A Cowboy To Keep: A Contemporary Western Romance Collection

by Hebby Roman

  “It’s possible you have. Flynn works for Uncle Joe on the ranch in his time off. And before you ask, they get along just fine. So between the ranch and the fire department, you’ve probably crossed paths before.”

  “I think I’d remember him, and besides he was downright cold—mean even, like there’s bad blood between us.”

  Her mother put her hand on hers. “Honey, I think you’re reading too much into it. I’m sure Flynn has nothing against you. I know you say it’s over with Justin, but maybe you’re still feeling raw.”

  “You think I’m imagining things? I’m not, and if I do cross paths with him again, I’m going to find out what his problem is.”

  She dared to look over toward the corral again. The spot where Flynn and the floozy stood was now empty. No sign of either of them.

  Chapter Two

  Waves of heat shimmered over the tarmac even at this early hour of the day. Harper crossed the parking lot between her family’s home and their hotel. She paused to watch the horses in the corral, the sky so blue above them it made her heart ache. The smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls made her stomach rumble. She had the morning free before she had to be at the spa resort where she worked the lunch shift. An old friend of her mother’s was the general manager, and it had been the offer of a job there, which had been the final lure back west.

  The ancient screen door screeched open as she stepped inside. The kitchen buzzed with so much activity, Harper had to stand back a second to see where she’d be most needed—or least likely to be in the way. Mom, her face all business, nodded to her and snaked her hands through the handles of half a dozen carafes of coffee before bumping into one side of the swinging double doors with her hip. Harper knew the minute her mother stepped through the door into the dining room, she would transform into ‘charming hostess’ as she hopped from table to table.

  The sound of chopping came in a sharp, angry staccato, but Rosa dicing peppers reflected only serenity and confidence. A busboy carrying a gray bin full of dirty plates and silverware pushed the swinging door back the other way, entering as Mom exited, like figures in a cuckoo clock striking the hour. The new girl, Pilar, picked up a sizzling tray of bacon and headed out.

  Rosa noticed Harper standing in the door. “Do you want to ice those cinnamon rolls for me, sweetie?”

  Harper grabbed a heavy, brown standard-issue restaurant mug, helped herself to the fragrant, strong coffee, and sat down at the counter where trays of freshly baked rolls sat. She spread the white icing across the still warm top of each roll, trying to remain consistent. It was a soothing task, watching the white icing melt and meld into the golden rolls. Still, something niggled at the back of her mind. That cowboy yesterday. What had she done to him? Her mind had been running circles, trying to remember where she knew him from. She came up blank.

  Pilar was back and reaching for the rolls. Before she whipped the tray out into the dining room, Harper grabbed a roll for herself. The spiral of dough pulled apart in her fingers. She popped a morsel in her mouth, the cinnamon hitting her tongue—the texture of the pastry, perfect. She rolled back her head and closed her eyes to better appreciate the taste and sensations going on in her mouth.

  She opened her eyes at the sound of laughter. Her mother stood in front of her, hands on hips. “You are your father’s daughter! You both seem to view good food as some kind of religious experience.”

  Harper ran her tongue around her lips, now coated with sweet glaze. “Rosa’s cooking is heavenly. Speaking of Dad, is he off today?”

  “Yep. His shift ended this morning. He should be home soon.” Angel whipped the apron off her slender hips. “I have to take a party out on a trail ride. I guess I’ll see you when you get home from work this evening.” Her mother started to turn away and stopped. “Oh, hey, you’ll never guess who won the raffle. Flynn! It’s funny because he told me one reason he didn’t want to enter is that he always wins. Guess he’s right! Only one ticket with his name on it and that’s the one I pulled.”

  Harper rolled her eyes. “Imagine that.”

  “Don’t make that face at me. I didn’t rig the raffle. It’s karma, is what it is. See you later.”

  Mom’s departure marked the end of the breakfast hour. Harper got busy helping to clean the kitchen and prepping for the lunch hour.

