The Cowboy is a Daddy

by Mindy Neff

  With her name on his lips, pain lanced through his skull, sharp and debilitating as his head cracked against blunt, unforgiving land. Then there was only darkness.

  Madison was worried. A week had passed since Brice had gone to the line camp. A blinding snowstorm had blown a blanket of white over everything, piling drifts clear up to the windows.

  Having never seen weather like this, Maddie had been intrigued—until she’d realized that the nasty storms were keeping Brice from coming home.

  She’d been monitoring the two-way radio, thrilled to just listen to the sound of his voice. Even though he hadn’t contacted her directly, she’d followed his communications with his men. Out on the range, each man wore a walkie-talkie unit and kept in close touch with one another, working as a team.

  And according to those conversations, the men were on their way home. They hadn’t yet tracked down the wolf, but she knew they were still searching, fanning in a sweep that would eventually end back here at the ranch.

  Static crackled again over the radio. This was the third time Dan, Randy and Mike had checked in.

  But Brice wasn’t responding. She could hear the edge in Dan’s voice, and her stomach fluttered in alarm.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  “Moe!” Her shout startled Abbe who whimpered for a second, then settled as though realizing this wasn’t a good time to raise a fuss.

  Moe came charging into the room, lickety-split. “What?”

  “Something’s wrong. Brice isn’t answering his radio.”

  Moe frowned and keyed the mike. “This here’s base. Brice? You out there, son? Come in.”

  Silence.

  Maddie counted the seconds, one thousand and one, one thousand and two, as though judging the distance of a lightning strike.

  The radio crackled. She hovered closer, crowding Moe.

  Dan’s voice, sounding tinny and concerned, came over the radio. “The boss hasn’t answered for fifteen minutes. He went off on his own, but we’ve lost his tracks. The drifts are so high it’s hard to keep our bearings. We can’t see the fence tops.”

  “Why do they want to see the fences?” Maddie asked.

  “For directions,” Moe said. “It’ll guide ’em home when the visibility’s bad.” He keyed the mike again. “Brice? Answer me, you son of a gun.”

  Radio silence.

  “Damn.” Randy’s voice this time. “Wish somebody had a plane. It’s damn cold out here, and we’re going in circles. A recon by air would be best. You want to contact Search and Rescue, Moe?”

  “Brice has a plane,” Maddie said, gripping Moe’s shirtsleeve.

  He looked at her, compassion in his hazel eyes. He was worried and trying hard to hide it. “Yeah, but we ain’t got no pilot.”

  “I’m a pilot.”

  His gray brows lifted, then he shook his head. “Brice would pitch a fit if I let you go tearing off in his Cessna.”

  “I’d welcome him throwing a fit—as long as he’s here. Safe.”

  “Let’s give it a few minutes. Could be he’s behind a hill and the radio’s actin’ up.”

  Her heart pounded louder than the ticking of the old grandfather clock that stood in the corner. Nausea welled but she battled it back, placing her palm low on her stomach and breathing deep. A few days ago, Nancy Adams had confirmed what Maddie had suspected for a couple of weeks now. There was another small life counting on Brice to come home.

  Certain she would scream if she had to endure one more second of inactivity, she held out her hand for the mike.

  “We can’t leave him out there, Moe. He’s had plenty of time to get back in radio range. Something’s wrong. I feel it. You know I’m his best chance right now.”

  He hesitated, studying her with a shrewdness that took her aback, then nodded and passed her the mike.

  She took a deep breath, praying she was up to the task she’d just assigned herself. Praying they’d find Brice before the elements got to him first.

  “Okay, you guys. This is Maddie. Which one of you is the closest to the ranch?”

  The three men gave their approximate positions.

  “I’m five minutes from you,” Mike Collier said. He was the new hired hand that Maddie had been so suspicious of. At least now she knew he wasn’t a spy.

  “Then meet me at the hangar.”

  “Come again?” Dan this time, sounding confused.

