Big Sky Romance Collection

by Denise Hunter

  Outside, darkness was falling against the Chicago skyline. Across the restaurant, a cheer rose from the enclosed bar as the patrons watched the Cubs score a run on the flat-screen TV.

  “Eat something,” her mom said.

  “I am.” Abigail realized belatedly she’d only been pushing the salad greens around. She forked a cucumber and slid it into her mouth.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  Abigail thought about disputing the statement, but who was she kidding?

  “You have a headache? I have some Tylenol.”

  “I’m fine.” Truth was, strange as it sounded, her hypertension symptoms were better. She hadn’t had a headache in three days, and her palpitations were less frequent. Maybe her past had weighed on her more heavily than she’d thought.

  At least something was better.

  “Are you ever going to tell me what happened in Montana?” her mom asked.

  Abigail flashed her a no-trespassing look, then forked another bite of the salad. She was tired of thinking about Wade. The memories only made her ache for what she couldn’t have.

  “All right.” Her mom waved her hand. “I’ll just be honest. Reagan already told me everything.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “I should’ve warned you about J. W. I mean, heaven knows he’s got cowboy charisma galore and looks that could stop rush-hour traffic on the Eisenhower.”

  Abigail groaned. “Moooom . . .”

  “Well, I’m old, not dead, honey.” She sipped her French onion soup from the side of her spoon.

  “I do not want to talk about this.” Not with her mom or Reagan or anyone else. Abigail set down her fork and rubbed her temple. She was done stuffing food into her mouth that she didn’t even taste.

  “Fine.” Her mom wiped her mouth on the starchy white napkin. “Let’s talk about what you’re going to do next.”

  “Show up at the office next week and start packing up, like everyone else.” She hated the thought of facing everyone again after letting them all down. It was going to be a long week.

  “I mean after that.”

  In the last week she’d made a decision that had been long in coming. Her heart was no longer in writing, certainly not in exposés. She’d barely managed to finish the simple travel article on Moose Creek.

  Simple, my fanny.

  “I’ve done a lot of praying about it, Mom, and I’ve decided to give up writing. I just don’t have that burning desire anymore. My reasons for writing are gone, and I’m feeling led toward something else. I think I want to be a teacher.”

  Her mom nodded slowly, studying her face. “Okay . . . that’s not completely unexpected. You know I’ll support you in whatever you choose to do.”

  Her mother touched her hand, which, Abigail realized, was now balled into a fist around her poor defenseless napkin.

  “Is that what all this tension is about? Your career? You’ve dreaded telling me?”

  Abigail wished she could blame it on that. Truth was, she felt total peace about that decision.

  “You can’t write, you’re not eating, and judging by the Jones bags under your eyes, you’re not sleeping much either. A few months with Aunt Lucy was supposed to give you a break, but instead you’ve come back broken.”

  “Very poetic, Mom.” Had she thought her mom wouldn’t notice? Abigail had always been driven. Couldn’t wait to get to the next story. Now she wondered how she could even take her next breath.

  “Honey, talk to me.”

  Abigail deliberately inhaled, just to prove she could. The tangy smell of balsamic vinaigrette turned her stomach, and she pushed her plate away. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Are you in love with J. W.?”

  “Wade.”

  “What?”

  “He goes by Wade.” She tossed her napkin on her plate. “Oh, what does it matter? Wade, J. W. . . . it isn’t like I’ll be addressing him anytime soon.”

  “If he loves you, honey, he’ll forgive you.”

  “It’s not that simple. He and Maddy are leaving their home because of me. Everything he said was true.”

  “You were only doing your job. You’re the Truthseeker. At least, you were.”

  “If the truth hurts innocent people, what good is it?” That, in a nutshell, was what bothered her so much. “My column was for exposing bad people who did bad things. But Wade didn’t do anything wrong, Mom. On the contrary, he only did what was best for his daughter after the awful experience of losing his wife. That article— no matter how well written—was nothing but tabloid trash, and I’m glad it wasn’t published.”

  “Abigail . . .”

