How to Handle a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  “Josh didn’t tell me anything,” she said.

  He supposed that was true. Josh hadn’t told her; he’d told Ridge.

  Judging from the thunderous look the black kid shot at Josh, he wasn’t buying it.

  “Snitch,” he muttered.

  Sierra gave the boys a sharp nod, and they immediately spilled out of the old Chevy—all but the black kid, who paused a moment and met her eyes with a hostile glare of his own. Ridge recognized that look. He’d had the same one in his own arsenal once upon a time.

  “Isaiah,” Sierra said. “Out.”

  Isaiah must have decided this wasn’t a good time to test authority, because he quickly followed the others. He headed straight for Josh, who was doing his best to hide in Ridge’s shadow.

  Ridge drew himself up to his full height and looked Isaiah in the eye. That bit of body language apparently worked as well with kids as it did with horses, because Isaiah turned away and kicked at the ground, creating a little cloud of dust that settled over the toe of his running shoes. His kick uncovered an old piece of rusted metal, which he picked up and studied, those angry brows drawn down in concentration. A change of subject and he’d forget all about Josh.

  “Vegas, huh?” Ridge grinned at the curly-haired kid and yanked the brim of his old hat down over his face. The kid tilted his head back and gave him a cocky grin.

  “You bet. Vegas, baby! Got a gig with Rihanna.”

  “I’d stay away from that chick,” Ridge said. “She’s trouble.”

  A lively argument ensued over whether the singer’s hotness made dying at the hands of her various paramours worthwhile. Ridge could feel Josh releasing tension beside him, like a balloon slowly expelling air, as the conversation shifted from reality to fantasy.

  “So, are you a real cowboy?” one of the boys asked. “With a horse and everything?”

  Ridge nodded, settling for a half-truth. He did have a horse—several horses. But he was a long way from having “everything.”

  He didn’t have a career, for example. Or a future. Or a woman.

  “So can we ride it?” the boy prodded. It was the black kid, the one who had the face of an angel until he unleashed that rebellious glare.

  “No,” Sierra said. “If you want extra activities, you need to show you can be responsible. You have to make good decisions. And locking the pantry door was not a good decision. Leaving the house without permission was an even worse one. Did anybody get their homework done?”

  The response was a lot of shuffling and mumbling.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Sierra turned and set off toward Phoenix House, the boys trailing behind her like chicks following a mother hen. They were very grumbly chicks, and Ridge felt like joining in. Boys needed adventure like horses needed hay, and she couldn’t expect them to act like angels when they were cooped up doing homework on a day like this.

  Fall didn’t last long in Wyoming. Soon the wind would blow the trees bare and swirl a thick coat of snow on the ground. But for now, the aspens burned bright as candle flames against the sky, and crisp grass crackled under their feet. Hitcher seeds clung to socks and pant legs, and fallen leaves colored the sidewalk like spilled paint—maple red, oak brown, and aspen yellow. Autumn had splashed the whole world with bright, festive color.

  It was time for touch football, for wrestling in the grass, for saddling up and riding just to feel the wind in your face. If Sierra wanted the kids to do something constructive, she should let them rake leaves. And then she should let them jump in the piles until they’d made a bigger mess than they started with.

  That’s what he’d do if he ran the place, or if he had kids of his own someday.

  He wouldn’t. He knew that. But he also knew what childhood should be and rarely ever was.

  Chapter 9

  “Spider-Man don’t do math,” Isaiah mumbled. “Spider-Man got better things to do.”

  “Not in Wynott, he doesn’t,” said Sierra.

  “Damn—darn straight,” the kid said. “Nothin’ good to do around here, not even for Spider-Man.”

  The clear, high notes of Sierra’s laughter rose in the still air of the quiet little town, riding the breeze like sudden birdsong. She’d let out that same careless, all-out laughter in the closet, but Ridge hadn’t seen her smile in daylight, and he hadn’t seen how her green eyes caught the sunlight filtering through the leaves. He felt dazed, like a kid who’d just spun around and around for the dizzy pleasure of tumbling to the ground.

