Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  “Over here!” Jackson yelled.

  Grunting with the effort, he carried Rip as far as he could from the wreckage, his back aching—but not as painfully as his soul.

  As gently as possible, he lay Rip on the ground, Felicia’s shawl covering his chest like spilled blood.

  The old man’s face was charred on one side, his right leg bent like a piece of steel caught in a car accident. The breath rasped in and out of him while he weakly clutched at Jackson’s shoulder.

  “Bob….”

  “He’s alive, Rip. Don’t talk right now.” Jackson couldn’t help it. Years of damming back his anguish had finally battered him senseless, sucking all the tears right out of him. But now, they were threatening, seeping out of the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks in exhaustion and pure fear for this man he’d come to respect and love.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Jackson choked out. Coughing, he tried to tell himself that it was the smoke that had gotten to his eyes, his throat.

  Rip was moving his head back and forth. No, he seemed to be saying. I’m not all right.

  “Sit still.” Jackson tried to calm the stubborn old man, but he was shaking so hard he couldn’t do much good.

  Don’t you leave us, Rip, he thought. Goddammit, don’t you dare.

  He couldn’t even glance up to see what was keeping the medical staff, but he suspected that they were still tending to the boys.

  Rip squeezed Jackson’s shoulder again before a cough racked through him. His hand collapsed to the ground.

  “Bobby,” he managed to utter. “You.”

  One lone sob tore out of Jackson. He knew what Rip was trying to say. What he was asking him to do.

  What made Rip think that Jackson could handle taking Bobby under his wing?

  But if there was one thing he realized, it was that you didn’t withhold promises from a man who thought he was going to die. Rip would be okay just as soon as a paramedic or EMT got over here. They would put an oxygen mask on him and everything would be back to normal.

  Right, God? Jackson thought. I don’t talk to you much, not since Leroy and Lucas left me for you, but can’t you wind the clock back to this afternoon so we can erase all this?

  A tiny weeping noise caught Jackson’s attention, and he glanced up to see Felicia, tears streaming down her face as she dropped to her knees beside Rip. As she prepared to administer CPR, Rip smiled at her, said something that sounded like “Markow…You…Bob…?”

  And stopped breathing.

  “No.” Felicia braced her hands on his chest, started to pump, then switched to breathing into his mouth.

  Jackson sat back on his heels, too stunned to move. His hands started to crackle with agony and his throat burned so badly that he thought he’d caught fire inside, that it would destroy him right along with everything else he loved.

  Because that was how it went. His kids, Rip…

  Caring was killing him. And everyone around him.

  Felicia was back to working on Rip’s chest. “Wake…up…”

  When Jackson took his pulse, there was nothing, only Felicia’s useless exertions.

  Tenderly, Jackson put his arms around her, stopping her from doing any more. She collapsed against him, sobbing, her hand still on Rip as if she could bring the life back into him.

  As she mourned, Jackson played the strong pillar, comforting her, keeping her upright.

  Because his walls had gone back up today and he’d accepted what fate obviously intended for him to be.

  The unfeeling rock everyone could lean on.

  One that would eventually roll away when the burden became too much.

  Chapter Thirteen

  R ip’s funeral was well attended, with flowers blanketing the Hanging R’s living area. Although Felicia had volunteered to help, Jack had insisted upon making the arrangements, seeing to it that rented folding chairs were set up in front of the porch, where people could speak to the crowd about Rip. An urn that housed his ashes lingered on a gingham-clothed table. A group of his best friends would spread what was left of his body over the ranch later, returning Rip to the land he loved so much.

  Now, as the windmill creaked a lonely song in the faint wind, the attendees mingled with each other—all 153 of them. Their murmurs comforted Felicia only slightly. She was glad to see that so many people in this county had loved Rip, but she was crushed by the thought of never seeing him again.

  She could count on her hands the number of times she’d felt this torn apart. Her mother’s, then her father’s death, the news from the doctor about her chances to be a mom.

  Her gaze snagged on Jack, who was standing apart from all the others with Bobby at his side. Both of them were wearing ranch clothing because Jack believed that was what Rip would have wanted; no fancy duds had ever graced the old man’s frame, so why should they dishonor him by starting such a tradition now?

  Bobby was leaning against Jack’s leg, hugging it. Jack himself rested one of his bandaged hands on Bobby’s curly head.

  The picture jerked at Felicia’s heartstrings. Two lost souls who’d found each other.

  And she wasn’t anywhere near them, even though her heart cried out to be.

  One of her cousins kissed her on the cheek, trying to make her feel better, and even though Felicia was thankful, it would take more than kisses to make the agony go away.

  She thanked her cousin, then wandered over to Jack, drawn to him, needing to be around him because he, more than anyone else, had adored Rip so much.

  “How’re you doing?” she asked, addressing Jack but bending down to Bobby so she could hold his hand. From the way Jack had been looking at her these past days, she wondered if he remembered that he’d even made love to her. It didn’t seem so now, with his eyes gone dark and still, like black pools devoid of life.

  Rip’s death had cast too much of a pall on their daily lives for anything else to be a priority, she supposed. Instead, Felicia had given Jack his space, needing to feel his arms around her yet knowing time could heal him just as well as she could.