  “The airstrip. I’m taking Brice’s plane up and I need the runway plowed. I’ll coordinate once I get in the air.” From the window she could see Mike Collier galloping toward the barn, leading another horse by a rope.

  She whirled toward Moe. “That’s not Brice’s horse, is it?” Her words came out in a breathy rush as adrenaline pumped through her.

  Moe glanced out the window. “No. Just a pack horse.”

  She let out a relieved breath, replaced the radio mike, then pressed a lingering kiss to her baby daughter’s forehead.

  “Can you handle Abbe while I’m gone?”

  “'Course I can,” Moe said gruffly. “Just give me that new-fangled sling thing, and I’ll harness her right in here.” Maddie adjusted the sling around his neck then placed Abbe in it, resting against his chest. “Just don’t go rootin’ around for something that ain’t there, sweet pea.”

  Maddie reached out, gripped Moe’s gnarled hand. He gave a squeeze. “Go on and get. I’ll round up the neighbors to help in the search. You jest be careful, hear?”

  “I will. Thanks, Moe.” She kissed his cheek, then grabbed her coat and gloves and sprinted outside. The keys were already in the truck, and she barely gave the engine time to warm up before she was headed toward the airstrip, the tires spinning and slipping. Afraid she’d wreck the pickup before she even got to the hangar, she made herself ease up on the gas.

  The snow wasn’t falling, thank God. She looked up through the windshield to the sky. Clouds at about a thousand feet and getting lower, a bit unstable, but doable. If she stayed low, she should be able to fly under them.

  Mike Collier had already opened the huge metal door of the hangar and was now making a pass over the airstrip with the plow truck.

  Hands sweating, nerves screaming, she inspected the single-engine, fixed-wing tail dragger. She’d flown one before, and though her confidence was shaky, at least she didn’t have to worry that the aircraft wasn’t mechanically sound. Brice kept all of his equipment in top-notch condition. She knew that from the regular ledger entries under Maintenance and Repair.

  Still, it had been a while since she’d flown, and she was apprehensive. But she didn’t have a choice. Brice needed her. And she would be there for him. He was a man who took care of everyone else, yet when he was in need, the women in his life had let him down.

  That was going to change. She wouldn’t let him down like the others had.

  Determination pushing past the fear, she kicked the shims away from the front of the tires, glancing up as Mike came into the cavernous hangar.

  “Can you help me push it out?”

  Silently he gripped the strut under the wing and gave a shove. Madison pushed from her side and the Cessna rolled forward, clearing the building.

  The air was so cold her cheeks stung, but nerves made her sweat beneath the bulky sweater and thermal shirt. In her rush, she’d left her coat lying on the front seat of the truck.

  The wind wasn’t blowing much which was a plus. She was damned rusty at flying and she didn’t need heavy gusts to battle—especially in a plane that was trickier than most on takeoffs and landings.

  “Good luck,” Mike said. “I’ll run another pass over the runway, make sure it’s clear.”

  “Thanks.” After a quick preflight inspection, she climbed into the cockpit, folded herself into the tight quarters and buckled her harness. She wanted to hurry, but knew that was folly. She checked gauges, plugged in the radio headset, then started the single engine, her heart pumping a mile a minute as the motor caught on the first revolution. Leaning forwar
d, she flipped dials on the radio.

  “Moe? Do you read?” Nerves made her voice all breathy and trembly, as though she’d just finished a marathon run.

  “Yep. I’m here, missy. You figure out how to get that tin can goin’?”

  “I’m heading for the runway now.” Such as it was. It was little more than an eight-hundred-foot strip of asphalt out in the middle of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. Brice’s ranch. Her home.

  “You watch them clouds, Miss Maddie. If it looks to be blowin’ up another storm, you head back in, hear me?”

  “I hear you, Moe.”

  “I mean it. Ain’t no use to the little one if both you and Brice are lost.”

  She didn’t respond. She had no intention of getting lost—or of coming back without Brice.

  The Cessna’s engine revved in time with her pulse, vibrating through her chest. Her palms were slick inside her leather gloves.

