Cowboy Confessions

by Gail MacMillan

  “What’s the news on Ross?” She wound down the window to ask as he limped out of his small shelter. Bossy had the scoop on anything that happened in and around the arena.

  “He must be still breathin’.” He came to lean on the driver’s door and squint in at her. “The ambulance took off out of here so fast I barely had time to open the gate.”

  “That’s positive.” She struggled to sound normal and ignore the trembling in her sweating hands. Clint’s betrayal had to be put on a backburner. Ross’s fate was her main concern. It was a life-and-death situation. If only the image of Clint and Ginny in each other’s arms wouldn’t keep rising up to blur everything else that had happened that day and prevent her from putting events in proper prospective.

  “Yeah, well, Ross was due to take a fall. He’s had a horseshoe up his ass for years, if you ask me. Never a bad accident, always in the money. Maybe it’s time for him to quit while he still has a chance at a healthy life ahead of him…if it isn’t already too late. I reckon your folks will be right concerned, what with them and the Turners being great friends.”

  “Yes, no doubt.” Bossy knew everything about everyone’s life who was a regular in the equine events. “Thanks, Bossy. I’d better hit the trail.”

  As Bossy stepped away from the truck, she wound up the window and shifted into drive. It was a good two hours’ journey to her parents’ ranch. She couldn’t wait to get there. As soon as she arrived, she’d saddle Maisy and take a lope across the meadows and up into the birches. She needed time to collect her thoughts and emotions before she faced her mother and father and had to tell them double bad news.

  She’d talk about Ross first. Later, when she had a chance to be alone with her mother, she’d tell her about Clint. Joan Wallace would take the news better than her husband. Jack Wallace had been counting on Clint to join them on their ranch after the wedding and ease his way into the business as his son-in-law. Now…

  An arctic chill engulfed her heart as a conversation she’d overheard in a restaurant near the rodeo grounds two days ago flashed back across her mind.

  “Yeah, old Clint’s making his bed really comfy cozy,” she’d heard from the booth behind the one in which she was waiting for her fiancé. “He knows he’s gettin’ too dinged up for the rodeo circuit. Marryin’ Jack Wallace’s daughter will give him a nice, soft place to land. With that girl as his only child, Jack will welcome an experienced cowboy marryin’ his daughter and takin’ over the ranch when he gets too old to do it himself. Yeah, yeah, that Clint is no dumb bunny, for all the times he got tossed on his head and backside.”

  She’d shrugged it off at the time. Cowboy gossip. Clint loved her, wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Now it all seemed far too believable.

  She sucked in a deep breath. Oh, God, what a day! If she didn’t love ranch life and have to accept the fact that cowboys were part of it, she’d want to leave the whole thing behind. Staring out through the driving rain, she wished the slashing windshield wipers could also clear away the tears that had begun to trickle down her cheeks.

  ****

  “Honey, I’m so sorry…so very, very sorry.” Joan Wallace sat on the edge of Jessi’s bed in her room upstairs in the rambling log ranch house. “I never would have thought Clint would do such a thing. And with Ginny Morgan, the queen of spoiled brats, not even one of us”—Jessie knew “us” meant ranchers—“but the daughter of an oil man.”

  “Mom, let’s wait a while before we tell Dad. Right now, he’s got enough to handle, what with Ross’s accident.”

  Jessi was calm, in control. She’d shed her tears and initial outrage during the drive back to the ranch and the half-hour’s ride aboard Maisy before talking to her mother. As she’d ridden back to the ranch, a bitter resolve as hard and cold as a January frost had settled over her. She’d never let herself be hurt like that again. Never, never, never.

  “You’re right.” Joan put her hand over her daughter’s. “We’ll be heading for the hospital to be with Bob and Laura as soon as he finishes up with the stock. I know you can manage things here. Thank God Chase and Janice are on their parents’ ranch to take care of things while they’re with Ross. There’s no telling how long Bob and Laura will be needed at the hospital.”