  At least, that was what the negative voices in her head were saying.

  “I’m doing fine.” He was watching her, almost as if he was regretting something. “How’re you holding up?”

  “Fine.”

  See, even their conversations had been reduced to exercises in futility.

  And she knew exactly why.

  Leroy and Lucas, now Rip. Figurative blood on the hands of a man who thought he was the one responsible for putting it there.

  Felicia caught sight of Mrs. Krauss standing on the porch steps with a plate of cookies in hand. Searching the crowd for Bobby, no doubt. Since Rip had died, the older woman had rarely come out of her room, Jack had told Felicia. Sure, she still cooked and cleaned, but she didn’t socialize with anyone except for Bobby, who received lots of extra loving from the hausfrau.

  Clearly, her heart was as broken as the rest of theirs.

  “Someone’s got a treat for you,” Felicia said to Bobby as Mrs. Krauss spotted him and urgently waved him over.

  “I’m not real hungry,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Bobby was back to being the serious boy he’d arrived as. It made Felicia want to cry, but instead, she embraced him.

  He returned her affection, clinging to her.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I miss him so much it hurts, too.”

  He drew away, eyes moist, though he didn’t give in to tears. Bobby tended to mourn alone in his own room, where Felicia had stumbled upon his grief a few times.

  “My mom used to say hugs are like big Band-Aids on an owie,” he said.

  Smiling, Felicia gave him a pat on the back as he began walking toward Mrs. Krauss, his shoulders stiff, a little boy with big-man responsibilities. A kid who’d lost his parents and a wonderful uncle in the space of a month.

  It wasn’t fair, Felicia thought. But then again, what was?

  When Bobby got to th
e older woman, she took him into her arms in a bear hug and Bobby sank right against her as if she were a comfy pillow.

  Felicia waited a beat then glanced up to find Jack watching her with unguarded longing in his eyes. The intensity of it rattled her.

  But then he looked away.

  Legs quivering, she managed to stand anyway. She hated this disconnection and wanted to offer respect by not pushing herself on him, yet it felt as if she were losing ground.

  Losing him.

  Hadn’t he heard her say I love you?

  Didn’t he care?

  There was only so much longer she could take this, but Bobby still came first. Best to address that situation before anything else.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do?” she asked.

  “About Bobby?”

  He knew damned well what she was talking about. She’d been there when Rip had all but asked Jack to take care of him. Had been there when Rip had seemed to ask her, too….

  But maybe that was wishful thinking. One thing was for certain, though—Jack had recently been informed that Rip had made legal preparations for him to take guardianship of Bobby in case of an emergency. Now it was up to the courts.

  And to Jack.

  “You know I can’t be Bobby’s substitute parent,” he said.

  Frustration took her over. “He needs someone, and Rip died thinking that it would be you.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do when he was lying there….” A muscle ticked in his cheek as he tightened his jaw. “I want to…”

  His voice skidded to a stop, and Felicia caught her breath.

  “Go on,” she said softly.

  His gaze followed Bobby, who was taking a seat in the front row next to Mrs. Krauss. But before Felicia could rejoice, Jack’s shoulders slumped.

  “You know me well enough by now, Felicia. I’m not the best option for him.”

  He didn’t have to say the rest. The look in his eyes filled in the blanks.

  And I’m not the best option for you, either.

  She was speechless, thrashed to a wordless heap.

  All she could do was watch Dutch, Carter and Stoverson herding the funeral attendees into their chairs.

  There it was.

  Like all of her ex-boyfriends, Jack had failed to fall for her. And why not? No matter how hard she tried to keep hold of their affection, it never worked out.

  But this time it mattered much more than usual.

  Good God, he was perfect for her—couldn’t he see that? She hadn’t even hurt during their lovemaking as she’d feared. Whether that was due to a grand design or the medication she’d been taking, it didn’t matter. Jack was the one. Why couldn’t he admit it?

  “And here I thought you might have a feeling or two for me,” she said.

  “I do. But all along I told you not to get your hopes up.”

  Anger was starting to eat at her, but it wasn’t directed toward Jack. Not all of it, anyway, because he had warned her time and again and, fool that she was, she hadn’t listened. No, her disgust was more toward life itself, circumstances, fate.

  “So that means you’re through with Bobby, too?” she asked. Funny, she didn’t sound as ticked off as she sounded wounded.

  Jack paused then fixed that haunted gaze on her again.

  “Have you asked yourself how effective I’d be raising a child? Think about this. My sons died in my care. Rip expired in my arms. What’s going to happen to Bobby?”

  Enough was enough. “So that’s it. You’re cursed, huh, Jack? You don’t believe you can care for another person…ever. Why can’t you believe that you deserve a second chance? I mean, look what you did with Bobby already. You saved his life. Doesn’t that make up for anything?”

  For a fleeting moment, something close to hope lit up his face, but it was gone like smoke in a breeze.

  “Rip asked you to take Bobby,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “He trusted you. Admired you. He saw how much Bobby adores you.”

