Her Forever Cowboy

by Debra Salonen

  The tone applied to the last word said it all. Since they'd already covered this territory more than once, Anne walked to her closet without replying.

  She opened the doors. Ninety percent of her wardrobe was business suits. "Let's see. What do I need? Jacket? Yes. Cardigan? Absolutely. Raincoat? I can't remember if it rains there in the summer." In truth, Anne didn't recall much about her Nevada experience. She'd spent most of the time indoors behind a book.

  She'd moved to the Silver Rose during Christmas vacation of her junior year of high school – a tough time to expect to fit in, even for someone outgoing. Her natural shyness and Maine accent had labeled her "different." She made a few acquaintances, but no close friends.

  In addition to the unhappy school experience, Anne's home life was difficult. She felt left out of her mother and A.J.'s newly-wedded bliss and slightly resentful for her father's sake, even though he'd been dead for five years. Then, to make matters worse, she'd developed a ridiculous crush on Will, her stepfather's grandson.

  Will Cavanaugh. Rodeo darling. Sexy cowboy sought after by every cool girl in school. And while he bore absolutely no biological connection to her whatsoever, Anne couldn't shake the idea that their being together would seem slightly incestuous.

  She made every effort to hide her feelings, but apparently Will guessed that she was attracted to him --or perhaps he just assumed she was, since every other girl in school adored him. A few weeks before his graduation ceremony, they'd bumped into each other on the front porch. Where he'd been headed, she could only guess, but he seemed in no hurry to leave. They shared a soda and a few laughs. Then, to her surprise, they talked.

  Hungry for closeness, needing a friend, she opened her heart to him. And he opened his to her. A friendly hug led to a kiss. Her first.

  A kiss that ignited a fire deep in her soul. But it was the last they ever shared. His momentary look of wonder changed to one of mortification. A moment later, he mumbled something about needing to pick up Judy--the girl he'd supposedly broken up with a few days earlier.

  Anne accepted his excuse at face value. One kiss from her was all it took to send him running back to his buxom blond cheerleader. Anne was crushed but not completely surprised. Men left. She'd learned that lesson when her father died.

  "Mo-o-om."

  Uh-oh, the three-syllable version of the word. Anne looked over her shoulder. "Pardon? Oh, you asked about a move. Yes, hon, if I get the job, I'm sure there will be a transfer involved. Possibly to the Pacific Northwest." Damp. Rainy. Mold capital of the world? She fought to keep from frowning.

  "I don't want to move anymore, Mommy. Couldn't we just stay in Nevada? Please, Mommy." Her daughter's plaintive tone made Anne's chest tighten anxiously. For someone so sick, Zoey hardly ever whined. But this particular broken-record complaint about their itinerant lifestyle had been cropping up for over a year.

  "Sweetheart, you've only been to Nevada once when you were a tiny baby. You might hate the place."

  "Or love it. Gramma loved it, right?"

  Anne motioned her daughter into the room, then led her to the fainting couch in the far corner and sat down. She pulled Zoey's small body into her arms then settled back against the worn, red velvet. The couch had been a wedding present from A.J. and Esther. If A.J.'s claim was true, the ornate piece of furniture once resided at the Mustang Ranch – one of Nevada's most notorious bordellos.

  She stroked Zoey's baby-fine hair and kissed her ear. "Your grandmother Esther was a free spirit. She sought change like some people seek gold. She met my father at a single's dance she'd been forbidden to attend. Two weeks later they eloped and I was born nine months after that."

  Zoey snuggled close. When she sighed, Anne could feel the slight rattle in her chest. Bothersome, but no need for the inhaler.

  "What happened then?"

  "Well, we moved around a lot because Daddy was a salesman. But when I started school, he took a job in a hotel in Springfield, Illinois, so we could stay in one place. Mama worked there, too, on weekends so Daddy could stay home with me. She claimed it was her time off for good behavior."

  As usual, the comment made her daughter snicker.

  Zoey fiddled with a button on Anne's shirt "Then he died, and Grandma was super sad and you moved back to Maine to stay with Great-Grandma and Grandpa Jensen for a couple of years, until she stopped being so sad and started living again and went looking for adventure."

