Susan Hornick - More Than a Cowboy

The little girl held Jared’s gaze with gray-green eyes. A wave of pain ripped through him; pain so intense it stole his breath. This child was a feminine replica of his brother. She had to be Mitch’s daughter. Sarah was the secret Haley was hiding, the secret that may have cost his brother his life.

He watched the color drain from Haley’s face. Like a bear protecting her young, she moved between him and Sarah, then Sarah skipped off to the barn.

“She’s my brother’s daughter, isn’t she?” he asked when Sarah was out of earshot. The question nearly choked him. “What really happened the night Mitch died?”

Susan Hornick lives in Colorado with her husband, two horses and a cat. As a child on her grandparents’ farm, she loved creating stories in her head, which later translated into journals, short stories and finally novels. Her writing won numerous awards before finally finding a home in the inspirational market.

When not writing or spending time with her family, her biggest passion is visiting historical places—especially old cemeteries—and wilderness camping with her husband and friends, where she explores old ghost towns and wide open spaces from the back of her horse. Visit her on the Web at www.susanhornick.com.

Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old.

Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.

—Isaiah 43:18–19

Deepest gratitude to Sharon, Pam, Janet, Kay, Robin, Peggy, Teresa, Alice and Heidi for their input. Also my husband, who relinquished “our time” so I could pound on the computer keys. And always, my children, Megan and Jon, who are as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside, and my mom—who said “FINISH THE BOOK.”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

The rodeo announcer’s voice blared over the loudspeaker signaling the day’s final events for Cheyenne Frontier Days’ rodeo competition. Haley Clayton wiped her sweaty brow and pushed through the crowd toward the bull pens lined up behind the arena.

A whistle from a nearby cowboy quickened her step. She ignored his slow perusal and moved on. The circuit consisted of mostly good, hardworking people with just a few rotten eggs. Today, the latter surfaced like bad pennies, stirring memories she’d locked away for eight years.

The chutes came into view. Haley dismissed her thoughts and focused on the pens. Several bulls bawled from a communal corral, but one stood alone, housed in a corner by thick steel panels.

Resurrection.

The bull that nearly killed her two years before. Haley’s heart skipped, jarring a multitude of locked-up emotions. Fear rose from her core, reaching out to suffocate her like a boa squeezing the life from its next meal. The two thousand pound black Brahma fastened his eyes on her. He lifted his powerful head and sniffed the air, tossing his shorn horns as though they weighed a pittance, as though defying her to face him again. She edged closer.

“I remember you.”

Her eyes closed briefly, trying to blot out the image of Resurrection’s muscled fury battering her into the dirt, his foul breath blowing in her face as his massive head picked her up and tossed her across the arena.

“He looks impressive.”

Haley jumped and spun around. The man towered over her like a lodgepole pine. Jet-black hair surrounded a face bronzed by wind and sun. Muscles rippled beneath the western shirt tucked neatly into a pair of Levis. Dark brown eyes scrutinized her with gentle humor and concern. Feminine appreciation stirred; then caution swamped her heart. He exuded power, and power was dangerous.

“He is,” she said, stepping back. “You riding today?”

The man shook his head. “No. But my stepbrother is.” He leaned against the rail. Resurrection snorted. “He’s been away from the circuit for a few years putting his life back together. Sure would hate to see him make a comeback on that one.”

Haley relaxed a little but kept a safe distance. She knew all about pulling her life back together. “Maybe he won’t. There are a lot of bulls to draw from. Chances are pretty slim to get this one. Besides, some of the best bullfighters in the country are in that arena to watch his back.” The man’s gaze shifted to rest on her. Haley shivered and broke eye contact.

“I hope you’re right.”

“Tell him to look fear in the eye and not let it defeat him.”

Curiosity and interest lit his eyes. “You talk like you know something about the subject.”

She did. In more ways than in the arena, but he couldn’t know. She wanted to reach out and reassure him. Fear made her keep her distance. He glanced at his watch and smiled, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Haley’s chest squeezed.

“I’d better get back,” he said. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“You’re welcome. Tell your brother we’ll be watching out for him.” The man disappeared around the corner.

Haley looked into Resurrection’s eyes. “You won’t win. I won’t let you. I’ll see you soon.”

She forced her fear into the abyss from where it had risen. This bull was dangerous, unpredictable and as unreadable as a blank page. She would never underestimate him again.

She hurried to her camper parked beyond the grandstands, unlatched the door and flung it open. Her trailer held the July heat like a slow cooker. She opened the window and flipped the switch on the fan above the sink. The scents of popcorn, caramel and hot dogs oscillated in the breeze. Her stomach rumbled. If she hurried, she could make her costume change and still have time to see her daughter compete in the mutton busting competition.

Haley squeezed into the tiny bedroom she shared with Sarah and donned her clown outfit—ragged jeans, purple suspenders, a patched oversized shirt, and a red-and-blue wig topped with a round-rimmed polka dot hat.

Her father’s picture rested in a wooden frame beside the bed. An identical costume covered his stocky body. His huge smile sported even white teeth surrounded by wide, painted red lips that stood out against the white face paint. A single black tear was painted near the corner of his eye.

Haley ran her finger over the glass, feeling his loss. Other pictures lined the wall. Pop holding Sarah in the hospital. Pop and Sarah blowing out birthday candles at two years and four. Then the last one—all of them together on Sarah’s fifth birthday two years ago, a month before her crash with Resurrection that triggered his fatal heart attack. A soft knock outside drew her attention.

“Haley? You in there?” Hap Jenkins popped his head through the screen door.

“I’m here.”

Haley set the picture aside and opened a jar of face paint, then glanced up. Her father’s old sidekick leaned against the door jamb, resting his bum knee on the metal step. His gnarled hand gripped the bent aluminum frame that had seen better days.

“Sarah Rose sent me to fetch you,” he said, staying in the doorway while Haley applied the face paint. “Mutton bustin’,” he growled. “Kids ridin’ sheep. Lot of foolishness if you ask me.”