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

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and preceded her up the steps. He walked with a slight limp.

  “Did you hurt your leg?” she asked, following him.

  “Old rodeo injury,” he replied curtly, opened the screen door and pushed open the heavy wooden entry door. “Bull riding.”

  Her brows lifted. “Not as easy as bicycles, I guess.” She gave him a smile as she went into the house, trying not to think about the type of man who would ride angry bulls for amusement.

  He hung his hat on a rack by the door. “You’ve definitely got your uncle’s sense of humor,” he said, heading for the back corner of the room, where a small cluttered desk stood.

  “How’s that?” she asked, looking around. The place was enormous. And none too tidy. Large leather furniture was dotted with newspapers, used cups and the odd bit of clothing. Built-in bookshelves were crammed with volumes willy-nilly. The crowded mantelpiece was covered in dust.

  He picked up the phone on the desk. “A real smart aleck.”

  She glanced over at him. She was pretty sure she’d just been insulted. But his expression as he dialed was more one of affection than condemnation.

  “Where is my uncle?” she asked, but he raised a finger and spoke for a few minutes with the veterinarian about the steer and arranged to meet him there in half an hour.

  “Fitz is probably taking a nap,” Redhawk said after hanging up. “Listen…” He put his hands on his hips and regarded her. He looked as though he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should say it. “I know you’ve been exchanging letters with him regularly, so you’ve probably noticed…” His words trailed off.

  Alarm flashed through her. “Noticed what? Is he ill?”

  She hadn’t seen Uncle Fitz for twenty-four years, not since he’d fled Ireland when she was eight, the day after her da was thrown in prison. But because of their long letters, she felt close to him despite the distance and the years.

  And he was the only family she had left, besides the aunt and uncle who’d taken the farm from her.

  If this was bad news, she really didn’t want to hear it. But she forced herself to say, “What’s the matter? Please tell me, Mr. Jackson.”

  He pushed a hand through his thick black hair. “Only if you stop calling me Mr. Jackson.”

  “Redhawk, then,” she said impatiently. “What’s happened to Uncle Fitz?”

  He sighed. “There’s no easy way to tell you, so I’ll just come right out and say it. He’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.”

  Rhiannon just stood there staring at him in shock. How was this possible? In his letters Fitz had always been vibrantly alive. She’d loved reading his rambling descriptions of life in America. Arizona had sounded like another planet to her untravelled Irish ears. His adventures, both the good and the bad, had fascinated her, making her own dreary life pale by comparison.

  Redhawk walked over and led her to an oversize easy chair, pushed off a couple of magazines and urged her into it. “I simply can’t believe it,” was all she could manage.

  “I couldn’t, either, at first. I thought he was just being forgetful.” He sat on the arm of the sofa across from the chair. “I figured the doctor would prescribe ginseng or something.” He laughed humorlessly. “But he did some kind of psychological test instead and it indicated advancing dementia.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few months ago. Since then, he’s gone downhill fast. He still has some good days,” Redhawk said, obviously reluctant to complete the thought.

  She dropped her head in her hands. The déjà vu felt like a blow to the stomach. So much for starting her life anew. Instead of taking a tentative step forward, if she stayed she’d be taking a huge leap backward. Back to the day her mother announced she had cancer.

  That explained the one-way ticket.

  Uncle Fitz had always said what a saint Rhiannon was for taking care of her mother all those years. Apparently, he was counting on her to take care of him, as well.

  She knew it had been a mistake to come. To dare think she could start over.

  But this was too much. Just the thought of watching another person she loved suffer, the pain and frustration of being able to do nothing about it…No. She couldn’t go through that again.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson,” she said, standing abruptly. “I have to go.”

  “Where?” he asked, surprised.

  “Back to Ireland. I shouldn’t have come.”

  His jaw dropped, and she could swear she saw relief flash through his eyes. “But you just got here. Surely you could stay for a day or two. When’s your return flight?”