  Anne ticked her under the arm. "Who's telling this story?"

  Zoey squirmed with mock distress then settled against Anne again. My little big girl.

  "That's when she found Grandpa A.J. in Nevada, right?" Zoey asked, with a barely stifled yawn. "They wrote love letters. And talked on the phone. Then one day, he showed up in Maine and took her home with him."

  Anne smiled against her daughter's crown. Her mother had loved to tell that story. "Nobody thought it would work out," Esther would tell people. "My parents begged me to leave Anne with them, but she's an adventurer--just like her mother."

  Anne knew that was a lie. In truth, she'd been terrified that her mother would forget about her, her grandparents would die, and she'd be left alone. She'd chosen Nevada out of fear, not adventure.

  Zoey's body went boneless. Sleep. Anne closed her eyes for a few seconds. Fatigue made her joints ache, but she still had to finish packing Zoey's things then write a report for Roger. Penance of another kind.

  She eased the sleeping child down carefully and covered her with a cotton throw. As she walked to the bathroom to pack her toiletries, Anne's thoughts lingered on her Nevada experience.

  To this day, the most memorable moment from that period was the kiss she and Will shared. Not only her first kiss, but her first French kiss. Will's tongue in her mouth. A breathless joining of heat and passion that even now brought a flush to her cheek.

  She made a face in the mirror and stuck out her tongue. "You're a hard-luck case, girlfriend. No squeezing of boob. Or hand down the pants. Just a freakin' kiss." One that should have been washed from her memory years ago.

  Stifling a sigh, she opened the upper cabinet and started filling a zipper plastic bag with toiletries she probably couldn't buy in Nevada. A small smile tugged up one corner of her lips. Why do women remember things like that? I bet Will has forgotten it completely. Will had been a year older and light-years more advanced, both socially and sexually. A single kiss would hardly have made much of an impression on someone like him.

  He'd barely spoken to her after their encounter on the porch. Not that she'd given him much opportunity, Anne had to admit. Humiliated by his apparent rejection and mortified by her passionate reaction to his touch, she'd scurried the other way anytime she saw him approach.

  And something had happened to Will at the national rodeo competition later that summer. She hadn't attended, of course, but she recalled the grim look on his face when he returned. Not long after that, Will set off to pursue his dream of becoming the number-one bull rider in the country.

  Anne left for college the following spring. Busy with her career, a difficult marriage, and a sick child, she seldom found time to return to the Silver Rose. Despite the familial link, Anne and Will rarely crossed paths--until this past February. At her mother's funeral.

  He'd arrived late. A gentle handshake had segued into a hug. Too numb to cry, Anne had blinked against the fine wool of his suit before he let her go. They'd mumbled words of mutual despair and loss, then she'd been whisked away to catch a plane to return to poor, sick Zoey.

  Now, virtual strangers, they were about to become business partners.

  Will Cavanaugh had debated trying to slip out of the post-event hoopla unnoticed. The PBR, or Professional Bull Riders organization, was known to fine riders as much as five hundred dollars if they failed to make themselves available to the public after an event. And while Will wasn't worried about the money, he didn't want to leave the tour on a sour note.

  Technically, he wasn't a competitor. He hadn't ri
dden, but he had been introduced to the sellout crowd. His name was still popular with fans. But fame was fleeting once a rider was out of the spotlight.

  Thanks to an overly cautious doctor, Will had been side-lined for three months--minimum. If Walt Crain, an orthopedist specializing in sports trauma, had his way, Will would be off the circuit for good.

  "Consider yourself the Steve Young of bull riding," the fifty-something doctor had said after interpreting the results of an extensive round of CAT scans and MRIs. "You could wear two helmets, but nothing will erase that fracture along here," he'd told Will, pointing to a faint white line in the upper most vertebra.

  To Will, the spidery line didn't look any different from the thirty or so other breaks and fractures he'd suffered in the course of his career.

  "Another poke and you could be eating Jell-O through a straw for the rest of your life--if you're lucky."