  “Here goes.” She checked the flaps and pulled the throttle. Slushy mounds of snow, piled on the sides of the asphalt, whizzed by faster and faster as the plane gained momentum. At the end of the strip, Mike Collier stood on the running board of the snowplow, watching, then whipped off his hat and waved it as though offering encouragement—or prayers.

  She handled the aircraft with an ease and confidence that surprised her, given the fact that she hadn’t been in a cockpit for a while. Her flight instructors had always complimented her on her technique, though, the innate way she felt each shimmy and shift of a plane, the way she flew by instinct.

  She pulled back on the yoke. The plane’s nose angled up and the tail lifted off the ground. She loved this feeling of power, the gentle soar into the sky, the tickle in her midsection as though her stomach hadn’t quite caught up with the airspeed.

  And now that she was airborne, she needed to get her bearings.

  She keyed the radio. “Guys, check in.”

  “Dan here. I’m in the truck with Mike.”

  “Randy here. I’m on horseback just coming up on Little Bear Creek.”

  Maddie frowned. “I’m not familiar with that area, Randy. What are the coordinates with regard to the ranch?”

  “Sorry, Miss Maddie...that’d put me about five miles south of the barn.”

  She nodded to herself, then jumped when another voice came over the radio.

  “This here’s Harvey Langford. Me and three of the boys are heading west from our spread. Two of us are on horseback, and the other two are in the ‘cowboy Cadillac.’”

  The what? Madison wondered. Before she could ask for clarification, another of her neighbors checked in.

  “Jack Springer, Miz DeWitt. Langford’s talking about the pickup, in case you were wondering. I’m headed from the east. There’s two of us on snowmobiles. Letty’s closed up the store in town and is headed out to your place. No telling who she’s got with her.”

  “I heard that, Jack Springer.” Letty’s voice now. “You just pay attention to what you’re doing on that snow toy and don’t be showing off,” she admonished her husband lovingly. “I don’t want to be scraping you out of some snowbank.” She paused. “Madison? We’re here for you, honey. You be careful up there in that airplane. I’ll swan, you just amaze the heck out of me. I’ll put the coffee on and cook up a pot of soup. You all will need something hot when you get back. Over and out for now.”

  A sheen of tears blurred Maddie’s eyes for a moment. Their neighbors had dropped everything to form a search party. This was a fine community, one she wanted to bring her daughter up in—and the future children she would have.

  Silence stretched in seconds, broken only by the drone of the Cessna’s engine and the voices on the two-way radio as the search party alternately called Brice’s name and gave their coordinates.

  She banked the airplane slowly, the ground sliding beneath her in a field of blinding white fragmented by the occasional stand of naked cottonwoods, a pretty good indication that a creek was nearby, though it was hard to tell with all the snowdrifts. She kept an eye on the compass and tried to visually record landmarks in her memory. In the vast openness, it would be easy to lose her bearings.

  Her hand covered her stomach, and she sent up a silent prayer that they’d find Brice in time.

  Brice opened his eyes slowly, taking a careful inventory of his surroundings, and of the aches and pains that were making themselves known all over his body.

  His boot was caught in the vee of a rotted cottonwood. He tried to pull his foot from the boot, but the ankle was wedged too tightly, effectively trapping him. There were snow-covered rocks beneath him, and a steep wall of white around him.

  His prison.

  It was freezing, yet he felt sweat slide down his temples and beneath his arms, felt himself on the verge of panic. If the snow above him gave way, he’d be buried.

  It was his worst nightmare—bringing back all the memories. Once again he was five years old, trapped. He’d been cold and wet then, too. So scared. Screaming until he was hoarse. And nobody came. Nobody knew he was missing. Dad thought Mom was watching him, but Mom had already packed up and left, not even bothering to tell Kyle and Brice goodbye.

  He shook the memories away. He was too old to be watched after now. He was a tough rancher. A man.

  But like all those years ago, it would be a long time before someone thought to look for him. His own men would assume he’d be fine on his own—an impression he himself had fostered.

