by Linda Berry
“Lay down, Dad.”
Joe curled up under the covers, shivering, his limbs sorely lacking muscle and flesh. Sully tucked another blanket around him, then a thick quilt on top of that. His anger dissipated at the sight of his father’s modest presence on the big mattress. He knew Joe associated being back on the ranch with his former strength and endurance, but he wasn’t going to barrel through his recovery with bull-headed determination alone. He’d have to put in the time, and it was going to be an uphill struggle. Sooner or later, he’d have to accept that he’d never again be the robust, strapping cowboy he once had been.
“The remote’s here on the nightstand with the phone,” Sully said. “I’ll bring in breakfast. If you need anything in the meantime, use the phone. Don’t yell.”
Joe turned on his side and faced the wall. “Coffee.”
“Sure, Dad.”
“And bring me my dog.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For thirteen hours straight, revved up on coffee, Justin drove through northwestern Arizona into Nevada, barreling through hundreds of miles of arid desert, aiming to get to Oregon before nightfall. The drive was long and monotonous. He barely noticed the landscape. Listening to tormented love songs by Patsy Kline and Hank Williams, he tried to sort through his emotions, which were as snarled as a nest of rattlers. Nagging questions hammered his brain. Why did he leave Avery so abruptly? Why didn’t he give the relationship a chance?
He’d been racing away from Phoenix all day, yet the further he got, the stronger Avery’s presence grew inside the cab. All his senses seemed wide open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw sunlight catching her hair, heard her lilting laughter, and smelled her rose-scented body lotion. At every truck stop, Avery’s gravitational pull threatened to derail him. The hollow-eyed, blank faces of men who lived alone in their semis gnawed at him. Nomads. Like him. Only one thin thread kept him on course. He was driving on someone else’s dime, and he had given Hank Sterling his word.
The desert climbed in elevation and he saw the outline of conifer forest in the moonlight. Snow started falling. He slipped the truck into four-wheel drive and lowered his speed as he moved through the thickening drift. He drove slowly, the wipers rhythmically moving the snow into little heaps off the sides of the windshield. Six hours shy of Central Oregon, he pulled into a rest stop and parked across from a dozen big rigs. Their orange and yellow markers were barely visible behind the curtain of blowing snow. White powder coated everything and lent the night a dreamlike quality. His stomach swirled with acid from too much coffee. After chewing a few antacids, he burrowed into his sleeping bag and listened to the wind batter the truck, and his thoughts drifted to Avery. The smell and feel of her skin haunted him. If he were in Phoenix, he’d be holding her close, her flesh warm and soft against his own.
When Justin woke, there was an icy chill in the camper. Frost glazed the windows. He unpacked a down jacket and stepped out into the frozen landscape, sinking several inches into new snow. Stinging cold. The brightness of the sun was startling and his breath puffed out like steam. His truck was the sole vehicle in the lot, a mound of white, looking like some hunched-over Arctic animal. Shivering in the unheated restroom, he shaved, brushed his teeth, and ran a comb through his hair. Skidding on ice in his running shoes he made his way back to the camper.
Time to dig out his old, resoled boots. He opened a cardboard box, removed some work clothes and instantly smelled new leather. Holy shit. There sat the boots he’d tried on with Avery at Renegade Rags. She had gone back and bought them, hid them in the truck. A pang of guilt sliced through him. Should he keep them, or send them back? Out of necessity, he had kept the hat, the jacket, a shirt and one pair of jeans she bought him. The rest he left behind, price tags still intact. He decided to keep the boots. He was going to be working a ranch, which meant mud, manure, and dangerous hooves to dodge, not always successfully.
Pressure built up behind his eyes. A few tears squeezed out while he pulled on the boots. Now a part of Avery would be with him every day. When he stepped out into the cold to scrape ice off the windows, the grooved soles provided excellent traction. He felt more competent, more mentally prepared to meet the demands that lay ahead. Boots were a point of pride for a cowboy. Avery had restored some of his dignity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sully was relieved when Joe put away an enormous breakfast. Five pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, four strips of bacon, two eggs. Afterwards, he lay in bed reading the paper. When Sully checked on him an hour later, he was passed out, mouth slack, snoring loudly, Butch curled into the groove of his hip.