  Walt's frank, no-nonsense manner made him popular with the riders-- unless they were the recipients of the kind of news he'd given Will. For the most part, riders and doctors accepted that in a sport like bull riding, which pitted the brute strength and wily contortions of a two-thousand pound beast against a man armed only with a rope and spurs, riders would get injured. Broken bones, punctured lungs, and concussions were just part of the job. But Walt claimed to draw the line at suicide by bull. "Giving you a green light to climb on the back of a bull would be like signing your death warrant, Will. It's time for you to think about retirement."

  Washed up at the ripe old age of thirty-three. How is that fair?

  Will took a deep breath and forced his hands to unclench. The smells on the ground floor of the arena might turn off some people, but to him the dirt, dust, dung, and sweat was home. Bull riding was the only job he'd ever done. He had a high school diploma, and thanks to a thriftiness instilled in him by his grandfather, a fairly healthy bank account. But he was still missing that golden ring, which carried with the title of champion. A goal he'd been pursuing with single-minded focus forever since high school.

  Now, thanks to one man, Will was being told he had to step away. He was angry, frustrated and itching for a fight, but he made sure none of that showed on his face as he strolled through the throng crowding the staging area just beyond the arena where the bull riding had taken place.

  Will had been to New Orleans several times. The New Orleans Arena put on a good show--fireworks exploding overhead, pre-event activities on Bourbon Street, good media coverage. Will had watched from the chutes, helping as needed. He knew from experience that a pat on the back or word of encouragement went a long way when a young rider found himself airborne well before the eight-second buzzer.

  As he looked around, Will wasn't surprised to see the largest crowd – kids and a bevy of women – clustered around Troy Jones.

  Troy was twenty-three, green as his flashy trademark vest, but basically an intuitive rider with an ideal center of gravity. He was a good kid. Tonight, he'd drawn Rounder, a rank bull with more twists than a hunk of barbed wire. In bull-riding lingo, rank meant mean, nasty and hard to ride. The more difficult the ride, the better the score – provided you could stay on.

  Troy had earned eighty-five points for his efforts. Combined with the score from his first bull, he'd take home a sizable purse. And by the looks of it, he'd also have his pick of pretty young gals with stars in their eyes, if he was so inclined.

  Lord knows, Will had partaken of his share over the years--both purses and girls. He'd never found the right one, though.

  An elbow jostled him. Will put on his game face and turned, ready to sign his name to a hat, program or body part.

  "Still pouting, I see." A small man dressed in Wranglers, a black, western-styled long-sleeve shirt and black cowboy hat grinned at him.

  Speak of the devil. "Yeah, Doc, call the waaambulance. I'm about ready to cry."

  Walt Crain laughed.

  "You takin' off tonight, Will, or joining the guys downtown?"

  Will had considered staying. He enjoyed the lusty, life-affirming abandon of New Orlean's nightlife. The music, the crowds, the liquor. A person could lose himself--and his worries--in the energy. But the chasm of uncertainty facing him didn't invite revelry. Besides, back in Nevada, his grandfather was chomping at the bit to hit the road.

  "The sooner I get started, the sooner I'll be at the ranch," Will said, making up his mind as he spoke the words. He scanned the now-thinning crowd to judge whether or not he'd put in enough public relations time. Despite what his doctor thought, Will planned to return to bull riding, and he wanted to make his temporary exit on good terms.

  Early in his career, Will had enjoyed the meet-and-greet. Bull riding drew fans from all walks of life. Most were positive, enthusiastic and respectful, and usually he found it a pleasure to stand among them. But too often lately, he'd experienced the humiliation of facing the crowd after landing on his butt two seconds into his ride. And he'd never forget the surreal feeling of signing autographs before catching a ride to the emergency room, where Walt was waiting to set his broken arm--the other one, not his signing arm.

  Will was about to turn away, when a little boy--probably seven or eight, he guessed--ran up to him, an adult-size straw hat in hand. "Could y'all sign this hat for me?" The boy's wide grin revealed several gaping holes where new teeth were starting to sprout.

  Will dropped to one knee. "Sure, son. What's your name?"