  Maddie thought she saw something—just a flash from the corner of her eye. She put the plane into a tight circle, the wingtip pointing down, and felt as though the g-forces were rearranging her brain matter. She fought the wooziness in her stomach, willed herself to concentrate. She had to fly the plane and search at the same time. This was new to her.

  She caught sight of the movement and her spirits fell. It was only a deer.

  Frustration and fear tightened her stomach. Above her was gray sky. Below was stark white, so beautiful, so unstable. They were running out of time, literally. Running before a storm. “Where are you, Brice?”

  She keyed the mike. “Brice? This is Maddie. Talk to me...please.”

  At the sound of her voice, Brice’s heart leaped. He swore and tugged frantically at the boot wedged in the tree. He could hear the tremble in Madison’s voice, pictured her at the house by the two-way radio. In his tumble into the ravine, his own portable unit had come unclipped from his belt and lay six feet out of reach.

  He stretched out his arm, shifted his body. But the tree held him prisoner. The drifts were piled high on either side of him. No one would see him.

  He gave a sharp two-toned whistle, a signal that would send Samson back to the barn. The horse had uncanny instincts for finding his way. He would leave tracks that would lead here. Plus, he was damned worried about his horse standing around, a perfect prey for the wolves.

  He heard Samson blow and paw the ground. More snow and rocks fell around him. Wiping the freezing snow off his face, he whistled again. “Go, Samson!”

  Well trained, the horse obeyed. Brice strained his ears, listening to the jingle of Samson’s bridle, the clop of his hooves against snow.

  Soon all was silent again. And Brice was truly alone. Just as he’d predicted he would be.

  The wind whistled overhead. He stared at the snow crowding him. The least little thing could trigger a slide—a slide that would bury him alive.

  He lost all sense of time as he stared at the blinding white. To keep the fear from running away with him, he pictured Madison’s face; the way she laughed at her mistakes; the way she trudged ahead, anyway; the way her blue eyes darkened in the heat of passion....

  Caught up in his imagery, it was a minute before his brain registered the sound. The buzz of a small airplane. Flying low. Who would fly low like that? He hadn’t been gone long enough for Search and Rescue to form a team.

  And he was the only rancher around for miles who had a plane—and a pilot’s license.

  The sound came closer, an
d his heart pounded. They’d never see him down here. Adrenaline pumped as he tried to focus on his options. His rifle and two-way radio were out of reach. His cell phone was in Samson’s saddle bag—useless anyway since they didn’t get service out this far. His hat was buried beneath a layer of snow. He needed a flare of some kind, something that could be seen from the sky.

  Using his teeth, he pulled off his glove, then untied his bandanna, his fingers stiff from cold. Picking up an icy rock, he wrapped the red cotton around the stone and retied the knot, listening to the drone of the engine, louder now. He timed the sound...closer, closer. The timing was so important.

  Please, God, let the pilot be looking down. He counted to three, lifted his shoulder from the ground, and hurled the rock, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

  The bandanna sailed like a startled robin over the top of the snow bank, out of sight.

  The Cessna flew so close...so damned close. He caught a flash of blue on the wingtip.

  Come on, come on! Bank to the right—a little more…please!

  He yelled, even though he knew the pilot couldn’t hear him. And just like all those years ago when he’d been a boy, trapped in a dark, cold well, his throat ached from the effort.

  He couldn’t see where the bandanna had landed, didn’t know if the weight of the rock had buried his makeshift flare, or if the pilot would even look down.

  If he’d just thrown it a little harder, a little higher, it would have damn near hit the plane. Adrenaline pumping, frustration roiling, he jerked at his trapped boot, kicking at the unforgiving wood with his free foot, struggling like a wild animal caught in barbwire.

  The pitch of the engine changed, banking...going farther away instead of closer.

  “No, damn it!” Defeated, he dropped his head back to the cold ground, battling the panic over the walls of white closing in on him.

  His one opportunity and he’d blown it.

  Just like he’d blown so many things in his life.

  15