  When Jack spoke, his voice sounded like barbed wire, tangled and sharp. “I’m not the one to take on such a job. I’ll hang around until someone more suitable can be found for Bobby, but then…”

  Her dreams dropped to her feet, shattering. “You’re going to leave?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, then shut it, recapturing whatever words he was about to offer. At the same time, Stoverson stepped up to the microphone on the porch and started the ceremony. Next to him, Rip’s ashes waited in the urn, patient as always.

  As the crowd laughed softly at anecdotes about the old rancher—and there were many—Felicia drew further into herself. It was almost as if Jack had turned into a ghost beside her, a memory of what her future might have been.

  So this was it. He would go his way, she would go hers. Fun times while they’d had them, yes? Obviously, Felicia’s big mistake had been in making Carlota’s prediction what she wanted it to be, molding the words into something that wasn’t meant to have ever produced results.

  But her love had been real, she thought, tears starting to heat up her eyes, to blur those rose-colored glasses she insisted on wearing.

  In fact, she wouldn’t regret loving Jack for anything, even if he couldn’t do the same for her.

  Yet by God, he couldn’t even bring himself to love Bobby, and didn’t they both deserve more?

  From his spot on the porch, Stoverson, the preppiest, most Ivy League cowboy she’d ever seen, began to lose composure. His voice trembled as he talked.

  “I’d never seen anyone quite like Rip McCain before I ended up here. Not that I’d ever even worked on a ranch anyway. But Rip didn’t seem to mind. I gave him a résumé like you would for some kind of office job and he just laughed—you know, that laugh that came from deep within him, a wheeze that would shake him apart if he didn’t stop it soon?”

  Everyone chuckled, remembering Rip’s eternal good nature.

  “What he told me that day will stay with me forever.” Stoverson looked up to the sky, as if channeling his boss. “‘Son,’ he said, ‘a cowboy is born, not made. You’ve either got the goods or you don’t. And, by golly, I feel you’ve got the cowboy way in you.’”

  Silence weighed down the air, punctuated by sniffs. Felicia didn’t bother to hold back her weeping, especially when Jack touched her shoulder with his bandaged hand then walked away.

  She suspected he was just as stricken as any of them were, but damn him, he wouldn’t give in to it.

  Would never give in to it.

  Maybe it was time for her to stop wishing he would.

  She wandered away from the ceremonies, too, not knowing where to go, Stoverson’s final words ringing in her ears.

  “What I’ll always remember about Rip,” he said, “is that he was the real thing. The best of what this country was built on, a man who’d do anything for his neighbors and who ran on pride and hard work. Rip McCain was the last of them all right, because you’ll never find that kind of fortitude again.

  “Yes,” he added, breaking down in his own tears, “that man was the last cowboy we’ll ever see.”

  Stunned, Felicia stopped in her footsteps, the vibrations of Carlota’s prediction chiming through her.

  Rip. Last cowboy. Bobby?

  Or was she just wishing for something that would never happen?

  Then again…

  She spotted the little boy in the front row, alone while he forlornly watched Stoverson stumble down from the porch, too young to be left alone without parents to guide him.

  All Felicia wanted to do was start believing again.

  An hour later, as the funeral wound down, Jackson was still collecting himself, hidden from sight near the back of the barn while emptying his mind and listening to all the people praise his beloved boss.

  Rip McCain. The best there ever was. Never married, never had children. The Hanging R was the closest thing he’d had to progeny.

  Damn, Jackson wished he were here.

  He
missed Rip’s strange colloquialisms, his golden work ethic. Hell, Jackson even missed his penchant for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

  Imagine, he thought, how the old man even thought I could do a good job of bringing up Bobby.

  As Jackson finally allowed thoughts of the boy to come back into him again, a surprising glow of emotion warmed him, spreading from his chest and up into his throat, where it burned and made it hard to catch any oxygen.

  Rip would have been disappointed by Jackson’s decision to leave Bobby to someone else. And he would have shaken that gray head at the way Jackson had denied Felicia’s love just to make himself feel stronger.

  A real man would never act as Jackson had. Not by Rip McCain’s standards.

  Standards that had seeped into Jackson’s bones bit by bit, until he sometimes even felt as if Rip, like a stubborn skeleton, had been holding up Jackson’s tired body for the last few days.

  But Felicia had propped up Jackson, too, chasing away his self-doubt, making him think he could believe in himself again.

  In all truth, before the fire, he’d even thought he could live up to all their expectations, with the way Felicia looked at him as if he were some sort of hero.

  So what was his problem now?

  Didn’t he love Felicia? Couldn’t he?

  And Bobby…

  Dammit, thinking about it lifted him up yet scared him at the same time because he knew that he didn’t want to live without the little boy, either.

  Earlier, when he’d told Felicia that he was planning on leaving the Hanging R to continue drifting, it had seemed to Jackson as if he’d brought a form of death to her, too—killing the hopes she’d so innocently pinned on him.

  He felt sick to his stomach even thinking about it. Unlike the way he’d clung to the pain Leroy and Lucas’s tragedy had brought him, he found no warped satisfaction in punishing himself for what was happening with Felicia. It was in no way justified or poetic. He wouldn’t make himself a better man by turning his back on her and Bobby.