  Now that she’d stated it so bluntly, she knew it was the truth. “No, Mom. My column was for exposing wrongs. Well, I’m the one who was wrong. Wrong for spotlighting an innocent person’s private pain.”

  Her eyes burned, and she blinked them clear. A familiar ache swelled in her throat. Jesus, how can there be any tears left?

  “I’m sorry I put you in that position.” Her mom’s green eyes turned down at the corners.

  Abigail dabbed her eyes with the napkin. “It’s my fault.”

  “You were only trying to save Viewpoint. Maybe there’s a way to fix things between you and Wade.”

  Abigail shook her head. “That’s not my decision. And I feel selfish for dwelling on my own misery when so many people have lost their jobs because of me. You. Riley—she doesn’t even get child support, and now she’ll have no income either. Warren’s fighting lung cancer and needs insurance, not to mention his salary. Evelyn’s the sole supporter of her elderly mother. I could go on and on.”

  The server came and removed their dinnerware. Abigail drained the last of her soda and pulled out her credit card.

  “Know what we need?” Her mom dabbed her lips with the napkin. “A girls’ day out. It’ll get your mind off your troubles. Let’s do something fun, maybe tomorrow?”

  Abigail shrugged. “Sure.”

  “We can invite Reagan if she’s not on call.”

  “I guess the theater’s out then.”

  “I’ll plan the whole day, and it’ll be a surprise. How’s that?”

  Abigail reached deep and pulled out a smile. “Sounds fun, Mom.” She supposed anything was better than sitting around her apartment with memories of Wade swimming around her head.

  39

  Abigail read the sign. Midwestern Rodeo Grounds.

  They’d driven all this way for a rodeo?

  “A rodeo!” Reagan said in an odd high-pitched tone from the backseat of their mom’s car. “How fun!”

  More like torture. Abigail swallowed the feelings that clogged her throat as her mom found a parking space. She’d wondered what her mom had up her sleeve when they’d headed north out of Chicago and crossed the Wisconsin border, then turned off at the tiny town of Manawa.

  What was her mom thinking? Today was supposed to be about getting away, forgetting her troubles. Didn’t her mother know her troubles centered around a cowboy, and a rodeo would only remind her of all she’d lost?

  “What do you think, girls?” her mom asked as they exited the car. “I surprise you?”

  “Sure did.” Abigail tried to season her words with enthusiasm.

  “Who knew there was a rodeo so close to Chicago?” Reagan said.

  Not Abigail. She followed her mom and Reagan toward the outdoor arena entrance. You can do this. It’s just a rodeo. Just a few dozen cowboys showing their stuff. Soon she’d be in the car, headed back to her own world. She sucked in a deep breath for courage and was assaulted instead with familiar smells. The loamy smell of dirt. The raw smells of leather and horseflesh. The sweet scent of fresh hay.

  Her heart seemed to stutter in response, and she stopped. A woman smacked into her back.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, stepping aside. She told herself to keep walking, to follow her mom and sister, but her feet seemed planted to the ground.

  The sou
nds were coming now too. The country and western music blaring over the speakers. The whinny of a horse. The clopping of horses’ feet.

  Reagan turned and noticed Abigail had fallen behind. “Come on, Abs,” she called.

  Reagan worked back through the crowd, their mom on her heels.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t go in there.” She hated to ruin their fun day out, but this wasn’t her idea of fun. Not anywhere close.

  Her mom looked pained. “Oh, Abigail.”

  “It’s just a rodeo, Abs,” Reagan said.

  But it wasn’t. It was a walk down memory lane. A painful walk, one she didn’t want to take today or any day soon.

  “You two go on. I’ll just wait in the car.”

  “Don’t be silly! Come on, it’ll be fun.” Reagan took her arm, and the crowd jostled them toward the entrance. “We’ll forget your diet for the day and split a funnel cake.”

  Sure, tempt her with food. Reagan was right, though. She was being a total sissy. It was just a rodeo. If she couldn’t handle seeing a bunch of cowboy hats and trophy buckles, she wasn’t worth her salt.