Sully called his mother from the barn and related the high drama of the morning. Joe hanging on for his life on his runaway palomino. She expressed no surprise. After thirty years of marriage, she’d seen everything. “I’m sorry, son. I was afraid he’d be a burden to you.”
Too late for regrets. “He’s feistier than hell. Did he stop taking his anti-depressants?”
“I put out his pills every night but I didn’t police him. He’s a grown man.”
After a long moment of silence, he said, “I have some bad news about Gunner.”
“Is he okay?” she asked, voice wary.
“He was stolen.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
Sully gave her an abbreviated version of the horse thefts and Monty’s murder, and heard her gasp a few times.
“Poor old Monty …” Her voice wavered and he knew she was close to tears. “That man was always kind to everyone. I can’t believe our Gunner is gone. Murder. Horse theft. What’s the world coming to?”
Stomach twisting, Sully listened to her muffled sobs. He sure wasn’t going to add to her misery by bringing up the missed insurance payment. Enough grief for one day.
“Does your dad know about Gunner?” she asked, when she was able to talk.
“Not yet.”
“You tell him when the time is right.”
“What’s going on between you two, Mom? You both looked super stressed this morning.”
Another long silence.
“You’ll have to wait till he’s ready to tell you himself.”
Sully huffed out his exasperation. “Okay, Mom. You need anything?”
“No, son, I’m okay. Right now, just focus on your dad.”
“I’ll come see you soon.”
“I’d like that,” she sniffed.
After Sully helped Travis groom Gracie and Whistler, the two men parted company to do their various chores. They met back in the kitchen for lunch. Joe showed no interest in leaving the bedroom. While watching TV, he ravenously put away three cornbread muffins and two bowls of chili. When he finished, his stomach protruded like a basketball.
Pack on those calories, Dad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Justin’s first glimpse of his hometown was a towering wall of rim rock rising up on the east side like an amphitheater, sheltering the valley below. The snowcapped Cascades were reflected in the rearview mirror and whitewashed clouds hung in a brilliant blue sky. The town itself encompassed about seven square miles and he knew every street and alley, and most of the surrounding ranches.
People and events flooded his memory as he passed the fairgrounds, historic courthouse, and high school. Though he grew up here, he’d been something of a loner, and if it wasn’t for his status as a track athlete, he would’ve been invisible. His many good memories—track events, fishing the Crooked River, trail riding in the Ochoco—were superimposed with shadows of abuse. He didn’t want to be here, and he was putting himself in grave danger by taking the risk. There were some violent people here in Beaverhead who wouldn’t mind dragging him into the woods and beating the holy crap out of him. He swallowed and glanced at the rearview mirror, almost expecting to see a blue Dodge Ram bearing down on him. This gig at Sterling O was temporary. The sooner he was gone, the better.
Justin drove th
rough town without stopping and felt relief when the stands of lodgepole pine gave way to arid soil and endless miles of sagebrush. The stark, open beauty of the high desert stretched out before him, buckling up into moss colored buttes and jagged mountains on the horizon line. Out here, a body could breathe.
It wasn’t hard to find Sterling O Ranch. Hank owned fifty thousand acres. Any road that was an offshoot of the highway eventually led to his ranch. After driving through an immense stone pillar gate crested with the ranch name in wrought-iron letters, he followed the road through conifer forest, and passed vast meadows, rocky bluffs, a few small lakes, and acres of hayfields. Hundreds of head of Angus cattle grazed in fenced pastureland, many of the cows shadowed by calves. As the truck gained elevation, Justin spotted a sprawling ranch house perched on a high ridge like an eagle’s nest. He also saw several indoor and outdoor arenas, round pens, two large gabled barns, outbuildings, and a few cottages; everything well-constructed and immaculately maintained. Nice piece of paradise.
