

  She set the cat on the bedside table and pushed away those memories.

  Enough. No dwelling on pain or death.

  Instead, figure out what you plan to do about this ranch.

  And what you plan to do about Hank Shelter. She had a bone to pick with him.

  He owed her for embarrassing her in front of everyone. She’d wait until the time was right then let him have it, full blast, both barrels blazing.

  Images of his sweet smile and the sensitive way he played with the children flashed through her mind, and she hesitated, but the memory of him towering over her and yelling at her won out.

  Hank Shelter deserved a set down, and she was just the person to administer it.

  HANK PACED the length of the stable’s center aisle from front to back and back to front again.

  Time to be honest with himself. This whole situation rattled him. She rattled him. He remembered the way he’d stood over Amy, trying to make her take back what she’d said about selling the ranch. He never used his size to intimidate people, ’specially not women or children.

  Whether or not the bank said there was nothing wrong, she and Leila could sell the ranch out from under him and he wouldn’t have a speck of power to prevent it.

  He pounded his fist against the wall.

  “Damn you, Dad. It should have been mine.”

  Hank knew the truth, though, knew exactly why Dad hadn’t left the ranch to him, and he hung his head, choked by shame. Once that woman got to the books, she would know, too. In a matter of time, the whole world would.

  He leaned his forehead on the rough wood and breathed heavily, hot air hitting the wall and bouncing back to bathe his face. He’d lived with his problem all his life. He would live with it for the rest, but Lord help him, he needed to do it here, on this ranch, where he felt strong and capable. And of value.

  The sound of his fist hitting the wall again reverberated in the cavernous room.

  Stop, he warned himself. Pull yourself together.

  No. He wasn’t losing this land that was more precious to him than his own life. He was not abandoning those kids, who needed this place with every breath they took.

  He threw back his head and yelled, “I’m not leaving this ranch!”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Hank spun around at the sound of Willie’s voice. The older man stood silhouetted in the open doorway of the building. Was it a trick of the sun that made him look shorter? Willie stepped into the cool interior and Hank noticed for the first time how stooped his foreman was becoming.

  “Feel any better after that outburst?” Willie’s tone held reproach. He walked closer and stood with arms akimbo.

  Hank ran his fingers through his hair and his anger abated. “Can’t believe I got mad enough to yell where the children would hear me.”

  “I think the next county heard you,” Willie said. “Haven’t seen that since you started bringing the children here.” Willie’s voice wavered, thinner than it used to be. A lot of things were thinner about Willie these days. He was getting old. Hank would have to lay him off if he lost the ranch. Where on earth would Willie go at his age?

  Hank would lose the best friend he’d ever had. He’d had a stronger connection with the foreman than he’d ever had with his own father.

  Nope. Wasn’t about to happen. He was losing neither the ranch nor Willie.

  “If things got really bad, we might have to sell.”

  Willie dropped his arms to his sides. “It’s that close?”

  “I don’t know.” Hank scuffed a boot in the dirt. “I kind of forced her to tell me the worst that could happen.”

  Dust motes drifted in a sunbeam that shone through a high window.

  Willie set his foot on a bale of straw and rested his elbow on his knee. “Sounds like you aren’t gonna take this sitting down.”

  “I plan to fight back,” Hank answered.

  Willie’s white mustache curled up at the corners. He looked at Hank with gray eyes. “Glad to hear you say that.”

  “I shouldn’t have made a scene in front of the kids.”

  “Nope. But you did, so move on. Should have a little talk with them. Reassure them everything’s all right.”

  Hank nodded. “Yeah. I’ll do that.” He straightened. “Now.”

  Funny how the sound of those kids chattering across the yard gave him hope. When they’d gotten here two weeks ago, they’d been the saddest, quietest bunch of tots he’d seen in an age.

  “Can you help Haley and Rich watch the children for a while?” Hank asked.

  “Sure can. Whatcha have in mind to do?”

  “I’m going to keep her out of that office,” Hank said.

  “You sure that’s wise? Why not let her in and get it over with?”

  Hank shrugged. “Just can’t let her in there.”

  “Don’t forget, you catch more flies with honey.” Willie laughed. “Sweeten her up.”

  Hank smiled and it felt strained. He knew kids. He didn’t much know women.

  Time to learn.

  Fast.

  He stepped into the sun-drenched yard and spotted the children in the field on the other side of the corral. He joined them there.

  “Kids,” he said as they swarmed him, clutching his arms, sitting on his feet, wrapping arms around his waist. “I got to give y’all an apology. I shouldn’t have yelled at that lady like that.”