  They hit the funnel cake stand first, then made their way to the aluminum bleachers. The sweet confection was divine, but once it hit Abigail’s stomach, a touch of nausea set in.

  They watched the bareback bronc riding, the team roping, the steer wrestling. Every event reminded her of something that had happened over the summer. Watching Wade during branding her first day at the ranch, sitting tall and confident in his saddle. Wade sweeping her into his arms and setting her on Ace after her fall. Dancing in his arms that first night at the Chuckwagon. She chided herself for her wayward thoughts and forced her mind back to the present.

  By the time two hours had passed, she was more than eager to go home. It was getting late. They had a long drive home and church in the morning. “Let’s leave early,” she said. “Beat the traffic out.”

  “There’s only one event left,” Reagan said. “The best part—the bull riding.”

  Since when had Reagan cared about rodeos? Abigail stifled a sigh. She’d made it this long, she supposed she could endure one more event.

  One by one bulls busted from the chute, twisting their bodies and bucking the cowboys as the seconds ticked off time. Cowboy after cowboy hit the dirt hard. Abigail winced every time, recalling too easily her fall from Trinket and the subsequent headache. Miraculously, each cowboy got up, dusted off his hat, and exited without injury.

  “Well, not quite the ride Cody wanted,” the announcer said. “Let’s hear it for Cody Langley!” The crowd applauded.

  “Now we’re ready to gear up for our last rider, and, folks, it’s gonna be a doozy. Last bull out of the chute tonight is our infamous Maaaaad Hornet!”

  The crowd cheered. Abigail gathered her purse, ready to leave. Thank You, God, that it’s almost over.

  The announcer continued. “Now, I always worry twice about anybody put on the back of Maaaaad Hornet. But I ain’t too worried this time. I ain’t worried ’cause we got a real pro riding tonight.”

  “Let’s go now,” Abigail said to her mom. “The parking lot will be a mess.”

  “I want to see the last rider,” Reagan said.

  Abigail slumped back in the seat, sighing.

  “Y’all ain’t gonna believe this, but we got a real special treat for you tonight: a nationally renowned cowboy who’s been off the circuit waaaay too long. Please welcome back . . . J. W. Ryan!”

  The name snagged Abigail’s full attention. She peered around the head in front of her to the chute, far away, where a cowboy lowered himself onto Mad Hornet. She must have heard wrong. Wade wouldn’t show his face in public, not like this. She was losing her marbles.

  Still, her heart beat wildly in her chest. The rider was broad and sturdy looking, even on the back of the notorious bull. She was aware of the crowd going mad, cheering wildly.

  Was it him? Abigail squinted, focused on the cowboy. Fawn hat, black vest, fawn chaps, like the ones she’d seen him wear so many times. The cowboy wrapped the rope around his wrist, then gave his brim a sharp tug. And Abigail knew. That was his tug.

  “That’s him,” she whispered.

  What was Wade doing here? He shouldn’t be in such a public place, shouldn’t be risking his privacy.

  The bull shot from the chute.

  Shouldn’t be risking his life. Abigail squeezed the straps of her purse. Oh, God, keep him safe! What was he doing on that bull? It had been four years.

  The bull lived up to his name. He writhed and twisted, bucked and bounced. Wade’s hat went flying. His body undulated with sudden jerks. One bare hand waved overhead, the other held tightly to the rope.

  “Hang on,” she whispered. “Hang on.”

  The seconds passed in slow motion. Each jolt of the bull sent shocks of panic through Abigail. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable fall. She heard the announcer counting off the seconds, wished they’d go faster.

  Eight seconds. Mad Hornet bucked, then made a sudden twist to the right. Then Wade was falling.

  Abigail’s fingers bit into her palms. He hit the ground hard. She winced at the sudden impact.

  The rodeo clown distracted Mad Hornet, but Abigail’s eyes were on Wade’s still form. Move, Wade!

  Then he shifted. He pulled himself to his feet, collected his hat, and exited the floor. Abigail let out her breath.

  “You can breathe now,” Reagan said. “He’s fine.”

