Linda Miller - Always A Cowboy

Red, who did a mean scrambled egg dish and some terrific hash browns, was already done eating, elbows on the farmhouse-style table, something he never did when he ate up at the house. He nodded good morning and went back to his book, which happened to be Shogun by James Clavell. Drake wasn’t surprised at his choice. Red looked like a classic, weathered Wyoming ranch hand, which he was, but he also fancied himself a gourmet cook—he could give Harry a run for her money now and then—and he listened more often than not to classical music. The package wasn’t all that sophisticated, but there was a keen intellect inside.

Drake fed the dogs, helped himself to a plate of eggs and potatoes, ate with his usual lightning speed and got up to wash the dishes. That was the arrangement and it was fine with him. He’d had to cook for himself in college and discovered he didn’t have the patience for it. He’d survived on hamburgers fried in a pan, sandwiches and spaghetti prepared with jarred sauce. Coming back to Harry’s or Red’s cooking made all those winter morning rides to feed the stock, with the wind tossing snow in his face and biting through his gloves, worth it. If Red cooked breakfast, he would wash up, no problem.

“How’s the horse lady?” Red put a bookmark between the pages and shut the novel, setting it aside.

Drake braced himself for a sip of coffee—Red was a great cook, but his coffee could strip the hide off a steer—before he answered. “Enthusiastic college girl. Bright, but has no idea what she’s getting into. I have the impression that she likes to be outdoors, since she hiked all the way to the north ridge, can you believe that? But I don’t think she really knows anything about horses, wild or domesticated.”

“The north ridge?” It wasn’t easy to surprise Red, but he just had.

“Yup. I gave her a lift home on Starburst, but she was planning to walk it. Go figure.”

“Can’t.”

“Me, neither.” Drake spent nearly all his time outdoors, and if he had the right weather, he sometimes canoed and did some fishing in the Bliss River, but he wasn’t a hiker.

“The outdoorsy type. That’s good. You need a dainty debutante like you need a big hole in your John B. Stetson.”

Such a Red thing to say. Drake didn’t need another female in his life right now, period. He had his mother, Harry, his niece, Daisy—Slater’s daughter by an earlier relationship—and, now that Slater had finally settled down, his sister-in-law, Grace. The men were getting outnumbered even before the arrival of Ms. Hale.

Drake shrugged. “She’s pretty, I’ll give her that.”

“That so?” Red grinned. “Easy on the eyes, huh? And you’ve noticed.”

“I’m not blind, but that doesn’t mean I want her here.” That was the truth. “I just plain don’t want the complication.”

“Women complicate just about everything, son.”

That he agreed with, at least based on his own observations—and experience. So he changed the subject. “Move the bull to the high pasture for a few days? I think he needs new grazing. After that, we’ll get feed out and tackle the faulty gate.”

“You’re the boss.”

Technically, he thought, but Red was the one who really ran the show. Drake was born and raised on this land, but Red had more ranching experience. Drake always asked for his advice and ended up regretting the few times he hadn’t followed it. “He’s getting old.”

“Sherman? That he is.”

“So...what do you suggest?”

“We need a new bull.” Red got up and refilled his cup. “Been meaning to say it, but I know you don’t want to part with that critter. Don’t move him. He’s getting touchy in his old age. Just retire him. Sherman has more gray on his snout than I do in my hair. Out to pasture will work fine. We have the land to keep him in comfort.”

“My father raised that bull.” Drake’s throat tightened.

“I know. I was there. I’m hurting, too. Think of it this way—he’s done his job. If I thought a recliner and a remote would make him happy, I’d give him both. Sherman is a tired old man.”

He’d asked, after all. Drake ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about it. He exhaled. “I don’t disagree. Not from a practical point of view, anyway. Auctions, then? Or do you have another bull in mind?”

Red scratched his chin. “I might go into town and ask Jim Galloway. Been meaning to stop by and see him and Pauline, anyway. He knows most of the livestock breeders in the state.”

Jim was the father of one of Slater’s best friends, Tripp Galloway, a pilot who’d returned to his roots and, like Drake, had taken over the family ranch near Mustang Creek after Jim remarried and retired. “Good call.” Drake managed to down the last of his coffee—not easy, since it was particularly make-your-hair-stand-on-end this morning—and set down his cup. “I’m going to help you with the horses and then ride out.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

The breathless interruption made him swivel toward the plain wooden doorway. He saw with dismay that Luce Hale stood there, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, wearing a baggy sweatshirt with well-worn jeans, backpack in hand. She added, “That is one very comfortable bed, so I slept longer than I intended. Your mother should run a hotel. Where are we headed?”

We? First of all, he hadn’t invited her to the party. Second, the woman couldn’t even ride a horse.

And damned if Red wasn’t snickering. Not openly, he’d never be that rude, but there was laughter in his eyes and he’d had to clear his throat—several times.

He should be at least as polite. Grudgingly, he said, “Red, meet Ms. Lucinda Hale. Ms. Hale, Red here runs the operation but likes to pretend I do.”

Red naturally shuffled over to take her hand, playing it up. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. So you’re here to study that worthless cowpoke?” He leveled a finger in Drake’s direction. “Hmm, prepare to be disappointed. Kinda boring would be my take on him. I’ve tried to take the boy in hand, but it hasn’t worked. Nary a shoot-out, no saloons and he has yet to rescue a damsel in distress, unless you count the time Harry had a flat tire and he had to run into town to change it, but I swear that’s just ’cause he’s more afraid of her than he is of an angry hornet. Would you like a cup of coffee, darlin’?”

Red was ever hopeful that someone might like his coffee—he called it Wyoming coffee, which was quite a stretch, since he seemed to be the only one in the entire state who liked it.

Okay, she was an annoyance in his already busy life, but Drake was about to rescue a damsel who’d be in true distress if she agreed to that coffee.

He said coolly, “I’m off to the glamorous world of feeding the horses and then fixing a gate. I also need to look for a missing calf and am fairly sure it’s a goner. Please don’t let the excitement of my day overwhelm you, but come along if you want. You’ll have to skip the coffee.”

She tilted her head to one side, considering him, obviously undeterred. “I need to see if the wild horses affect how you run your business. Therefore, I need to know how you run it in the first place. I want to find what you do day-to-day.”

Why hadn’t she picked a topic she actually knew something about before deciding on this venture? Like buying shoes, for instance.

Not fair, he corrected himself. She had trekked all the way to that ridge—in hiking boots, no less, nothing fashionable about those—and she’d found the horses. Maybe he was underestimating Ms. Hale. She was certainly determined, no doubt about that. “Follow along. Be my guest. If you enjoy the smell of manure and hay, I’m more than happy to escort you to the stables.”