Her Cowboy Soldier

by Cindi Myers

  He’d never missed the summer and fall moves from pasture to pasture until he shipped out to Iraq. Even in college he’d always made it home for an event that, though a routine part of ranch work, was something the whole community turned out to see and be a part of. The move took a good chunk of the day, and in the evening the Bar S hosted a big barbecue, which all their friends and neighbors attended.

  In his teen years Josh had tried to impress the town girls with tales of his cowboy exploits—most of them fiction, but with enough truth embroidered in that no one could accuse him of outright lying.

  Only once had he been tempted to sit out the day. His first summer home from college, he’d dared to suggest to his father that moving the cattle was an old-fashioned and outdated concept that put unnecessary stress on the animals. Why not use the winter pasturage to grow hay to feed the animals the rest of the year? His father had raged at him about having no respect for tradition, and had backed up this argument with a lecture on the importance of respecting the land and avoiding overgrazing—not to mention avoiding the expense of growing, harvesting and storing hay instead of allowing the cows to do what they did naturally and cut their own fodder on the spot.

  The memory of that argument made Josh feel ashamed now. No wonder his dad had accused him of acting as if Mitch didn’t know anything. Josh had been the ignorant one.

  The fight had been a bad one; father and son hadn’t spoken for days. But on the morning of the drive to summer pasture Josh had taken his place with the other cowboys. His father had nodded in silent acknowledgment that he was ready to put their harsh words behind them. If only they could have kept the unspoken promise of that morning, instead of continually repeating old arguments and grievances.

  The first of the herd reached the open gate and turned, flowing into the dirt lane that climbed to the upper pastures. The cattle, as if glad to feel the dirt beneath their hooves once more, picked up their pace, and Josh urged his horse into a faster walk. As the sounds of the highway faded behind them, eventually swallowed up by distance and screened from view by hills and trees, he relaxed a little more in the saddle. As long as he stayed ahead of the ATVs, he could look out across the countryside and imagine that this was what it had been like when the first cattlemen settled the region.

  His father, who had been leading the herd, turned and rode back to Josh. “That went well,” Josh said.

  “We’re not done yet.” He adjusted his hat to better shade his eyes. Unlike the younger cowboys like Josh, Mitch refused to wear sunglasses, claiming they just got in his way. “It’s always good to get off the highway.”

  “You think people would get tired of it, but there’s always a good turnout,” Josh said.

  “Folks like to be reminded of where they’re from, even if most of ’em don’t have anything to do with ranching anymore.” Mitch glanced at his son. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. It’s great to be a part of this again.”

  They rode along in silence, but Josh sensed a tension in his father. “Something on your mind, Dad?”

  “Does the hand bother you much—the one that’s not there?”

  “Sometimes.” Why was his dad asking about his hand, after all this time?

  “You ever think about getting one of those fancy bionic hands instead of a hook?”

  “Once in a while. But they’re expensive and all that computerized stuff is delicate. This seems more practical to me.”

  “You can do a lot more with it than I first thought. Pico doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Josh regarded the placid brown horse between his knees. “Pico never lets anything upset him,” he said. “What about you, Dad?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you mind that I have a hook instead of a hand? That I’m not whole anymore?”

  “It’s still a shock sometimes, looking over and seeing that hook where your hand should be. But I’m just glad to have you back home and safe. To have you back for this. That year you weren’t here—nothing felt right.”

  As if he feared he’d said too much, he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and rode back toward the front of the herd. Josh stared after him, struggling to rein in his emotions. After all these years, his dad could still surprise him.

  * * *

  SEEING JOSH AT the cattle drive, Amy decided he was a man who could never be summed up by first impressions. The day they’d met, she’d defined him as a wounded soldier, a man who had fought as Brent had fought, but who had somehow cheated death and wore the evidence of that—his metal hook—with defiant pride. The next time she’d seen him, he’d been a baseball coach, defensive about his qualifications and his team’s record. She’d encountered him in the roles of teacher and of community volunteer, and each time he’d revealed another facet of his personality.

  Today’s persona, the cowboy, was the most difficult for her to figure out. Was he the guardian of cattle, who would threaten a family pet to protect his stock, or a proud descendent of pioneers, carrying on traditions? He looked more imposing on the back of a horse, his back straighter, his shoulders broader.

  But even off the horse, he carried himself differently as he moved among the guests at his family’s barbecue. Right now he stood with his father, talking with a group of neighbors. Though Josh was the taller of the two, clearly he and his dad were carved from the same block, with the same strong features, slender builds and dark hair, the older man’s only lightly peppered with gray. Handsome men, with smiles that lightened the air around them.

  A stout woman in a long apron beat on a large cowbell with a wooden spoon. “Soup’s on!” someone else shouted, and the guests lined up in front of buffet tables groaning with food. A local minister offered grace, then everyone began to fill their plates and fill the spaces at the trestle tables arranged in the shade of ancient oak trees.

