by Neva Brown
“Looks like Casey got shanghaied,” Dan said.
“That picture-taking fellow said he needed some information about the horses,” Jake said. “Never can tell about his sort. No telling what he really wants.”
They talked about the dry weather, the price of cattle, labor problems, the possibility of rustlers or poachers operating in different areas of the 300-section ranch as if Tres had been around all the time, rather than being halfway around the world for the last decade.
Part of Tres’ mind followed the conversation, while another part thought about Casey. She had been a winsome little freckle-faced mystery the first time they met, no longer a child and not yet a woman. She’d filled a need in his life, made him feel useful and appreciated. That long-ago summer still stayed in his mind like a window through which he saw sunlight, peace, and happiness. Never before, or since, had life been so uncomplicated and good.
Tres shifted to adjust the tightness of his jeans. Primal need stirred his body as he watched Casey get a plate of food from the chuck wagon and eat as she stood talking with the photographer. He forced his attention back to Dan and Jake. He wondered what was going through Jake’s mind, when the sound of Casey’s laughter reached them. He frowned. Tres stood up from his squat, turned, and stretched. “Reckon it’d be okay for me to drag a few calves?”
Jake stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Sounds good to me.” He looked at Dan. “Didn’t you want about half of this herd put in the Cottonwood Springs pasture?”
“Yeah, I’d planned to turn ‘em out in the pasture bordering Dark Canyon but three times in the past few months the men have found fences down. The fencing crew needs to get everything back up in shape so we don’t end up with cows and calves down in that brushy canyon at shipping time. I figured we’d have to make another day of it. But if Tres really wants to get hot and dirty for the rest of the day, you could take some of the boys and drive everything we worked this morning over to Cottonwood Springs. How about it, Tres?”
Tres grinned at the ranch foreman who had been his mentor for many summers of his teenage years. “I think I can last for one afternoon.”
They took their empty plates back to the chuck wagon, and then headed to a small corral to saddle fresh horses.
“Casey brought that big black gelding, over there by her trailer, for a spare. You might want to try him. Sure rides smooth,” Jake said.
“Maybe we better ask her first. She may not want a stranger on her horse.”
“Don’t guess she’ll object. She’s going to start teaching psychology over at the college this fall. Won’t have much time for keeping horses in top shape then.”
The peevish note in Jake’s voice amused Tres. Jake was obviously not happy about his daughter’s interest in something other than horses.
Casey excused herself when she saw the three men heading toward the horse corral. Handing her plate to the photographer to dispose of, she angled across to meet them.
As soon as she was in earshot, Jake said, “Tres will be roping with you. I’m going to take some of the men and drive part of this bawling bunch over to the Cottonwood.”
Casey smiled, giving no indication that her heart pounded like a trip hammer. “Hello, Tres, nothing like coming home and getting put to work. How’ve you been?” For many years she had taken her cue from her father and did so today—no sentiment allowed.
Tres took his hat off and ran a forearm over his forehead. “Getting by. How about you?”
“Can’t complain.” She twisted in a half turn, stretching her sweaty, dust-covered shirt snug against her as she pointed to the black horse. “That’s Raven over by the trailer. He should fit you to a tee. Want to give him a try?”
If it had been a one-eyed mule he would have said ‘yes.’ His mind was not on a horse but on the luscious curves her loose shirt hid. “Suits me.”
The creak of leather and the snort of the horses as saddles were cinched snug were the only sounds as everybody got ready for a long, hot, afternoon’s work. As Tres saddled Raven, he watched Casey saddle a fresh horse. Her graceful, subtly sensual moves made him forget he’d sworn off women. She’d become a beauty with high cheekbones, a straight little nose, green eyes, and creamy skin, not a freckle in sight. Where’d those cute little-girl freckles gone? Her dusty, well-worn cowboy hat shaded those delicate features from the hot West Texas sun. His hand itched to take the hat off and touch the auburn hair hanging in a single braid halfway to her waist. She even made faded jeans and a chambray shirt look good. He wondered if any of the intense, inquisitive little-girl characteristics that had drawn him to her that summer remained, or if the devious ways of women had taken their place.
Casey and Tres eased into the rhythm of the back and forth from the herd to the branding fire. As she performed the repetitive work, she recalled the first time she saw Tres and the idyllic summer that followed. That day, so long ago, they were working cattle in these same corrals that they worked in today. Even though she’d been only thirteen years old, she rode better than most cowboys. The morning she met Tres, her dad, in the early dawn, had put her on Buster, a long-legged gelding. He had told her to take the outside of the four-section pasture, then instructed her to push the cattle she found ahead of her until another rider crisscrossing the pasture came to drive them toward the middle.
Tres had ridden up soon after she’d handed off the first bunch of cows. To this day she didn’t know how much of her stripping he had seen. She’d stopped in the shelter of a Cottonwood grove, taken off her denim shirt, pulled off a soft cotton undershirt she’d worn over her training bra. After putting the denim shirt back on, she unzipped her jeans, stood up in the stirrups, and stuffed the undershirt into the crotch of her jeans.