  He wanted to grab her hands in his and do just that, he realized. He wanted to spin and spin until the outside world didn’t exist, until there was just the two of them again—like back there in the closet. He wanted Sierra Dunn, more than he’d wanted a woman in a long time.

  Which was not good. He’d returned to Wynott to recover from his injury and find a new path in life now that his rodeo career was over. That path didn’t include a woman, and it certainly didn’t include a bunch of kids, but he could feel Sierra and her little band of misfits tearing down the barriers he’d built around his heart. The fragile walls were collapsing like a pup tent in a windstorm.

  He’d built those barriers because his last long-term relationship owed more to his ex’s determination and perseverance than it did to his own feelings, which had been mild at best and annoyed at worst. Shelley had been dead set on turning the two of them into a couple, with wedding bells ringing and two-point-five kids in the yard. When she’d finally given up, he’d felt relief and guilt in equal measure.

  A quick mental flashback of Shelley’s face, swollen and tearstained, made his gut clench.

  You don’t need the things other people need, she’d said. You think that makes you strong. But it doesn’t. It just makes you alone.

  She was right. When it came to women, he had nothing to offer. He’d tried, especially with Shelley. But he’d had no deeper feelings toward her than he had toward the various one-night stands that rodeo cowboys gathered along with their gold buckles and broken legs.

  He glanced at Sierra, who was helping one of the boys with the snaps on his jacket. She cared so much about these kids. You could see it in her eyes—the way they’d teared up when she’d been worried about losing them, and the way they glowed every time one of them said something funny or kind. He hoped she’d find a nice guy and get married someday, have kids of her own.

  But he was not that guy. Nobody had ever accused him of being nice, and if Sierra gave him her heart, he’d probably break it into a million little pieces. She deserved better, so he was backing away—now. Right now. He’d promised her nothing would hurt her, and he was probably the number one thing she needed protection from.

  It was too bad for the kids, but hell, they’d probably hijack his heart too, and then where would he be?

  When they reached the top of the porch steps at Phoenix House, Sierra flashed him a bright smile. “Did you want to schedule a visit, then? Maybe Saturday?”

  “Nope.”

  “What?” She looked hurt.

  He looked away, scuffing one foot in the dust. “You told ’em they weren’t allowed. I think that was the right call.”

  “I changed my mind. You’re great with the kids. And waiting for the weekend is punishment enough.” She smiled again, and again it was like the sun had come out from behind a cloud. “You know how time stretches out when you’re a kid. It’ll seem like forever to them. And I suspect your place has a lot more to offer than Pudding Snacks. A ranch would be paradise for these guys.”

  “Maybe not mine.” He believed in facing his fears, though, so he forced himself to look her right dead in the eye, the same way he’d face an ornery bull. “Look, you said it yourself. It’s not real safe, and they’re kind of young for rodeo. Now that I met them, I think you were right.”

  There. He’d made the break without making her feel bad. He’d told her she was right and kept her from bringing the boys into a situation she thought was dangerous.

&nbs
p; He’d treated her well, really.

  Pressing his hat low over his eyes, he jogged down the steps and headed down the cracked sidewalk, walking fast, putting as much distance as he could between himself and temptation.

  Because he wanted to go back. He wanted to tell her to bring the boys out now, to come tomorrow too. Heck, forget the boys; he wanted her to come out on her own, just her.

  But he clenched his teeth and kept on walking. He was half a block away before he heard her speak.

  “Bye.” It sounded like a question, a slightly doubtful, bewildered question.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look back.

  He just kept on walking.

  Chapter 10

  Ridge sorted the mail on his way into the house. Bills, bills, and more bills. They were definitely paying out more than they were taking in at the Decker ranch these days. When all three brothers grew up and hit the rodeo road, Bill Decker had sold off the cattle. The only livestock he’d kept were a few old horses and his dogs. He’d leased enough pasture to keep the place going, but it wasn’t generating any income.