  “Return flight?” she asked with dawning trepidation. “I don’t have one. He sent me a one-way ticket.”

  “He?”

  “Uncle Fitz.”

  Redhawk jumped to his feet. “Fitz sent you the ticket?”

  She nodded. “Yes. With a note saying he needed me. But—” She swallowed down the guilt and selfishness that rose in her throat. “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

  “You mean he paid for it?” Redhawk’s face blanched pale as her own.

  “Yes. I certainly couldn’t afford—”

  “Do you remember how much it cost?”

  She thought his question rude and asking it possibly overstepped the boundaries of a ranch foreman’s job, but he looked so upset she answered. “Eight or nine hundred dollars, I believe.”

  His throat made an odd choking noise. “Eight or nine. Hundred.”

  “I don’t like to ask, but I’m afraid I’ll need the return fare, as well. You see, I don’t—”

  He held up a hand, squeezing the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Trust me, I wish I could. You have no idea. But the thing is…”

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  He cleared his throat. “If Fitz paid for that ticket, he used nearly all of the last of our funds. Unless you’ve got money of your own, I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere.”

  She gazed at him in horror. “That’s not possible. He once told me Irish Heaven is worth over a million dollars!”

  “On paper, yeah, but not in the bank. I’m sorry, Miz O’Brannoch. We’re dead broke. And it looks like you’re stuck here.”

  Chapter 2

  R hiannon felt all the blood drain straight from her head to her toes. Good thing she was already sitting down or her legs surely would have collapsed.

  “This can’t be happening,” she mumbled.

  “What is happening, then?” came a reedy voice from a door on the far side of the room.

  She turned and saw a tall, sandy-haired older man standing in the doorway looking at her with open curiosity. Suddenly his face lit up like fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day.

  “Janet!” A smile blossomed from ear to ear as he hurried toward her, opening his arms wide. “Ah, Janet love, you’ve finally come!”

  Being called by her mother’s name took Rhiannon aback for the briefest second, but then she quickly rose to her feet. “Uncle Fitz!”

  Fitz’s steps faltered and he looked to Redhawk for guidance.

  “Fitz, look who’s come all the way from Ireland. Your niece, Rhiannon O’Brannoch. You remember Rhiannon, don’t you? From all her letters?”

  He looked confused. “But—” he took another step “—it’s Janet.” A frown creased his leathery face. “Tell him, love.”

  “No, Uncle Fitz. I’m Janet’s daughter, Rhiannon.” His obvious disappointment splintered her heart into a thousand pieces. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Where is she? She was supposed to come.”

  Odd that Fitz would be so fixated on her mother. The Alzheimer’s must be to blame for his mixing them up.

  Redhawk put an arm around the older man’s shoulders and led him over to her. “Janet passed on ten years ago. You know that. Say hello to your niece. She’s had a long trip.”

  Suddenly the dam broke and recognition flooded over his face. “Rhiannon! You made it! I�
�m so happy to see you, love! Did you get my ticket? Aye, of course you did!” He talked on and on in his twangy Irish-American brogue, hugging her in between as though his first confusion had never happened.

  Over Fitz’s shoulder, Redhawk gave her a shrug, as if to say, “That’s just how he is.” Aloud he said, “I better get going and meet the vet. Will you be okay for a while?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If the sheriff calls back about the rustling, tell him I’ll get with him later.”

  With that, Redhawk was gone, leaving her alone with her uncle, who gave her one last hug and led her into the kitchen. “Let’s make some grub,” he suggested. “I’m starving.”

  The kitchen was unusually large, done in a southwestern style with earthy colors, rich natural woods and terra-cotta tile. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t in such an unholy clutter. Just like the rest of the house. What she’d seen of it, anyway. Apparently neither man who lived here overly valued cleanliness.