  Abigail set her hand against her aching chest. “Why’s he—” She looked at her mom, at Reagan. “Why are we—”

  “That’s something you need to ask him,” her mom said.

  Why was he here? Didn’t he know the media would be all over him? There were TV reporters here. She’d seen the vans in the parking lot. He’d never get back to Moose Creek undiscovered.

  “Like, now, Abs.” Reagan stood. “Come on.” They squeezed their way down the row.

  The announcer continued. “There you have it, folks; he’s a man used to winning, and tonight’s no different! Let’s hear it for J. W. Ryan!” The crowd roared.

  If nothing else, maybe they could shield Wade from the reporters. Why, oh, why had he come here? She caught snatches of conversation in the stands. Everyone was talking about J. W. Ryan, ignoring the announcer who was talking about awards.

  Abigail followed her mom and Reagan down the stands and circled the arena to an entrance that said Cowboys and Cowgirls.

  “They won’t let us in,” Abigail said.

  But the man at the gate ushered them through. They followed the crowd of cowboys heading toward a rail that overlooked the arena. A mass of people, some with cameras, formed a throng, and she knew Wade was at the center.

  “Are you back on the circuit, J. W.?”

  “Where’ve you been the last four years?”

  The reporters were relentless, yelling their questions across the heads of admiring cowboys. They’d never get in there.

  Two men in orange vests pushed into the crowd. “All right, y’all, break it up! Stand back!”

  “Give the man room to breathe!”

  The crowd parted, drew back, but the videographers pushed to the front, still barraging him with questions.

  “Hold it down now!” a cowboy shouted. “Give the man a chance to speak.”

  The reporters quieted. Cameras flashed, one after another.

  Abigail pushed through the cowboys in front of her, needing to get to him, somehow save him from those selfish reporters. When she reached the front, the employee held her back with an outstretched arm just as Wade’s eyes found hers.

  His eyes locked on hers, softened. His stilted smile relaxed.

  And then he spoke. “Know y’all are shocked to see me.” His familiar Texas drawl was the sweetest sound. “Thanks for the friendly welcome.” He rubbed his backside. “Your bull gave me a good, hard ride.”

  The crowd chuckled.

&n
bsp; “Where ya been hiding, Mr. Ryan?” a reporter shouted.

  His lips tilted. Flashes fired. “Getting to that in a minute.” He found Abigail’s gaze once again.

  Her breath caught and held. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?

  “Came out today to make an announcement,” Wade said. “Know y’all have a bunch of questions, and I’ll answer them. Not today though.”

  The crowd groaned. A reporter swore.

  “Are you living here in Wisconsin?”

  “I’ll answer that question and a lot more real soon. Giving an exclusive interview to Viewpoint Magazine. It’ll be in their October issue. Don’t mean to tease, but that’s the announcement I came to make. Promise all your questions’ll be answered in that interview.”

  Why had he said that? The magazine was closing—there wouldn’t even be an October issue.

  He made eye contact with a few nearby cowboys. “I gotta run. Been nice jawin’ with y’all.” He started toward the exit, toward her. The security and several big cowboys held the reporters off.

  Wade stopped when he reached her. His gaze burned into hers as he reached out. Abigail put her hand in his, then he turned and led her through the crowd. Her mind spun as they scrambled for the exit. What was going on? Against the back wall, Reagan and Mom watched them pass, smiling through tears. They knew.

  “Come on.” Wade pulled her down a hall and out another exit where a young cowboy stood by a big brown horse.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Wade said to the guy. “We’ll have him back soon.”

  “Take your time, Mr. Ryan.”

  Wade swept Abigail off her feet and set her in the saddle. Seconds later he was behind her, nudging the horse to a gallop.

  40

  Abigail clutched Wade’s arms as the horse bolted off.

  “Hang on,” he said.

  She didn’t know where he was taking her—didn’t care where he was going. She was with Wade, and that was all that mattered.

  They galloped through town, took a turn down a side road. After they’d ridden awhile, she felt him turn in the saddle.