  Amy filled a plate for Bobbie, then transferred part of the bounty to a small dish for Chloe. But when she returned to the spot they’d staked out at a table, she found Bobbie already eating, a smiling Neal Kuchek beside her.

  “I like sausage,” Chloe declared, and grabbed hold of the barbecued link Amy had selected for her.

  “Everything looks good,” Amy said, and dug into the beans, ribs, chicken and various salads she’d piled onto the plate.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  She looked up to find Josh standing at her elbow. “No.” She scooted over, though he already had plenty of room.

  “How’s General doing?” he asked.

  “General likes his new yard and his door,” Chloe said. “Thank you for building them for him.”

  “You’re very welcome, Chloe.”

  “What are your dogs’ names?” Chloe asked. “The ones I saw with the cows?”

  “The red one is Dusty. The black-and-white is Domino, and the gray-and-white one is Storm.”

  “Did they get in trouble for chasing the cows?” Chloe asked.

  “They weren’t chasing them, they were herding them. They’re trained to keep the cows moving in the right direction without hurting them.”

  “Maybe General wants to herd cows.”

  “Maybe so—but dogs have to be trained to do that.” He frowned, as if searching for the right way to explain this. “General would have to go to school to learn what to do. And you’d have to have cows for him to herd.”

  “We’re not getting any cows,” Bobbie said. “No more animals of any kind. We have enough work to do with the greenhouses and orchards without adding livestock, too.”

  “I was thinking chickens would be nice.” Amy winked at her grandmother. “Or maybe pigs to eat all the extra vegetables and fruit.”

  “You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you were the one looking after them. I’m already worried about getting enough workers for the apple harvest in the fa
ll.”

  “You running afoul of those new visa restrictions?” Mitch had joined them, sitting across from Josh.

  “Yes.” Bobbie stabbed a chunk of potato with her fork and scowled at it. “All this security stuff is well and good, but the feds have cut the number of seasonal work visas so much we can’t get the pickers we need from Chile and Mexico.”

  “Couldn’t you hire local people for those jobs?” Amy asked.

  “You can hire ’em, but after half a day, most of ’em don’t show up again,” Neal said. “Working in the fields is hard labor. Plus, the foreign workers who come every year have experience. They not only pick faster, but they can tell the difference between a good apple and one full of bugs, and they leave the green ones on the tree.”

  “Exactly,” Bobbie said. “People who’ve never picked before are slow and put as much trash fruit in the bins as good apples. Slows everything way down.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Amy asked. Suddenly, the food in her stomach felt heavy as she imagined apples rotting on the tree with no one to pick them—and Bobbie without the income from the apple harvest to see her through the winter.

  “Don’t you all look like a glum bunch.” Charla, with one hand on the back of Amy’s chair and the other on Josh’s chair, leaned over to join the conversation. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was just saying we might not be able to get enough workers to harvest the apples this fall,” Bobbie said.

  “Make the orchards pick-your-own,” Charla said. “Tourists love that. Amy can write about it in her article.”

  “What article is that?” Josh asked.

  “Charla wants me to write an article promoting Hartland as a tourist destination,” Amy said. “What do you think, Grandma? Could we make the orchards into pick-your-own fields?”

  “The ones up by the road, maybe. But I don’t see bringing in enough tourists to strip ten acres of trees.”

  “I think you probably need special insurance if you have people coming onto the farm like that,” Neal said. “That could get expensive.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Bobbie said. “But I’m not going to let it ruin this afternoon. Charla, tell us all why you think tourists would be interested in Hartland?”

  “Or why we should be interested in tourists,” Mitch said.

  “You folks that have lived here all your lives don’t realize there are plenty of city people who would love to come soak up all this peace and quiet and beautiful scenery,” Charla said. “They want to visit a ranch and ride horses and watch cowboys work cattle. They want to pick fruit and go fishing and poke around in little shops looking for treasures.”

  “I don’t need any greenhorns getting in my way when I’m trying to herd cattle,” Mitch said. “It’s bad enough getting the herd through the cars on either side of the road when we change pastures, and at least most of those folks are neighbors, who know not to step out in front of a herd of cows to get a good picture for their friends back home.”

  “You can’t keep people away forever,” Charla said.

  “We get plenty of travelers stopping at our farm stand,” Bobbie said. “They seem like nice enough folks. If they want to spend the night at Marsha Phelps’s B and B or hire Fred Adams to take them fishing, I don’t see the harm in it.”

  “Exactly.” Charla poked Amy in the shoulder. “Are you taking notes, Ms. Reporter? You should put all this in your article.”

  “Just don’t mention the Bar S,” Mitch said. “I don’t want any sightseers poking around.”

  “I did get some good pictures this morning,” Amy said. “I’d like to use those, but I wouldn’t have to use the name of the ranch.”

  “I don’t know—” Josh began, but his father cut off his protest.