  Ridge knew he was lucky to have this family home. It would allow him to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his life now that a particularly high-bucking bronc had decided to roll over and kick around like a dying bug, grinding him into the dirt of the arena before righting itself and stomping him some more. When the dust had cleared that hot July afternoon, Ridge had managed to walk back to the chutes, but his riding arm had dangled from his shoulder like a dead fish hanging on a hook.

  It turned out pretty much every bone in his hand was busted. There was something wrong with his neck that required a lot of hardware to fix, and he needed a titanium plate to hold his arm together. The doctors had done their best, but he’d never get his grip back—and no grip meant no rodeo. He could ride all right, same as ever, but he couldn’t throw a lasso or hang on to a bronc rope.

  Ridge’s brother Shane was at the kitchen table, weaving long strands of rawhide together to create a lasso that would spring to life in some lucky cowboy’s hands. Ridge, toeing off his boots, put his hand behind his back and tried to flex his fingers. He tested them twenty times a day, maybe more, but the end result never changed; he could barely bend them enough to grip a beach ball.

  He slapped the envelopes on the kitchen counter harder than he’d intended. Shane looked up, his expression mild. It took more than a sudden noise to rattle Shane. A wild elephant could tear through the kitchen and he’d just watch it go.

  “How was Phoenix House?” he asked.

  Ridge shrugged and started to leave the room, but Shane hooked a chair with one foot and whipped it away from the table, blocking Ridge’s route to the hallway.

  “Sit,” Shane said. “We need to talk.”

  Ignoring the chair, Ridge picked up the mail and rested a hip against the counter, pretending to be captivated by an offer for cheap car insurance.

  “I said, we need to talk,” Shane said. “You know, that thing people do where you look at another person and speak.”

  “Dee can do that.” Ridge glanced over at one of the Border collies sprawled on the rug by the woodstove. “Speak, Dee.”

  The dog sat up and barked. Not to be outdone, her companion did the same.

  “Dammit, sit.” Shane reached over and snatched the mail out of Ridge’s hands.

  Ridge sat while the dogs, already sitting, looked confused.

  “Did you even go to Phoenix House?”

  Ridge should have known he’d get the third degree the minute he got home. Once Shane got an idea in his head, he was like a terrier with a bone, and he was determined to help Ridge rise from the ashes of his rodeo career and spread his wounded wings—or something like that. Shane read too much, and it showed.

  “Well, did you?” He talked too much too.

  “Yeah, I went there.”

  “Good.” Shane gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “So when are the kids coming?”

  “They’re not.”

  “How come?”

  Ridge turned away and tore open a utility bill. “The lady who runs the place doesn’t think it’s safe.”

  “It’s not up to her. The guy who owns the place approved it. It’s a done deal, and it’s her job to make it happen.” Shane narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t even try to change her mind, did you?”

  Busted.

  “Look, I’m not ready for this.” Ridge tore open another bill, this one for the feedstore. “I’m still trying to figure out my future, still trying to get over Shelley.”

  Dang, he sounded like one of the touchy-feely cowboys in the book Shelley had left behind—the one he’d been reading in the evenings. It was a Western, but the cowboy on the cover had his shirt off and was giving the viewer a slack-jawed stare that made Ridge wonder if he had sense enough to find the front end of a horse. There were some pretty sexy scenes in it, but everybody in it had feelings, and they spent a lot of time talking about them.

  Ridge didn’t see the point of digging too deeply into emotional stuff. If you ignored your feelings long enough, they’d eventually go away. Of course, so did your girlfriend. But in his case, that had been for the best. Shelley had loved him, supposedly, and he’d liked her just fine. But when he’d looked down inside himself for more, all he found was guilt and a grudging sense of duty.

  “You were over Shelley before her boots hit the highway,” Shane said. “You just want to keep on sulking around here on your own, I guess.”

  Ridge shrugged. “That’s my choice.”

  Shane shoved his chair back, clearly irritated. “What are you going to do with yourself, then? Rodeo’s not an option. You need to move on. What’s your plan B?”