He parked in the spacious driveway in front of the house, climbed out and stretched his cramped legs. The view was stunning, spanning a hundred miles. The cost of a ranch this size, with plenty of fresh water and good grazing land, was beyond his accounting ability. The dry air was scented with sage, the temperature in the high forties. Two Labs and two border collies loped across the driveway to greet him. “Hey boys, hey.” Justin grinned, petting all four in turn. He loved dogs.
The sound of a screen door banging shut directed his eyes to the big porch encircling the house. A young woman with a tumble of dark red hair stepped out into the sunlight. “What can I do for you, cowboy?”
The four dogs dashed up the stairs and danced around her, whining and licking her hands.
Justin pushed his hat back from his face and removed his shades. “I’m Alex Hamilton. I’m here to see Hank.”
“He’s out of town,” she said with a suspicious tone. “He expecting you?”
“Yes, ma’am. He offered me a job.”
“You the bull rider?” she asked, coming down the stairs.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Didn’t think you’d get here till tomorrow.”
She was a looker, with a generous bustline and curvy shape, accentuated by tight jeans and a low-cut top. Her jeans were tucked into turquoise boots that he thought were better suited for dancing the two-step than dodging mud pies.
“I’m Sarah, Hank’s daughter.”
Up close, he got a good look at her. Wide set green eyes, full mouth, too much makeup, a couple inches taller than him, mid-twenties, hair a wild concoction of waves bouncing around her shoulders. The sweet scent of cinnamon ghosted around her. Gold bangles jingled on her wrists as she shook his hand, and her long fingernails were painted purple.
“Heck of a drive from Phoenix,” she said, watching him with an expression that seemed to be caught between boredom and amusement. “You tired, Alex, or would you like to take a look around?”
“Look around, if you have time.”
“Time’s about all a woman has out here.” She drawled in a fake Texas accent, as though mimicking a line from a movie. She motioned with her arm like a game show hostess. “This is the house. Dad likes things big.”
Justin admired the two-story ranch house, around five thousand square feet, solidly built, lots of ponderosa and river rock trim.
“Let’s head out back, Alex,” she said, losing the drawl. “We’ll take the Cruiser.”
They circled the house, wound through a stand of Aspens, and came to a five-car garage. The dogs trotted ahead and waited eagerly by a silver Land Cruiser parked in the semi-circular driveway. They all piled in, dogs panting over their shoulders. Pausing to light a brown-papered cigarette, Sarah inhaled deeply then blew out cinnamon-scented smoke. Now he understood where her personalized scent came from. He waved smoke from his face.
“Sorry.” She opened all the windows and started driving slowly up the road, wheels crunching gravel. “Let me give you a little history about Sterling O,” she said, holding the cigarette out the window and talking like a tour guide. “We’ve been a cattle ranch since 1879. Mom’s side of the family. Dad married into the business.” She took a long drag from her cigarette, crushed it in the ashtray as she exhaled. “The O in Sterling O is named after Mom. Her name was Olivia. She died last year. Cancer.” Her voice wavered and she looked out the window. “Sorry. I still have a hard time talking about her.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he said gently.
Sarah drove silently for a few seconds before diving back into her story. “We’ve got fifteen hundred head of cattle on ten thousand acres of grassland. Dad likes his meat organic. We supply a specialized market. We produce five thousand tons of hay a year, and keep the range in quality condition.” She pushed strands of hair from her eyes. “Dad’s a nut about being a good steward of the land.”
“I respect that,” Justin said. “So you’re a cow n’ calf operation. I thought rodeo bulls was your thing.”
“Who can support themselves on a handful of bulls?” She shot him a sidelong glance that clearly said he was an idiot. “You can’t live on rodeo alone. Bulls are just a side hobby of Dad’s. He breeds the best rodeo bulls in the world.”