  She sighed and went to the sink to start the dishes while Fitz chatted away and threw together some strange-but-delicious-smelling concoction, making the mess worse in the process. She didn’t mind. Listening to him go on about how he’d grown the tomatoes and cilantro himself and how a lady in town made the tortillas by hand and that he’d gotten the recipe from his old housekeeper whom he’d had to let go a few years ago. His banter put her so much in mind of how her mother had talked in the same rambling drifts back when she was alive and still cooking meals for them, Rhiannon didn’t even notice how many times she had to change the dirty water in the sink.

  An hour and a half later the dishes were washed and put away, the cupboards and counters scrubbed, the table cleaned and set for three, and Fitz’s concoction, which he called enchiladas, was coming out of the oven.

  Just then, the back door swung open and Redhawk walked through it holding the shoes she’d dropped earlier. He stopped just inside, staring at the kitchen. After taking it all in, his eyes turned to her.

  “You did this?”

  “Uncle Fitz made the enchiladas,” she said, suddenly worried he’d take her cleaning the wrong way. She hurried to take the shoes from him. “I just thought…”

  “Thank you,” he said, and glanced down at the floor before coming further in. “It looks great.” He looked up again. “But you didn’t have to. I’d have gotten to it tomorrow.”

  “Thursday’s kitchen day,” Fitz interjected with a happy smile. “Thursday’s kitchen, Friday’s living room, Saturday’s laundry, Sunday’s—”

  “That’s all right, old man.” Redhawk interrupted the litany with a wry smile. “Miz O’Brannoch isn’t interested in our cleaning schedule. I see you’ve made my favorite for dinner.”

  Fitz turned his attention to the steaming casserole dish on the table. “I’m hoping Rhiannon will like it, too.”

  “I’m sure I will, Uncle Fitz,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek before going to the fridge. “What does everyone want to drink?”

  A few minutes later they all sat down at the table and Fitz said, “Let’s join hands.” When they did and he said a prayer of thanks and welcome, Rhiannon suddenly knew everything would be fine.

  Fitz was wonderful and he was family and he obviously cared about her. This was where she belonged. It was clear he needed her. She had worked every day for eight long years on her da’s farm alongside her aunt and uncle, but Aunt Bridget and Uncle Patrick had never needed her. They’d only tolerated her presence until Da died last month and left the land to them in a move that had shocked everyone—most of all her. Aunt Bridget had been her mother’s sister, not her father’s.

  She looked up and suddenly realized she was still holding Redhawk’s hand across the table. He was sitting absolutely still, watching her. He didn’t look happy.

  She snatched her hand away with a mumbled apology.

  “Looks like the steer’s going to live,” he said, picking up his fork. “The vet was able to revive him enough to get him back to the ranch. He’s resting in the barn now.”

  “What steer?” Fitz asked.

  “The rustlers hit us again,” Redhawk said, and told him about the fence and the injured animal. “I’ll ride out tomorrow and see if I can figure out how many they got this time.”

  “But that means…”

  “It’ll be a tough winter,” Redhawk completed with a nod.

  Fitz put down his glass and glanced back and forth a couple of times between Redhawk and her. “I screwed up again, didn’t I, lad?”

  “Now, Fitz—”

  “Only, this time you can’t fix it, can you?”

  Rhiannon tried to make herself look as small as possible. They were talking about her, she realized, and the ticket he’d bought her. She’d hated when Aunt Bridget and Uncle Patrick had spoken about her as though she hadn’t been sitting at the same table.

  “We’ll manage,” Redhawk said, scraping up the last bite off his plate.

  “But the money—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Miz O’Brannoch won’t mind pitching in until we can figure something out.” He shot her a flat look. “We’ll get her back home where she belongs one way or another.”

  Obviously, he wanted her gone. As soon as possible.

  Why?

  It was just as obvious he could use her help around here.

  What was going on?

  But she didn’t get the chance to ask because he took his plate to the sink, then headed for the back door. “Got chores to do and a colt to train,” he said, barely pausing to grab his hat on the way out. “If you need me, I’ll be somewhere around the barn.”

  The door shut with a slam.