  Pilar came back in from the dining room, lugging an insulated bag. “Rosa, I packed up the leftovers for Flynn. Some people gonna eat well today.”

  “Good girl. I baked a few extra cinnamon rolls just for him.” Rosa winked at Pilar.

  Harper’s ears pricked up. “Flynn? Is that the same Flynn who works with Dad?”

  Rosa smiled to herself. “One and the same. Do you know him?”

  “Apparently I do, though I only have his word for it. Why are you giving him food?”

  “He takes the leftovers to the church. Father Mooney runs a soup kitchen there for needy families.”

  “Mom knows about this?”

  “Of course she does!”

  Pilar put the bag on the table. “I have to run some errands for my ma. I’ll drop this off later today if that’s all right.”

  Rosa frowned. “I hate to leave it too late.”

  Harper tried to make her voice sound casual. “Where does he live? If it’s on my way, I can drop the food off on my way to work.”

  “Could you? It is on your way. Do you know the Double Bar Ranch?”

  “Sure,” she said, feeling excitement bubbling in her veins.

  “His house is near there, off on a backroad. I’ll draw you a map. He’s probably not home, but he has an old fridge on his back porch. Just put the food in there. It’s unlocked.”

  Chapter Three

  A swath of purple-gray cut through the distant sky, falling in a straight sheet to the ground. Heavy rain moving fast. Harper frowned and headed the car—her mom’s car—off the paved road and onto the dirt road leading to an old farmhouse. According to Rosa’s detailed map, this was where Flynn lived. Butterflies danced in her stomach. As she pulled up, she took it all in: dirt yard complete with tumbleweed and saguaro cactus, clapboard house with peeling paint and a tin roof, an old barn looking like it was only waiting for permission to fall down, a well-maintained horse trailer, an old tractor that looked like it hadn’t moved from its spot in decades, and the obligatory pickup truck. Pickup truck. He might be home.

  With that thought, Harper pulled down the car visor to check herself. Her eyes as gray as the storm clouds in the distance, sparkled back at her in the mirror. The powerful beating of an excited heart filled her cheeks and full, red lips with color. She smiled at her reflection. If Flynn wasn’t home, he was going to miss a fine sight.

  She’d managed to ascertain he lived alone. She’d asked Rosa a dozen questions, going around the true question of whether he was single or not, in so many circles you’d have to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find it.

  One eye on the house, she stepped out of her car. She’d knock on the front door first, on the chance Flynn was home. Thunder rumbled in the distance...and something else. A frantic banging and a plaintive whine. Harper grabbed the bag of food and headed toward a wide front porch that ran the length of the house, scanning the yard as she walked. The eerie sounds definitely came from the porch.

  As she neared the house, she saw the dog. Some kind of mutt, sniffing the air and throwing itself at the front door. He looked up at her with wild eyes. For a moment they had a face-off as she ran through everything she knew about dog attacks. Then the dog wagged its tail and laid down in front of the door, head on outstretched paws, looking up at her with a plaintive expression on its face. The storm was approaching rapidly now. She smelled the metallic ozone scent of rain.

  “Oh, you poor thing! Are you locked out of your house?” Harper patted its brown head while she rang the doorbell, certain there was nobody home. The dog would have roused any occupant.

  When no answer came to her ringing and knocking, she rounded the house
to the back porch; the dog, with its tail between its legs, fast on her heels. A loud thunderclap made both woman and beast jump.

  She turned the handle on the porch door, which was indeed unlocked. The dog raced in ahead of her and cowered in a corner.

  “It’s okay, boy, you’re safe now.” What kind of man lets his dog run wild? Not even wearing a collar.

  She spotted the refrigerator. It was a blue-green model from the 1950’s with rounded corners: either it was a retro design or a very old fridge. She placed the bag inside the box that seemed to hold not much except beer and soft drinks. Then she stood up straight and took in the room.