  “That would be okay,” Mitch said. “Make people think this place is the Wild West, just crawling with cowboys.”

  The gruff tone of his voice might have fooled her into thinking he was rebuking her, but the sly wink he added surprised her into a laugh. “Thanks, Mr. Scofield,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  “You just call me Mitch, young lady. We’re all friends here.”

  “All right. Mitch.” She glanced at Josh, who was staring at his father as if he’d grown two heads.

  Josh pushed back from the table. “Excuse me, folks. I’ve got work to do.”

  “That boy never could sit still for long,” Mitch said, and turned his focus to a bowl of peach cobbler.

  Josh’s sudden departure struck Amy as a criticism of her behavior—as if he resented her friendliness with his father. As if his father’s easy acceptance of her was an insult to him.

  Charla was deep in conversation with Neal, and Chloe was entertaining Bobbie with her description of a new trick she was teaching General, which involved helping her to make the bed in the morning by tugging the covers over the pillow. Amy took the opportunity to slip away from the table and go after Josh.

  “What was so urgent that you had to leave the table practically in midconversation?” she asked, catching up with him.

  “I told you—I have work to do.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “None of your business.” He increased the length of his strides away from the picnic area beneath the trees, so that she had to break into a jog to keep up.

  “I’m allowed to be friendly with your father,” she said. “He’s a nice man.”

  “Trust me, if you were a man from the city instead of a woman, he wouldn’t give you the time of day. My dad likes to flirt.”

  “I am not from the city,” she protested.

  “You moved here from Denver, didn’t you?”

  “After a lifetime of living in some of the most remote places on Earth. I’ve hauled water from wells in Africa and lived in a yurt in the mountains of Mongolia. I’ve eaten fried grasshoppers and drunk water buffalo milk and roughed it in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. I’m not some pampered flower who’s afraid of her own shadow.”

  He stopped so abruptly she almost slammed into him. He reached out to steady her and held her at arm’s length, his fingers curled around her upper arm, the heat of his touch burning into her, the heat of his gaze searing deeper. “So why are you in such a hurry to go back to the city?”

  His fingers pressed into her flesh—not hurting, but insistent, a connection that made her more aware of the pounding of the pulse at his throat that matched the tempo of her own heartbeat. She swallowed hard, struggling for control. “Because I can get a better job in the city,” she said. “Because there are more opportunities for Chloe in the city.”

  “I thought writers could work anywhere. And this is a great place to raise kids—Chloe loves it here.”

  “Then maybe I don’t want to live somewhere where everyone knows all about me and my history and my business.”

  He released his hold on her, and she immediately felt cold despite the warm day. She fought the urge to move closer to him “You don’t want to live where you might have to get close to people,” he said. “And see them as more than material for your stories.”

  Rising anger made her want to hurl words at him like arrows. “Or maybe I want to live my own life—not the life my parents or grandparents planned out for me.”

  “Yeah, my family tree is just full of science teachers and baseball coaches.”

  “And cowboys.”

  “There’s a difference between falling into a way of life because you can’t do anything else and choosing to hold on to your heritage,” he said. “But first you have to have a heritage to hold on to. And that means staying put long enough to really get to know people, instead of running away whenever they try to get close.”

  “You’re the one who couldn’t sit at the table long enough to have a conversation.”

&nb
sp; “Only because I hate to see my dad duped. He thinks you’re his friend Bobbie Anderson’s granddaughter—someone he can trust. I know you’ll tell him one thing, and then print whatever you please in your articles.”

  “Josh Scofield, will you just grow up!” She clenched her hands into fists at her sides and glared at him. “That accusation against me was lame the first time you used it. I thought by now you’d have given it up. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings with my little article, but you know what? I’m tired of you using that against me.”

  “You can’t blame me for not trusting you.”

  “Maybe the person you really don’t trust is yourself. You’re afraid of what you might say or do, so you run away.”

  “I’m not running way.”

  “Well, you’re certainly walking away fast.”

  “And you came after me. Why?”

  Why had she pursued him? She’d felt insulted by his behavior and wanted to demand an apology—but an apology for what? His continued misjudgment of her? His surly attitude of late? The fact that he never behaved the way she wanted him to? Maybe Josh wasn’t the only one who needed to grow up and let go. If the man annoyed her so much, why didn’t she leave him alone, instead of running after him to pick a fight? Her five-year-old would have handled the situation better. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  She turned to walk away, but he pulled her up short, his hand on her arm. “Did you drive your husband this crazy?” he asked.

  He was staring at her lips, as if measuring their fit against his own. “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “He used to say our fights kept the marriage interesting.”

  “I’ll bet.” He pulled her closer, one arm encircling her waist until she was snugged against him.

  “Josh?” she whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  He released her so quickly, she stumbled back, but quickly righted herself. “Go on back to the others,” he said. “I can’t think straight when you’re around.”