  Cheryl’s solemn gaze disconcerted him. She was the most fragile of the group and the wisest—an old woman in a child’s body. She raised her arms to be lifted.

  He picked her up and settled her against his chest.

  “Don’t be mad,” she whispered.

  “I’m
not mad, darlin’, not anymore,” he said.

  Nope, not mad. Determined.

  AS AMY WALKED across the yard, she watched Hank talk to the girl with the haunting eyes. Looked like there was some kind of bond between them.

  She wouldn’t let sentiment overcome her resolve, though.

  “We need to talk,” she said as she approached. She nodded her head toward the children, who watched her warily. “Privately.”

  Hank put down the girl. She and the other children ran to the counselors in the field.

  “I’d like to see the office,” Amy said.

  Hank cracked the knuckles of his left hand. He frowned intensely, like he was thinking hard about something, then his face lit up.

  “Hungry Hollow!” he shouted, then lowered his voice. “You need to see the neighboring ranch.”

  “Later. I really think—”

  “It’s the working part of this property.”

  That stopped her even more than the cunning look in his eye. The working part would be important. She had to get to those books, though.

  “But—”

  “It brings in a good income,” he said.

  Okay, she would need to know how Hank supported this whole operation. She nodded. “I should check it out.”

  “Yeah, we can ride over.”

  “Ride? On a horse?” She placed a hand against her chest, then dropped it the second she realized it drew his eyes to her body.

  “I’ll drive over,” she said, “and meet you there.”

  “No need. We can take the pickup truck if you don’t want to ride.”

  “No,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’d rather not ride.” Not on your life.

  Half an hour later, Amy sat in Hank’s dusty black pickup, checking out the details of this man’s life. A crack in the upholstery had been repaired with duct tape, gray against the black. In contrast, a top-of-the-line CD player shone through a coat of dust on the dashboard.

  Amy noticed the cover of an audio book on the dashboard: Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. Wow, heavy reading. Amy had tried it once and hadn’t had the patience for it.

  A rancher listening to Hawking? Hank?

  Okay, Amy, back off on the prejudices.

  As the truck bumped along, Amy felt like a sack of turnips, tossed around by the ruts of Hungry Hollow’s driveway.

  Hank’s hand on the gearshift brushed her knee. The man radiated heat like an oven. Her fingers hurt from gripping the door handle to stay on her side of the truck, and still she could feel his heat.

  It felt too good.

  “I need to apologize to you for yelling,” Hank said above the noise of the truck as he geared down. “I don’t normally do that.”

  “So Willie led me to believe.” Amy knew she sounded cool but didn’t care. The man had been unreasonable.

  Hank nodded.

  A bag of candy in the cup holder caught her eye and she picked it up. “Humbugs,” she cried.

  “Yep. They’re my favorite.” Hank looked her way. “You like them?”

  “I love them, but I don’t see them very often.”

  “Help yourself. I get them in Ordinary, in a shop called Sweet Talk.” Hank steered the truck onto a dirt road with a house in the distance.

  “You should take a drive into Ordinary,” he said. “It’s a real sweet little town, the lifeline for all of us ranchers in the district.”

  Amy doubted she’d make it into town during this short visit. It had nothing to do with her job here.

  After circling into the yard of a big old brick farmhouse, they pulled up in front of a corral teeming with men, horses and dust.

  Amy felt the truck dip and lift as Hank stepped out, yelling, “Hey, Angus. What’s up?”

  Angus, a dark-haired, fortysomething man with enough character in his face to make it more than handsome, shook Hank’s hand and swatted him on the arm loudly enough for Amy to hear from the open passenger window. Hank didn’t budge an inch. He tapped Angus on the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust from his shirt.

  “The boys are practicing for the rodeo,” Angus said. “You here to do some bronc-bustin’?”

  “Naw, not today. I’m just showing my guest around.”

  Amy stepped out of the truck with her notebook in hand.

  “Amy,” Hank said, “this is my neighbor, Angus Kinsey, from the Circle K on the other side of the Sheltering Arms. Angus, this is Amy Graves.”

  Angus had a good, strong handshake, and a set of admiring eyes. They felt good on her. Amy smiled.

  She wandered with the two men to the corral fence.

  Hank leaned his arms across the top as more men congregated outside the corral, leaving a couple of men inside standing beside a small horse. None of them seemed to notice Amy, which was fine with her. She was here to observe them and the way things were done around here.

  “So,” she asked, “you raise horses at Hungry Hollow?”

  Hank turned her way. “Everyone around here owns and raises horses.” He shrugged. “They’re part of the ranching life.”