  In contrast to the rundown appearance of the outside of the house, the back porch could have come out of an interior design magazine. Home on the Range edition. To call it a porch was something of a misnomer. The back wall of shiplap-siding, painted off-white, was decorated by a Navajo rug in red, black and white and, hanging near it, a cow skull. A collection of antique stirrups and spurs along with black and white photos of desert plants had been arranged on the wall with precision. A leather sofa ran along the back wall. Windows dominated the other three walls. The floorboards were painted a dark gray. A Formica and chrome table with an orange top and four chairs upholstered in soft turquoise vinyl stood at one end of the room. A large bowl filled with succulents and cacti sat on top the table below a rustic hanging-light fixture.

  Harper turned to look out at the view. Breathtaking. A flat plain studded with cactus stretched out for miles with the mountains in the distance, the sky, dark and stormy above them. Placed on the windowsill was a collection of oddities: a piece of honeycombed saguaro cactus skeleton, fossils, arrowheads, a rattler tail, and bits of ancient-looking pottery. She could picture Flynn out walking in the desert finding items of interest and coming home to place them on the sill. The intimate glimpse of his life made her feel uncomfortable. She might as well go through his bedside table drawer.

  In one corner, an old paddle armchair in vintage western motif upholstery with a matching ottoman sat facing the view. Mom would love that chair, she thought, thinking of her love of that period of furnishings. The hotel was furnished in similar style, having kept the original 1940’s pieces from the first owners. A simple floor lamp stood next to the chair. She walked over and picked up the book on the table. She’d never heard of the author. The inside cover had a stamp from the local library. As she leafed through it, a slip of paper fell out. Damn, I lost his place. She stuck the paper back approximately where it had been and placed the book back on the table. There was an empty beer bottle beside the book. She smiled picturing him out here in the evenings watching the sunset, unwinding with a book and a beer. The cushions held the imprint of his body.

  The dog had gotten up and whimpered at the door leading into the house. Harper tried the handle. “Sorry, buddy, it’s locked.”

  The door looked like it had been recently refinished. Dark oak with black wrought iron hardware. She ran her hand over the smooth finish and peered into the window set high on the door, standing on her toes. “Oh, my!” she said out loud. She looked into a dream kitchen. She knew her appliances, and though these weren’t top of the line, they were good quality and looked fairly new. The cabinets were simple, fitting with the style of the house. The countertops seemed to be natural stone. The room looked spotless. Who knew this rough exterior hid such style?

  Running out of time but curious, Harper patted the dog on the head and left the back porch. She walked around the house to the front, and after making sure nobody was around, cupped her hands around her eyes to peer into the front window.

  After her first glimpse, she gasped in surprise. The dove gray wall facing her was covered in crosses! She squinted her eyes to study the display. She could now see they were folk art pieces. A variety of black crosses covered in small silver milagros tacked to them hung carefully arranged. On the wall between the crosses were colorful photos of...churches. Adobe churches with red tile roofs, wooden churches, steeples against bright blue skies, all taken from interesting angles. What is it with this guy? Is he some kind of religious freak? Maybe it was my cleavage that put him off.

  Below the art display sat an old Spanish mission style cabinet with handwoven baskets and Native American pottery placed on top.

  A fat splat of water hit her arm. She looked up. The sky roiled with dark clouds overhead now, and the creosote bushes around the property released their scent as the raindrops hit them.

  Harper hurried back to her car feeling unnerved.

  Chapter Four

  Harper dropped her purse on the hall table. After hours spent in the kitchen at work, she needed nothing more than a shower to wash the odor of food off. Her clothes reeked of cooking oil, onions, and garlic—not to mention her own stale sweat. She headed toward the stairs and froze. Was she hearing what she thought she heard? A vigorous pounding accompanied by moans. She looked up at the second floor landing to see her parents’ bedroom door standing open. Good lord! They’re at it in the middle of the day?

  So much for that shower. To get to her room, she’d have to walk past her parents’ room. With a heavy sigh, Harper headed out again, wondering where to go to kill half an hour. Surely, they’d be done by then. She walked down the winding path from the private residence and headed for the hotel parking lot. The pool area was busy this time of day with vacationers cooling off before dinner after hours of doing whatever vacationers did. Not really in the mood to make small talk with strangers, she headed for her mother’s office in the main lodge.