She remembered how the cramps had racked her body with pain and how she’d railed at her stupid, monthly period. She’d forgotten the time of the month and had left home unprepared, forcing her to make do with what she had.
Tres’ horse had whickered to Buster while still some distance away, giving her time to fasten her belt and kick her mount into a trot before Tres shouted, “I overslept and got a late start. Where do I need to work?”
Embarrassed, besides being in pain, she’d given a waspish reply. “How should I know? Dan Brown or my dad tells us where to work. Ask one of them.”
By that time, he was close enough for her to see the amused sparkle in his gray-blue eyes and the whiteness of his teeth in contrast to his tanned face. His smile turned to a look of concern. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
Surprise had flickered across his face. “I’m Tres, J.D.’s grandson. I’ll help you work the outside if that’s okay.”
“Suit yourself,” she’d shouted as she rode away.
Cindy Girl’s snort pulled Casey back to the present. Casey’s own inner snort was just as loud as Cindy Girl’s. Pay attention and act like an adult, not a lovesick kid.
Casey heeled another calf and started toward the branding fire, all the while watching Tres work. Damp patches of sweat coated with dust formed on his shirt, accenting the muscles rippling across his back. She wondered what it would feel like to touch those rippling muscles. Tres, who had been her long-ago counselor telling her about what to expect during high school and college, was no longer the lanky, loose-jointed college graduate, but a man with honed muscles that enhanced his masculinity, a man who made a warmth pool deep inside her, a man who made her restless.
Echoes of her dad’s stern voice still rattled around in her head. Tres is the Spencer heir. We work for the Spencers. We are not a part of their social circle. You remember that.
Finally, the last calf, branded and vaccinated, staggered back to the herd. Casey headed to the trailer, leaving the cowboys to the finishing-up tasks.
Tres fell in beside her. “Thanks for the loan of Raven. He knows his stuff. Did he go to college with you?”
Casey looked over at dusty, sweating Raven. He didn’t much look like a show horse today. “
Yes, he spent the last two years with me and won several trophies. He’s bigger and stouter than most I’ve trained, but he is one of the best.”
As they rode up to her rig, Tres asked, “Do you have time to take me to the Mansion?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind hanging around a few more minutes. I see the photographer is jogging this way.”
Tres frowned. “What could he want?”
Casey stepped off her horse, dropping the reins. “He’s coming back to take pictures at the horse sale in a few weeks. He probably wants to verify the schedule.”
She pulled a briefcase out of the pickup, took out a catalog and brochure, then turned around to greet the dusty, tired-looking photographer.
Tres unsaddled and loaded their horses then caught the mare Casey had ridden during the morning and put her into the last stall of the trailer.
As he fastened the tailgate, he heard Casey say, “The sale will be held at the old headquarters where the stable and training pens are located. If you want pictures of the breeding barn and the other state-of-the-art facilities, you will need to come a day or two early. Things will be rushing the day of the sale.”
Tres propped one shoulder against the side of the trailer and waited.
The photographer looked up from his notebook he’d been scribbling on. “Can we do some filming at the Mansion?” His high-pitched voice grated on Tres’ nerves.
Casey’s tone changed. “Spencer Mansion is Mr. and Mrs. Spencer’s home. You will need to talk to them about taking pictures there. Give me a call if you need more information about the sale.”
Tres heard the clipped, businesslike undercurrent of her voice and wasn’t surprised to see the photographer give his thanks and take his leave.
After Casey pulled out onto the caliche road, Tres asked, “How’s your mother?”
“She has to depend on her motorized wheelchair to get around most of the time. The Lyme Disease and arthritis have caused some deformity. Her strength isn’t what it used to be, but she manages.”
“Does she have someone to help her?”
Casey smiled. “Oh, yes, Maria came to live-in when I went to A&M. Dad declared he just couldn’t manage without me, so I drove back and forth to college in town my freshman year. He really wanted me to continue going there and be on the rodeo team so he could coach me and be a part of the excitement of competing again. The Running S horses and I had won lots of shows during my high school years. We did even better that freshman year in the hometown college, so J.D. wanted to pay my expenses to go to A&M way off down the country. He and Dad negotiated for weeks. Out of those negotiations, Mother got her new chair and Maria, who’s now her dearest friend.”
“I’m surprised Jake let you go so far away.”
“A lot of hemming and hawing took place. What it all boiled down to was Dad’s unwillingness to turn me loose. He’d controlled almost every aspect of my life as far back as I could remember. At a university several hundred miles away, I’d be out of his reach.
“It took a while, but he and J.D. finally agreed I’d live at a retired Professor’s estate, not far from the university. The professor and J.D. had been college buddies. An old cowboy named Daniel, who still manages Professor Buford’s stables, traveled with me every place I went with the horses. He’s good with horses and never reluctant to give advice. So under the watchful eyes of Professor Buford, his wife, and Daniel, the Running S horses and I made our way through college. I pretty much continued doing the same things I did when you used to show up in the summer—riding horses and going to school. I just got older, hopefully a little wiser, not too much worse for the wear.”