  Fitz started at the noise, then looked up at her. His eyes widened. “Janet!” he cried. “You’ve finally come!”

  With a weary roll of the shoulders, Redhawk closed the barn door and slowly limped to the water pump where he always rinsed off after working. When he was this tired, his knee bothered him worse than usual. Good thing Crimson, the colt he was training, was far enough along they could work with hand signals. Tonight he could hardly get his leg to move. What a day. He was beat. Dead beat.

  Bracing himself against the split-rail fence, he primed the hand pump and let it gush a few times into a bucket sitting in the long cattle trough he liked to think of as his own private Jacuzzi. There’d be no leisurely soak tonight, though. He’d only get six hours of sleep as it was.

  As he washed the worst grime off his face and arms, he tried to stretch the muscles of his left shoulder. Must have strained it pushing the steer into the truck. It hurt like hell. After dumping the bucket of water onto a scraggly cottonwood he’d planted a few years ago, he glanced longingly at the pump. Sure would be nice to have a soak.

  Tomorrow he’d indulge himself. Rhiannon had cleaned the kitchen. May as well take advantage of the hour she’d freed up on his list of Thursday chores. Leaning his hips against the fence, he slowly worked the pump handle up and down, up and down, inch by inch filling the oversize trough with water. By tomorrow evening, the blazing Arizona sun would heat it to perfect bath temperature. He could hardly wait.

  He tromped to the house and went in through the back door, depositing his boots outside, his dirty clothes in the mudroom hamper and his hat on the rack. Stripped to his bare feet and underwear, he grabbed a beer from the fridge on his way to the living room to shut off the TV and gather Fitz from the easy chair where he invariably fell asleep, and tuck him in.

  “Damn,” he muttered when he spotted Rhiannon curled up on the sofa, eyes closed and a peaceful expression on her face. He’d completely forgotten about her.

  Careful not to wake the woman, he gently shook Fitz and ushered him to the bathroom and then into bed, making sure to lower the blinds before closing the door on his first-floor master bedroom.

  Redhawk’s own room was upstairs—the only other bedroom in the house. Because of the generous size and confi
guration of the ground floor, the second level of the ranch house had never been finished by the original owner, used instead as a big storage attic. The first several years Hawk lived at Irish Heaven, he’d stayed in the bunkhouse, but when Fitz’s health started going downhill, his friend insisted he frame off a room and bath upstairs and move into the main ranch house. One less place to heat and clean, and the old man felt better with Hawk right there to keep an eye on him instead of in the bunkhouse out of earshot.

  But there was still no place for Rhiannon to sleep.

  Great. One more damn thing to worry about.

  Noiselessly he padded upstairs and took his shower, then changed the sheets on his bed, silently cursing the entire time.

  Why did she have to come? He and Fitz were doing just fine by themselves. He didn’t need some damn woman around messing up his routine.

  Regardless of how attractive she was.

  Hell, her being attractive just made it worse. Made him think about things best left unthought of. Made him imagine what it might be like to have a woman in his life, warm and loving, someone to sink himself into and lose the worries of the world in for a little while. Someone who loved him.

  Damn. He rolled the old sheets into a ball and pulled on a clean pair of jeans. Talk about hallucinations. He must be more tired than he thought.

  Detouring past the laundry, he went into the living room, to the couch where Rhiannon was sleeping. He shut his eyes for a moment, gathered his last vestige of strength, and bent to pick her up in his arms.

  She wasn’t exactly light, but not too heavy, either. He’d manage, if his knee held out. She turned toward him, snuggling her cheek against his chest but not waking. Her curves pressed in against his body through the thin cotton of her blouse and the scratchy wool of her skirt, and he regretted not putting on a shirt. Halfway up the stairs he had to readjust and she stirred.

  “Who’s there?” she murmured, peering up at him.

  “Hawk.”

  “Hawk…ah, yes.” She curled her hand around his neck and he hardened himself against the feel of it. “Where are you taking me?”

  “My bed.”