  Guests darted back and forth from the line of cottages to the pool area. Some older children played horseshoes in the grassy area between the two, the sound of metal on metal when someone got a ringer and whoops of triumph echoed in the air. She took one last look at the mountains in the distance—the same mountains viewed from Flynn’s back porch. Was he there now in his chair, looking at the view?

  Avoiding the busy kitchen, she walked in through the main entrance into the lobby, grateful for the feel of cooler air on her skin. A couple of bored teenagers sprawled on chairs in front of the fireplace gave her the briefest glance before returning to their cell phones. She wondered if they even appreciated the beauty of the four-sided fireplace. This fireplace was part of the Donovan family folklore. Mom loved the look of the lobby so much, Dad surprised her by replicating the same fireplace in the house he built for them.

  With the feeling of pride of ownership, she opened the office door. It felt good to be part of this establishment, which her mother had struggled to keep going against all odds after divorcing her first husband.

  She plopped into the swivel chair behind the antique oak desk and put her feet up, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket to call the only old friend of hers left in the Phoenix area.

  Lizzie answered right away. “Hey, girl, how’s it going?”

  “I need to find my own place to live soon.”

  “Things that bad?”

  “I’ve stepped through a portal transporting me back to high school. And my parents are….” She shook her head and blew out her cheeks.

  “Your parents are great!”

  “Yeah, they’re all right. Just too much in my face and trying to be helpful. Letting me move back in, getting me a job, feeding me…If I get anymore beholden to them, I’m going to forget how to tie my own shoes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful, but I haven’t lived here in some time, and I guess we have to get accustomed to each other again. When you’re used to living far away and talking about once a week, giving selective information at that, it’s hard to have my every move under observation. It’s getting on my nerves.” She spun the chair around in a circle. “And they treat me like I’ve lost my marbles, and any day now I’m going to come back to my senses and go back to New York.”

  “Have you told them the truth about Justin yet?”

  “Nope. I will one day. Right now everyone is so excited about Mary having a baby, it doesn’t feel right to
bring it up−like here I am upstaging my older sister with my own drama—again.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t see it that way.”

  “They wouldn’t but Mary might. Besides I need some distance from the situation myself.”

  “So how was the barbeque? Meet anyone?”

  She picked up a pen with the hotel logo printed on it and ran it over her lips. “Not really...but do you know if I know a guy called Flynn?”

  “If you don’t know how would I know?”

  “He claimed we’ve met before, but I don’t remember. He was downright rude about it too.”

  “Good looking?”

  She sighed. “Real good looking...but strange.”

  She went on listening to Lizzie while secretly ticking away the minutes until she thought it safe to return home. Facing her on the desk sat a leather framed photograph of the family. Harper picked it up with her free hand.

  From the photograph, a grade school version of herself squinted back at her, the sun in her eyes that day long ago. Harper, feet still planted in place, leaned away from the family grouping, only held in by Mary. Both girls, hand in hand, had their arms stretched to the limit. Mary was already nearly a teenager. She had the same gray streak of hair in her forelock that Dad did: a hereditary trait called a Mallen streak. Mary had black hair like many of the Donovan’s so the streak was more pronounced in her hair than in Dad’s light brown hair. Mom looked much the same with her signature ponytail and jeans. She had both hands planted on Trent’s shoulders as if to hold him to the ground. He was an air force pilot now. You could see that the following year he’d shoot past Mom in height. In this picture, Rory with his dark framed glasses was almost an adult. So odd that Rory, son of a rodeo star and stepson of another macho man type, would choose to become an optometrist.

  She took a closer look at Mary, her arm straining to hold her sister in. Mary had a shadow of weariness in her face, and Harper thought, not for the first time, how much of Mary’s free time had been diverted to babysit Harper since neither of their hard-working parents had managed to master the art of being in two places at once.