Susan Floyd - A Cowboy For Clementine

“You are retired, aren’t you, Dex?” Ryan asked, a speculative look in his eyes.

Dexter didn’t say anything. He knew what his friends were doing. They’d been trying to get him back into the business, telling him life went on even after death. Randy had said as much, but Dexter didn’t want to believe it. It still hurt too much—not just Joanna’s death or the massive hole that her presence left, but the undeniable knowledge that he’d caused it.

“Even ballplayers come out of retirement,” Clementine said. Then she took one look at his expression and turned her attention to Randy. “Since Mr. Scott isn’t available, maybe you and your brother would think about taking the project on. I’ve heard just as many good things about you. I’m offering forty percent.”

“How big did you estimate those cows were?” Randy asked.

“Conservatively— A thousand pounds. I think there are several up to fifteen hundred pounds.”

“In a season?” Ryan was skeptical. “I don’t think so.”

Clem shrugged. “I didn’t think so, either, but unless there were six hundred cows with our brand that we forgot to pick up last year, these are the ones I put out in October.”

“When would you need us to start?” Randy asked.

Dexter had been doing fine with the conversation. He’d been eating breakfast, minding his own business, disregarding the pointed looks his friends gave him, ignoring the fact that if he didn’t look down he’d be staring at the soft curve of Clementine Wells’s neck. But he coughed with Randy’s question. No. Randy couldn’t be thinking about taking the job.

“I thought you guys had sworn to take a couple weeks off before starting up again,” Dexter finally said.

All eyes turned to him.

Clem ignored his outburst. “I’d really like to get the cows in before Thanksgiving. I know that doesn’t give you much resting time, but my parents are coming back for the holiday, and it’d be nice to have this problem taken care of.”

Ryan grinned. “Thanksgiving? It’s only September.”

“You don’t know these cows,” Clem said, her voice ominous.

“You have any men to help us?”

Dexter made a noise of protest, but no one acknowledged that, either.

Clem nodded. “Three, I know I could call on if we had real work. I could ask around.”

Randy looked at Ryan for confirmation. “No. I think the five of us can do some considerable damage. Ryan?”

Ryan shrugged. “Why not?”

“Okay, Ms. Wells.”

“Clem, call me Clem, please.” She gave them a relieved smile and attacked her stack of pancakes. “Thank you. You don’t know what your help means to me. Thank you.”

Dexter couldn’t stand her effusive gratefulness anymore. He got up and went outside without a word.

THE ORANGE JUICE IN THEIR cups vibrated from Dexter’s abrupt departure, and a silence fell over the table. Clem ate as rapidly as she could, trying not to mind that he’d left so quickly.

“You should slow down,” Ryan cautioned her. “You’ll get indigestion.”

Clem looked up into his sympathetic eyes. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“It’s not that,” Randy told her. “You just caught him by surprise. You caught all of us by surprise.” He studied her face. “Though I’m wondering if this isn’t the best thing for him.”

Clem wiped her mouth and then stood up to take her dish to the sink.

Ryan intercepted her, taking the plate from her. “Don’t worry about that, we’ve got it.”

“Thank you so much for the breakfast and for considering the job. It seems as if I’ve searched a long time for men like you.” Clem scribbled her name and phone number on a scrap of paper by the sink. “You’ll call me when you’re ready to come?”

The brothers nodded. “Probably by the end of the week.”

“Where’s your car?” Randy asked.

“Truck,” Clem said. “Out by the last gate. I walked in. Well, rode in, when I found the brown horse.”

Randy looked at her hard. “What brown horse?”

“The nice one with the white star,” Clem smiled. “He’s a sweetie.”

Both brothers snorted.

“What?” she asked.

They exchanged glances with each other. Then Randy laughed with a rueful shake of his head. “I bet that stuck in his craw. New Horse doesn’t usually like to be ridden. Ms. Wells—”

“Clem, please.” Clementine insisted.

“Clem, I’ll drive you back,” Randy said, fishing the keys out of his pocket.

“Thank you. You will call, right?” She looked for affirmation from one or the other, but both nodded at the same time, wide smiles transforming their faces.

“Expect us at the end of the week.”

When Randy pushed open the screen door for her, Clem saw Dexter leaning up against a porch rail, staring pensively at the corral of horses. He didn’t look up.

“I’ll just be running Clem back to her truck,” Randy said, keys rattling.

Clem didn’t even think Dexter heard until he pulled himself off the rail. He put an arm out to block Randy’s way.

“I’ll take her” was all he said.

Clem looked over her shoulder at Randy, who just smiled and shrugged. Without waiting for her, Dexter Scott had already taken the three steps off the porch and was striding toward his truck.

“You coming?” he asked as he paused at the passenger side, yanking open the door.

Clem forced herself to walk, not trot, to where Dexter was putting a shotgun on the rack behind the seat. The shortness of his movements screamed his impatience.

“Thank you,” Clem said as he boosted her up. Lord, he was strong. She could feel his fingers, as if they were each individually imprinted on her upper arm. “I could have ridden with Mr. Miller.” Clem pushed the assortment of papers on the seat across to the middle before she sat down.

“I want to make sure you’re going to leave,” he said as he climbed in next to her. He indicated the wad of oil-stained rags Clem held in her hands. “Just put those on the floor.”

Clem dropped them at her feet.

“I am leaving.” She hunted for the seat belt. It was the dustiest truck that she’d ever been in, clearly not equipped for passengers. She was sure there would be bottom imprints where she sat. Disposable soda cups were everywhere, giving Clem a good idea what fast food he favored when he was on the road. She lifted off the seat and pried out a pencil from the seam between the seat and the back-rest, before positioning herself as far away as she could get from him, keeping her posture very straight. His quick glance told her that he noticed.

“I did find your horse for you.” Clem couldn’t keep the asperity out of her voice as he turned the key.

The engine revved.

“And I did provide you a way home, so you didn’t have to walk,” Clem reminded him.

When he spun the truck into a tight turn, she held on to the pipe that he’d rigged as a door handle.

“And I know first aid, so if you were hurt, I was prepared to patch you up.”

With that said she lapsed into prim silence.

It didn’t matter one bit that he wasn’t going to respond, though she did notice that contrary to the fast spin, they were moving at an awfully slow pace toward her truck. She glanced at his speedometer. Their speed didn’t even register.

“The faster you go, the faster I’ll be out of here,” she said, and braved a full look at him.

Her heart stopped.

He was smiling, or at least she thought he was smiling. There were crinkles in the corners of his eyes and his lips were definitely tilted up.

“And in return, I didn’t shoot you,” Dexter replied.

“Well, that’s true,” Clem agreed. “But that was because I had your shotgun.”