Sasha Summers - A Son For The Cowboy

“I hate to agree with Archer, but...‘think before you act’ is pretty good advice.” Renata hugged him again. “And congratulations. You might not be ready for it yet, but the family’s going to welcome your boy with open arms.”

She was right. The Boones believed in family. And Rowdy was family.

He and Deacon headed out shortly afterward, intent on repairing one of the windmills. A tornado had skirted the ranch a couple of weeks back and the strong winds had damaged two of the blades, throwing off the spin and affecting the entire mechanism. With drought concerns on the rise, the windmill needed to be working so the livestock had plenty of water.

By the time the sun was high, they’d replaced the two blades. They ate a late lunch in the mill’s long shadow, barely a word said between them.

It took effort, but Toben kept all thoughts of Poppy at bay. Rowdy not so much. He wanted to do something with his son—but what? That was the question. How did he make up for six years in a couple of days? It would take time to earn the boy’s trust—he knew that. But patience had never been one of his strengths. If he had it his way, he and Rowdy would jump right into it—father and son. Something he figured Poppy wasn’t ready for.

He pushed aside her image, the lingering sound of her laughter as they’d sat on her porch enjoying pie. He loaded his toolbox into the back of the truck, frustrated all over again.

They headed to the vaccination shed next. Toben’s uncle Teddy, owner of the entire ranch, had plans to vaccinate the cattle next week. It was no small undertaking, something that required working chutes, sturdy pens and all hands on deck. Safety was a top priority on the ranch—for the animals and the employees. A faulty chute or damaged pen could cause disaster. Between him and Deacon, they tested every fence, chute and gate latch that afternoon.

“I’m calling it,” Deacon said, pouring water over the back of his head.

“Tired already?” Toben teased, smiling. They’d worked hard. Uncle Teddy would be happy.

“Damn straight,” Deacon answered. “And hungry. Those were some sad sandwiches you packed.”

Toben laughed. “I didn’t hear you complain when you were eating them.” He climbed in the truck as Deacon made the engine roar to life. He wiped his face with his bandanna and hung his arm out the window. He glanced at the dash. It was only six thirty-five. Not too late to stop by for a visit.

“You going over there?” Deacon asked.

“Thinking about it,” he murmured. All damn day. He’d had a welcome-enough reception the night before. But now that another man was in Poppy’s house, would that still be the case?

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