  “Yes, the Turners are fortunate to have two sons, even if the second hasn’t been much support to the family…always off rodeoing.” Jessi, not for the first time that day, felt a twinge as she knew what the loss of Clint would mean to the future of her family’s ranch. “Chase has always kicked in to help his dad, to let him know he’ll handle the reins when the time comes.”

  “Now, Jessi, don’t go there.” Her mother was quick to catch her up. “Neither your father nor I would want you to marry simply to provide this ranch with someone to take over. That would be medieval, wouldn’t it?” Joan Wallace smiled at her. “Furthermore, we both know you’re perfectly capable of running this place on your own.”

  “I guess.” She forced herself to smile back, even though she knew it was a weak imitation of the real thing.

  “Now, if you’re sure you’ll be all right, I’m going to change into fresh clothes and meet your dad at the truck for the drive to the hospital.” Joan stood and pushed up the sleeves of her plaid shirt. In jeans that covered slim hips, she looked more like Jessi’s older sister than her mother. Jessi admired her.

  “Sure, I’ll be fine. You go. The Turners will appreciate your company.”

  After her mother had gone, she gazed out her upstairs bedroom window. The rain had stopped before she’d gotten to the ranch, allowing her to have a dry ride aboard Maisy. Now, an evening rainbow bowed over the foothills.

  Maybe it’s a sign of brighter days ahead.

  She went downstairs and out to the barn. There was always work to do. Maybe it would help to wash away some of the terrible images of the day.

  Once inside, amid the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of horses, Jessi heaved a sigh. She was home…home where she belonged, where she would always belong.

  A sniffling from the stall to her left drew her attention.

  “Badger.” The old buckskin was thrusting his whiskered nose toward her. “Good to see you, guy. You’ve always been the best…strong and loyal and hardworking.” She leaned her forehead against his neck. “Too bad some people wouldn’t take an example from you.”

  Badger blew softly and pressed against her.

  As she picked up a manure fork and headed into his stall, she knew one thing for certain. She’d never again get involved with another rodeo cowboy.

  Chapter Two

  Ross Turner stared out the window of his room at the Calgary rehab center, the bleakness that had settled in his gut over the past six weeks bringing him near vomiting again. There was nothing left for him. The doctors had told him his bull-riding days were over, that one more spill would see him permanently in a wheelchair. Rodeo had been his way of life. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He gripped the cane in his hand until his knuckles whitened.

  “Ross, honey!” His mother burst into his room, followed by his tall, barrel-chested father. “How are you doing today?” She flew across the room to put her hands on his arms and stand on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “Fine, Mom, just fine.” He loved his parents and didn’t want to cause them any further worry. “How are you, Dad?”

  “Doing well, son.” The big rancher, a wide grin on his face, joined his wife to slap his son on the back. “We’ve been hearing good things from your doctor. He says you’re being released tomorrow. We’ll be here to pick you up at noon and take you back to the ranch.”

  “Thanks, Dad, but that won’t be necessary.” Ross struggled for the courage to tell his parents his plan. “I’m going to New Brunswick…to your old family farm on Chaleur Bay. I’ve got a plane ticket.”

  “Ross…” His mother stared at him, eyes wide. She looked, Ross thought, as if he’d just told her he was going to Mars. “No. Surely you’re
joking. You can’t possibly be considering going to live on that dilapidated place. No one has lived in the house for years!”

  “Mom, understand. I don’t want to go home to be a burden to you and Dad.”

  “But, Ross…”

  He struggled to ignore the pleading, the lack of comprehension in his mother’s eyes. He loved the woman, but sometimes she could be smothering in her concern.

  “Laura, let the lad be.” Bob Turner stepped away from his son and drew his wife with him. “He needs to get away on his own to prove himself, to be satisfied he can manage. Isn’t that right, son?”

  “Yeah.” The word came out softly. It was enough for his parents to understand his decision on that basis.

  “Ross.” His name from his mother’s lips was so quiet, so filled with apprehension, he had to fight to keep his resolve.

  “Sorry, Mom. I’ll be back once I get feeling like myself again. For Christmas, for sure.”

  “Christmas! That’s months away!”