  “Are they like cows? You raise them for their meat?”

  Both Angus and Hank looked at her strangely. Amy wondered about the crafty gleam in Hank’s eye.

  “No, we don’t sell horses for meat—” Angus would have said more, but Hank cut him off.

  “We raise them for glue.”

  Glue, my rear end, she thought. You’re making fun of the city slicker. Two can play that game. She flipped open her notebook and retrieved a pen from her pocket.

  “How much do you get per horse? Do you sell them by the pound? What part produces glue?” She shivered—it was a gory subject—but if Hank wanted to make a mockery of this visit, she’d accommodate him.

  It was Hank’s turn to stare at her with his jaw gaping. His dark brown eyes widened.

  She grinned, meanly, and said, “Gotcha.”

  Angus laughed and slapped Hank’s back.

  “Seriously,” she said, glad to have rattled him, “do you raise the horses to sell?”

  “The truth is,” Hank said in a chagrined voice, “we raise most of our horses to work, but we also keep a special set for rodeo.”

  The horse in the center of the corral whickered and tried to pull away from the cowboy who was restraining him, but the man held on tight.

  Hank nodded toward the horse. “That looks like the Circle K’s Rusty.”

  “It is,” Angus said.

  “He’s a mean one.” Hank sounded anything but stern. He sounded proud. “Who’s getting up on him first?”

  “Heel.”

  “That the new guy?”

  “Yup.”

  “Let’s see what he can do.” Hank leaned forward, his body straining toward the action on the other side of the fence.

  When the rider mounted the horse, Amy watched a flash of excitement light Hank’s face. The men started to cheer. The rider held on to the reins with one hand as the horse bucked and reared, trying to unseat him.

  “That’s a chiropractor’s worst nightmare,” Amy shouted above the roar of the men, shaking her head.

  Hank looked at her, his sparkling eyes alight with fun, like a kid’s.

  Amy noticed all the men looked like a bunch of overgrown, overexcited boys.

  Heel flew from the horse, slamming to the ground in a cloud of dust, and all the men groaned. In a split second, he was on his feet, cursing, then laughing, retrieving his hat and setting it back onto his head. Tough guy.

  “Exhilarating,” Hank murmured.

  “We should look at the rest of the ranch now,” Amy said, leaning close to Hank.

  He nodded but didn’t answer, keeping his gaze on the horse.

  One of the cowboys got the bronc back under control. “You want to try him next?” Angus asked Hank.

  Hank set one hand on top of the chest-high fence, one foot on the second rail, and vaulted over it, looking like a six-year-old who’d gotten his first pair of skates for Christmas.

/>   “Hey, we’re supposed to be here on business,” Amy called, but he either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her.

  The bronco stood with his legs locked while Hank mounted him. As the horse reared, Hank held on to the reins with one hand, and let the other arm fly straight and high above his head.

  The horse bucked.

  Amy expected him to fall off. He didn’t. She held her breath.

  “Hoooooeeeee,” one of the cowboys sang.

  “Ride him, Hank,” another yelled.

  Amy watched his muscular body get tossed around like a feather on the horse’s back, and she felt a stirring of fear in her belly.

  Hank anticipated the horse’s every move, his big thighs gripping the animal’s sides. The horse dipped, he dipped. The horse reared, he followed, his expression fierce.

  In spite of herself, Amy watched in fascination. Excitement replaced her fear.

  As the crowd cheered and the bronco’s hooves pounded, Hank jumped from the animal’s back. The bronc ran to the opposite side of the corral, then stood with sides heaving like leathery bellows.

  Amy stared at Hank. He seemed barely winded. Picking up his dirty white Stetson from the dry ground, he rapped it against his thigh and set it on his head, a broad grin creasing his face.

  Her knees got weak. There he went again with that magical smile.

  Hank crossed the corral toward Amy, his stride long and confident—in his element, like a cowboy of old, taming beasts and all obstacles.

  When he looked at her, Hank’s step faltered. He stared at her with a heat that might, just might, match her own.

  When he reached her, he leaned close and whispered, “You okay?”

  The men in the corral and lining the fence turned as one to watch her. Amy stared back. Young and old, tall and short, handsome and homely, every one of them had one thing in common with Hank—a lean, stringy strength earned through hard labor.

  They surrounded her, nudging Hank out of the way, all speaking at once.

  “Well, look here.”

  “You new to these parts?”

  “Hey, ma’am, I’m Ash.”

  “Aren’t you a beauty?”

  Did people really say those things in the twenty-first century? Still, in spite of their testosterone-driven competition and manly posturing to get her attention, these men charmed her.