Carolyne Aarsen - Cowboy Daddy

“What are those,” Nicole asked, as they walked past two of his wagons parked beside the barn. Grass had grown up a bit around them. He’d parked them there last fall and hadn’t touched them since.

“Chuck wagons.”

“What do you use them for?” Nicole asked.

“Uncle Kip used to race them,” Tristan said. “Before my daddy died.”

“Race them? How do you do that?”

“You don’t know?” Justin’s astonishment was a bit rude, but Kip didn’t feel like correcting him.

“I’m sorry. I do not.”

Kip wasn’t surprised. Chuck-wagon racing had originated in Calgary, and while it was an integral part of the Calgary Stampede, it wasn’t a regular event in all the rodeos scattered around North America. He’d grown up with it, though. His father and his uncle and his grandfather all competed in the chuck-wagon races. It was in his blood.

He knew he should be teaching the boys so they could carry on the tradition. It was in their blood too. They were as much Cosgroves as he was.

“Uncle Kip will have to show you, won’t you, Uncle Kip?” Justin said.

“Maybe,” was his curt reply.

Since Scott died, he hadn’t worked with his horses. Hadn’t competed in any of the races. Chuck-wagon racing took up too much of the time he didn’t have anymore.

He felt a pinch of sorrow. He missed the thrill of the race, the keenness of competing, the pleasure of working with his horses.

“Uncle Kip was one of the fastest racers,” Tristan said, pride tingeing his voice. “But he doesn’t race anymore. He says it’s not ’sponsible ’cause now he has us.”

“Well, that sounds like a good way to think,” Nicole said.

Kip shot her a glance, wondering if she was serious. But he caught her steady gaze and she wasn’t laughing.

“So where’s the tractor?”

“Just over here.” He was only too glad to change the subject. Chuck wagons were in his past. He had enough going on in the present.

“What do we need to do?” Nicole asked as they walked across the packed ground toward the shop.

Kip gave her a curious look. “You don’t have to help.”

“Of course I do.” She gave him a wry look, as if to say “you asked for it.”

Their eyes held a split-second longer than necessary. As if each was testing the other to see who would give. Then he broke the connection. He didn’t have anything to prove.

Yet even as he thought those brave words, a finger of fear trickled down his spine. Actually, he did have something to prove. He had to prove that Justin and Tristan’s were Scott’s boys. That they belonged here on the ranch.

Kip pulled on the chain and the large garage door creaked and groaned as light spilled into the usually gloomy shop. He loved working with the door open and today, with the sun shining and a bright blue sky, was a perfect day to do so.

“This is where the tractor is,” Justin said. “Uncle Kip took it apart and he said a bad word when he dropped a wrench on his toe.”

“Did he now?” Nicole’s voice held a hint of laughter and Kip made a mental note to talk to the boys about “things we don’t tell Ms. Williams.”

“Tristan, you can wheel over the tool chest. Justin, you can get me the box of rags,” Kip said, shooting his blabbermouth nephew a warning look as he rolled up his sleeves.

“I got the rags the last time,” Justin whined. “How come Tristan always gets to push the tool chest? I never do.”

As Kip stifled his frustration, he caught Nicole watching him. As if assessing what he was going to do.

“Just do it, Justin,” he said more firmly.

But Justin shoved his hands in his pockets and glared back at him. Kip felt Nicole’s gaze burning on him. For a moment he wished he hadn’t insisted that she visit the kids here. Now everything he did with the boys would be with an audience. A very critical audience who, he was sure, would be only too glad to see him mess up.

He tried to ignore her presence as he knelt down in front of Justin. “Buddy, I asked you to do something. You wanted to help me, and this is part of helping.”

“But…my dad always…” Justin’s lower lip pushed out and Kip could see the sparkle of tears in his eyes and his heart melted.

“Oh, buddy,” he whispered, pulling Justin in his arms. He gave him a tight squeeze, his own heart contracting in sorrow. It had been only six months since they stood together at Scott’s grave. In the busyness of life, he sometimes forgot that. He held Justin a moment longer and as he stood, he caught Nicole looking at them both, her lips pressed together, her fingers resting on her chin.

She understood, he thought, and he wondered if she was remembering her own sister.

Their gaze held and for a moment they shared a sorrow.

The rumbling of the tool chest broke the moment. “I got it. I got it.” Tristan called out.

Kip gave Justin another quick hug, patted him on the head and turned back to the tractor with a sigh.

“What do you have to do?” Nicole asked.

“It’s a basic fix,” Kip said as he pushed a piece of cardboard under the tractor. “Replace a leaky fuel line, but whoever designed this tractor has obviously never worked on one.” Kip bent over, squinting at the nuts holding the old line. Then he grabbed the tools he needed, lay on the cardboard and pulled himself under the tractor.

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