  “Come on, Laura. Kiss the boy goodbye and let’s go. We have work at the ranch, and I’m sure he’s got arrangements to make. Good luck, son.” Bob Turner held out a hand to him.

  Ross had to admit he was glad when they’d gone. Telling them his plans and watching his mother’s agony of disappointment had almost made him cave. He had to get away, and not just, as his father had perceived, to prove himself. He had to get as far away from people who knew him, who might pity him or see him as a has-been, as possible. He’d been the best in the business. Now he was stumping along with a cane. He returned to staring out the window. That old farm in New Brunswick, thousands of miles away, seemed exactly the place he needed to be, at least for a while.

  “Ross, baby!” Cat Holt’s voice made him turn to face the tall, slender, dark-haired woman entering his room. She wore jeans that might have been painted on and a flame-red tank top that left little to the imagination. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doing.” She moved across the room, hips swaying, waist-length hair shining like a raven’s wing. Pausing in front of him, she took him into her arms and pressed her lips to his.

  Nothing. The word flashed into his mind. Definitely nothing. Good God, is my love life over, too?

  “Nice of you to drop by…now, Cat.” His response came out in a sarcastic drawl. “I’ve been here for weeks.”

  “I know, I know, baby, but I’ve been on the circuit…barrel racing, keeping pace.”

  Keeping pace…I just bet. With everything male that takes your fancy.

  “So how are you doing?” She stepped back from him and pressed her question.

  “Coming along just fine, Cat. Doctors say I’ll be back in action next spring, maybe even midwinter on the southern circuit.” Something, a mixture of pride and anger at her lack of previous concern, made him lie.

  “Well, now, isn’t that just great?” She tossed him a saucy, provocative glance. “And”—she stepped close once more and ran a finger down his chest to the top of his jeans—“all other channels working well?”

  “Right as rain…as far as a man can tell in one of these places.”

  “Let me know the minute you’re released, and we’ll check that out, baby.” Her brown eyes glinted seductively.

  “Actually, I’m getting out tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, party time tomorrow night, baby. I’ll book us a room and buy champagne. This calls for an all-out celebration.”

  “Sounds good, Cat, but it will have to wait. I’m heading to New Brunswick to visit the family farm.”

  “Why in hell would you do something like that?” She stepped back, astonishment in her expression.

  “Because I need a little breathing space.”

  “Okay.” She backed toward the door. “But keep in touch. Text me. Let me know the minute you’re back in town.”

  “Sure. See you, Cat.”

  “See you, baby.”

  He watched as she waved from the doorway, then vanished down the hall. Her visit hadn’t surprised him all that much, even though she hadn’t been around for months.

  Cat Holt worked with Simon Shoeman, one of the top promoters in the rodeo business. Ross didn’t for a minute doubt Simon had sent Cat to see when one of his star attractions would be back to work, back to being a moneymaker at the box offices. Simon was a smooth operator. He would have reasoned that sending the sexy Cat would do more to lure Ross back to work than his visiting the bull rider.

  Well, he’d given her an earful, hadn’t he. Back to work this winter! As if that was going to happen. Right now, all he wanted to do was catch that plane to New Brunswick and hermit himself away on that deserted farm with a truckload of liquor and no plans for the rest of his life.

  ****

  As the Air Canada plane canted down toward the airport in Moncton, New Brunswick, Ross fastened his seatbelt and, not for the first time since leaving Calgary, had qualms about the wisdom of what he was doing. His Stetson had barely attracted a nod until he’d landed in Montreal. From there on, it had made him an oddity, a fish out of water, a cowboy out of the west. He’d stowed it in the luggage rack, but still he had the feeling fellow passengers were branding him as an anomaly. He definitely didn’t feel at home among these easterners. Maybe he’d been crazy to come.

  But it was too late to be having second thoughts now. The plane touched down with a jerk that always gave his gut a twitch. Riding a bull was nothing like landing in a huge junk of metal carrying God only knew how many gallons of flammable fuel. Ross Turner was definitely out of his element.