  “There is no plan B.” Ridge felt a fierce, hot anger well up inside him, a hot, flowing mass that threatened to spill over and burn everything in its path. “Plan A was to win a championship by the time I was thirty. I did that. Next, I was aiming for the all-around title. That was the only plan.”

  “Well, it’s not going to happen.” Shane strode to the sink and began rinsing dirty dishes and slotting them into the dishwasher. “Every rodeo cowboy needs a plan B. You get hurt, you get old—you can’t do it all your life, you know? But for you, it’s always been the one thing. You’re a single-minded son of a bitch.”

  “That’s what it takes,” Ridge said. “If you want to win, you’ve got to give it all you’ve got, and damn the consequences. You can’t think about losing when you need to stick on the back of a bull. You can’t think about failing when the calf shoots out of the gate and you need your rope right there, right…”

  He’d been gesturing subconsciously while he spoke, and now he raised his hand as if throwing a loop—but the hand wouldn’t cooperate. He was just flailing at the air.

  He dropped the hand in his lap and it lay there motionless. Human roadkill.

  “Having a plan B means that deep down, you believe you might not win,” he said. “And that kind of belief makes it impossible to be the best. I’ve been shooting for the top of the standings since I was fourteen. Never thought I’d need another plan.”

  Rage rose in his throat and harsh words tumbled out. “Who are you to talk about plans, anyway?” He jabbed a finger at Shane. “Was it your plan to have a kid before you graduated high school?” He knew every word spilling from his lips was a mistake, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “Was it your plan for Amber to have to go through all the shame and the whispering? Was it your plan for her to take off with the baby on the first bus out of town? You haven’t seen your son since he was a month old. Don’t talk to me about plans.”

  “I didn’t say plans always work out.” Shane barely bothered to look up from the suds-filled sink. It was damn near impossible to get a rise out of him. “I’m just saying you need to come up with something. Otherwise, you’ll end up being the Jack Daniel’s champion of Wyoming.”

  Shane had a point. Having his purpose whipped away overnight had left Ridge w
ith an aching, empty spot inside, and lately he’d been filling it up with high-test whiskey.

  “What are you going to do, Ridge?” Shane’s tone was so gentle Ridge wanted to punch him.

  “I can always train horses. I’ll get Moonpie fixed up and ready to sell, maybe take in a few outside horses.”

  Shane grinned. “You’ll never fix that horse. And I’m not sure he’s worth fixing.”

  “You’re wrong on that.”

  Ridge pictured the big buckskin out in the corral, kicking up his heels and snorting, endlessly raging at the confines of his new life. The horse was the result of his recent fondness for Jack Daniel’s and a random impulse to attend a Bureau of Land Management mustang sale. The whiskey had heightened his estimation of his own horse-training skills, and somehow he hadn’t noticed the animal’s obvious character defects. It was only when he went to load the animal into his trailer that he realized he’d taken on a kicking, biting bundle of nerves.

  “I’ll get him fixed up,” he said. “Get him so he can live in this world, at least.”

  “Maybe you ought to try for a grown-up goal this time,” Shane said. “Something that does the world some good and goes a little beyond buckles and babes.”

  Ridge shoved his chair back so he could face his brother, letting the legs screech on the wood floor.

  “You think that’s all it was about?”

  Shane shrugged. “That’s all it was about for me. Why? What was it about for you?”

  Ridge opened his mouth to answer and realized he didn’t know what the hell it had been about. Rodeo had always felt like the most important thing in the world, maybe because it was the one thing he excelled at. But damned if he could think what the point of it was.

  Great. Not only had he had his livelihood ripped away, but now his brother had taken his purpose too. At this rate, he ought to go lie down in the corral so Moonpie could kick him in the head and put him out of his misery.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room, palpable and dense as cotton wool. Shane turned back to the sink and started on the pile of bowls and plates that were stacked on the counter, but it wasn’t long before he shook off his wet hands and strode over to the door.