  "Gooley Jompers." He glanced between the men sheepishly. "It's really George, but my kin all call me Gooley. My uncle says it'll make a good bull riding name. Whattay'all think?"

  Will had to suppress a chuckle. The boy was cute as a puppy and full of life. He didn't want to be the one responsible for squashing his dreams--that's what doctors were for. "I think Gooley is a great name. Has a real ring to it."

  He uncapped his fine-line felt-tip marker and signed his name on the hat, in one of the few remaining blank spots. It didn't surprise him--or even hurt his feelings--that he wasn't the first to sign. He'd been the first in other years.

  He shook the boy's hand solemnly. "You take care and study real hard in school so nobody can cheat you out of your money when you're a rich bull rider, okay? You never know when somebody will come along and tell you you can't ride any more."

  Gooley nodded as if the words were gospel, but a second later he bolted away with a quick, "Thank ya, suh."

  Will watched him join his parents and stifled a bittersweet sigh. He liked kids and wouldn't have minded having a couple of his own, but the rolling-stone lifestyle of bull riding didn't lend itself to settling down. Hell, Will had barely even made it home to see his grandfather and Esther as often as he should have--which is one reason A.J. hadn't needed to do much arm-twisting to get Will back for the summer. Guilt was a powerful tool. So was not having anything else going on in his life.

  He got to his feet with a soft groan. His left knee wasn't quite healed from the surgery he'd had six months earlier. Nothing serious--just a little nip and tuck to clean up some scar tissue and remove a bit of fluid.

  Walt grabbed his shirt sleeve and tugged. "You're good with kids, Will. I've noticed before the way you take the time to talk to them at their level--not like some of the hotshots who only have time for the ladies. Especially the ones with big hooters."

  Will started toward the locker room where his gear was stashed. Walt followed. "Maybe you ought to think about settling down and starting a family," the older man said.

  "Maybe you should mind your own business." It irked Will to have his thoughts come out of Walt Crain's mouth.

  Walt cuffed Will's shoulder lightly. "Son, you are my business. That's why I want to keep you alive. Now, go back to Nevada, find a pretty gal and have a couple of kids. Maybe a few years from now your son will be out there in that arena and you'll thank me for keeping you alive long enough to see that day."

  Will snorted. Liking kids didn't automatically make a person a family man. He was a bull rider. First and foremost. And
he would be back--just as soon as he paid this debt to his grandfather, the man who'd given him a home and raised him.

  Because his grandfather had trained him to treat people civilly, Will turned to the physician and held out his hand. "Look, Doc, I don't agree with your diagnosis, but until you say otherwise I'm grounded. I'm heading home for the summer. But come next fall, I'm going to get a second--or third--opinion, because this is my life. I will be back."

  Walt smiled enigmatically and winked. "Unless some sweet young thing sweeps you off your feet."

  Will guffawed--the first time he'd laughed in days. He knew the likelihood of that happening was on par with his winning top-money-earner status this year. His grandfather had already informed Will that he'd be sharing the management duties of the Silver Rose with Anne Fraser.

  "You'll be in charge of the land, the animals, and keeping the city slickers from killing themselves. Anne will handle things back at the house," A.J. had explained.

  Will couldn't imagine how his grandfather had talked Anne into coming back for the summer. From everything Will had heard about her over the years, Anne was as goal oriented and driven in her career of hotel management as Will was in his.

  Despite their common history, Will knew surprisingly little about her. An executive of some hotel chain. Divorced, with a young daughter named Zoey. Currently living in New York City.

  He pictured her as pretty but reserved. Shy. She'd had a difficult time fitting in when she first moved to the ranch. Will had tried to keep an eye on her, but his high-school rodeo team had been closing in on the state championship that year. Then there'd been his near miss at the title, and his disappointing showing at the Nationals. Life had taken a sharp turn in the opposite direction after that.

  Will remembered kissing her once. He'd been attracted to her for reasons he couldn't wholly define, but she'd made it clear that he wasn't her type. She planned to attend some big-name college back East and couldn't wait to leave Nevada behind her. A cowboy didn't figure into her life then, and from their few brief encounters over the years, Will had no reason to imagine her opinion had changed.