  ****

  He felt even more displaced when he drove a rented 4x4 king cab into the overgrown dooryard of the Turner farm and braked to a stop. The house, barn, and a few scattered outbuildings, weathered gray and sagging, looked as if they’d been deserted for ages.

  Probably infested with mice, if nothing worse. What the hell. I’m here and I’m going to stay…for a while.

  He climbed out of the pickup’s cab and searched through the keys on his ring for the one his father had given him years ago when Bob Turner had inherited the property.

  “Here, son,” he’d said. “Maybe you’ll want to go to New Brunswick some day. Take it. The key is probably worth more than the place. Your great-uncle lived there twenty years ago. Since then it’s been deserted. Probably been vandalized to hell.”

  Well, at least that last didn’t seem to be the case. The windows still had glass and no graffiti marred the cedar shingles. Damned place was so isolated vandals couldn’t find it, he thought as he remembered the trek down the rutted, potholed road over which he’d just driven.

  Grasping his cane, he headed around to the front of the house and looked out over Chaleur Bay. In the muggy, gray late summer day it lay flat and still. No life anywhere. A slight noise from the verandah made him turn. A dog, not much bigger than a large beagle, matted red coat full of burrs, stood at the top of the steps. So thin she resembled a skeleton with a dirty rug thrown over it, she was staring at him as she stood on wobbly legs.

  “Jesus!” Ross started slowly toward her. “Hello, girl. It is ‘girl,’ isn’t it? You all alone out here?”

  When he arrived at the steps, he sat down with his back to her. He knew better than to try to force his attentions on a strange animal. “You look as if you could use a square meal,” he said, avoiding a direct look at her. “I’m going to cook a steak once I get settled in. How about sharing it with me?”

  He waited and finally he felt a hot, dry little snout against his neck, sniffing, checking him out. Again he waited. Only when she’d finished her inspection did he get slowly to his feet and continue on up the steps. She followed, stumbling on the top one. He resisted the urge to help her. She had her pride…just like he had his.

  He inserted the key in the lock, and after a few cranks, it gave. The door swung open to emit a gush of stale, musty air. Stepping into the shadowy interior, he looked around as dust motes, aroused by his entrance, swirled
.

  Time had stood still in the place. From scuffed hardwood floors to peeling wallpaper, an ambience of early twentieth-century pervaded the interior. Glancing to his right, he saw a shabby parlor with faded, threadbare Victorian furniture. Ragged draperies covered a window that faced out toward the bay. He tightened his lips and headed down the dark corridor toward the back of the house.

  “May as well take it all in at once, girl,” he said to the dog that followed close at his heels. “Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

  Pausing in the kitchen doorway, he looked around at a big rusted cooking stove, cupboards that had once been painted green but now had mostly peeled back to their original wood tones, and a dirty enamel sink with taps mounted high on a stained backboard.

  He turned a tap. No water. Of course. He’d have to have the electricity turned on and then see if he could find a pump somewhere, either in a cupboard in the house or in some kind of cave under it, and prime it.

  He stepped out onto the back porch and saw a hand pump to the left. Farther back in the field stood a canted outhouse.

  “All this might not bother you”—he looked down at the dog—“but I’m sure as hell not into roughing it to this degree. First thing tomorrow we get a plumber out here and a bathroom installed.”

  She looked up at him, round eyes gaunt.

  “Okay, first to more immediate concerns.” He limped down the steps and around to the cargo space of his truck. He removed a camp stove with a propane tank, a grocery bag, and a case of beer. “Come on, girl. Let’s set up camp on the front verandah. I’m thinking you wouldn’t object to a nice, juicy streak. You probably need a drink, too, but I don’t think a Bud is your thing. With a bit of water from the bay, I should be able to get that hand pump going. There must be a bowl somewhere in that monstrosity of a house that will suit your needs.”

  Chapter Three

  Jessi paused in lunging a bay gelding to watch the maroon king cab heading up the road toward the ranch. She recognized the Turners’ vehicle. As it came closer, she saw Laura Turner at the wheel. She was alone. The woman stopped beside the paddock where Jessi stood and got out.