“The meanest, for sure,” Justin said.
“Dad says you rode Cyclone. That true?” She looked at him with skepticism.
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I thought Dad was joking. No shit?”
“No shit.”
“You gotta be one bad-ass cowboy to stay on a Sterling bull.” Her voice was suddenly full of awe, eyes shiny with excitement. “Seriously? You rode Cyclone? Holy fucking shit.”
He’d seen that look of adulation plenty of times before on rodeo groupies who hung out in cowboy bars hoping to meet the real deal. He looked away from her gaze. What gives? She’s in the business and should be more professional.
Through the side mirror he saw dust rising in a steady plume behind the vehicle. The fragrant odor of grass and a hint of warm manure came through the window. He breathed in deeply. Hell, he missed the smell of a ranch. They passed white-fenced pastures occupied by appaloosas, paints, Arabians, and quarter horses, grazing and drowsing in the sun. “You got some fine animals here.”
“Best money can buy.” She wrinkled her nose. “I have nothing to do with the livestock. I stay in the office all day, handle day-to-day operations.”
“You don’t ride?”
“Nope. Cows, bulls, horses. They’re all the same. Big, dirty, smelly.”
Not the conversation he expected to be having with Hank Sterling’s daughter. A ruckus of hooves, whistles and bawling cattle suddenly caught his attention.
Sarah pulled over and parked. Accompanied by the dogs, they walked to the fence and watched two cowhands herding cattle into a fresh pasture. One cowhand in particular was an ace rider, sitting balanced and instinct-ready on the bay quarter horse beneath him. The bay’s well-muscled body and powerful hindquarters made him perfectly suited to the quick maneuvers needed to outsmart a cow. A calf split off from the herd and the bay shot into action, blocking its path with short, precise movements that mirrored those of the calf, steering it back to its mother. The two riders secured the gate and dismounted behind the Land Cruiser. Outfitted in chaps, jeans, work shirts, and wide-brimmed hats, the two stood together talking. Justin sauntered over to the talented rider who stood as tall as him and had a similar build. “That bay of yours has some serious cow sense,” he said in a congenial tone.
The rider turned and Justin found himself staring into the face of a pretty woman about his own age. No makeup, tanned face, hair tucked up under her hat, gray-blue eyes.
“That cow sense comes with years of training,” she said without smiling. “And excellent breeding.”
“You’re about as good at cutting as any rider I’ve seen,” Justin said, caught off guard, and sounding more ingratiating
than he intended.
She looked past him as though he were invisible.
He caught a whiff of cinnamon as Sarah jingled up and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He stiffened, but not wanting to appear impolite, he didn’t pull away.
“This is my lil’ sis, Cody. Cowgirl extraordinaire.” Sarah’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. “She’d live on a horse, if she could. We can hardly get her to come in for meals.”
Cody’s features tightened.
“This is Alex Hamilton. The bull rider Dad hired.”
“Alex, huh?” Cody’s gaze met his, anger flickering in her eyes. “If he’s on the payroll, stop chatting him up and put him to work. We’re wasting daylight.” She turned to her partner. “Let’s get down to bottom pasture. Check on those new calves.” Without so much as a glance in Justin’s direction, she mounted her horse and rode off with the cowhand. She whistled, and all four dogs bounded after her.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Justin said under his breath.
“Don’t mind her,” Sarah said, pressing her breasts against his arm. “She’s gun shy. Especially ’round good-looking guys with gorgeous blue eyes.”
He stepped away from her, his face warming. Sarah was sexy as hell, but he wasn’t about to encourage a come on from the boss’s daughter. Shit, she was gonna be trouble.
Unruffled, Sarah steered him back to the car, lighting a cigarette and shooting out a cloud of smoke. “Cody just got divorced,” she said, strapping herself in. “Her ex is a piece of work, I’ll tell you. Real psycho. In prison for life, I hope.” She continued up the road. “Wanna see the view from the bluff?”