Tres looked over at her. “Any boyfriends along the way?”
Casey laughed at the hint of the Tres-from-their-youth. His nosy question with a note of concern in his voice took her back to those years. “I never seemed to find the time for the boy-girl thing. Besides, after all the advice you gave me the summer I was thirteen, I never found anybody to measure up. My life’s pretty much been the same old same old. But what about you? Why did you go, and why did you come back from Australia?”
After a hesitation and a sideways glance at Casey, he grinned with mischief in his eyes. “You remember Melanie? I brought her out for a short visit the summer before I went to Australia.”
“You mean the blonde in the pink shorts and halter top who hated the heat, the dirt, and just had to get back to the house to get ready for the party? I vaguely remember. What about her?”
Tres’ deep laugh echoed in the cab of the pickup. “Vaguely, my hind leg. You were jealous!”
Casey laughed along with him. “Of course, I was jealous. You’d been my companion, friend, mentor, and sidekick. Then you showed up with her in tow and didn’t have time for a gangly, freckled-faced kid anymore. You bet I was jealous. You broke my heart.”
The teasing note in her voice contradicted the school years when she had seen herself as the rejected love in every piece of literature she read. In reality, she could still feel the unhealed fissure in her heart. She guarded that secret well.
“Somehow I can’t see anything about you suggesting a broken heart. I see a beautiful woman and, from what I’m told, an accomplished one.”
She grinned at him. “I survived. I’m from Spartan stock.”
“Yeah, I remember the first time I saw you. You looked like a ghost, you hurt so bad, but you pretty much told me to mind my own business when I asked if you were sick.”
Casey’s face heated just thinking about that awkward time. “I was embarrassed. You came up on me at a bad time.”
“I know. That’s why I invented the story about needing to go to the stables at your house to get another saddle at noon, and asking you to come and help me locate the gear. You came back from to the house where you said you went to check on your mother, looking a lot more comfortable with your situation.”
“I believe I still owe you a belated ‘thank you’ for that.”
Their conversation stopped cold as they rounded the curve in the road. A medical helicopter sat in front of the magnificent ranch home built by Tres’ Scottish great-great-grandfather. Casey knew in her heart what had happened. Neither she nor Tres said a word. The foreboding she’d felt all day changed to sadness, then settled like a rock in her heart.
Chapter 2
J.D. Spencer, the gruff man who had influenced Casey’s life immeasurably, had died. As per his request, she rode the black, shining Raven to the top of the knoll overlooking the ranch cemetery at the exact time for the funeral service. Her black silk pants, jacket, boots and hat matched her mount.
After speaking to the horse softly, Casey raised the silver trumpet to her lips, praying the lump in her throat would not cause her to falter. The notes of “Amazing Grace” floated out across the huge crowd then drifted over the gentle slopes covered in Grama grass.
As the music died away, Reverend Doyle’s voice rang out as he began the service. “J.D. left instructions saying I had only fifteen minutes to say what needs to be said. I don’t think he wants us cluttering up his peaceful resting place for too long, so . . .”
Casey and Raven remained still for those few minutes. At the last “amen”, she blew the first note of “Taps.” She knew J.D. had been in the military long before she was even born and had heard him speak of those years like they had been an important time in his life. As the last note died, she whispered, “Rest in peace.” Turning her horse, she rode off the knoll without looking back.
She had fulfilled her promise to the man who had given her the opportunity to earn a college education, and she felt sure he had loved her in his own stern way.
She handed Raven over to a groom but lingered at the stables for as long as she dared, before going to the house. The stately old Mansion teemed with people, who had come from far and wide to honor a man important to them in one way or the other. When she finally entered the ballroom that had been opened to accommodate the crowd, she saw Mattie Lou sitting in a s
atin wingback chair with Tres standing beside her as people came in a steady stream to offer their condolences. Casey saw Tres’ eyes, burning dark blue with grief, his face set like chiseled stone. She nodded to him from a distance. Her grief, too near the surface to manage words of sympathy without a flood of tears, kept her from going to them for now.
Servers moved among the crowd with trays loaded with drinks. The food on buffet tables did not entice Casey. She drank water as she passed through the crowd using social graces learned at all those functions Professor and Mrs. Buford had dragged her to during her college years.
Her mother, Dad, and Maria sat with a group of ranch people, not talking much but helping each other through mourning the loss of the dynamic ‘Big Boss’ they had all respected. She sat with them for a time, but slipped away after a while. The stream of people seeking to speak to Mattie Lou and Tres had dwindled to a trickle. Tres now sat on a sofa near his grandmother.
Casey, having dissembled her emotions enough to hold back tears, made her way to them. What could she say to comfort, much less impart, the deep, aching sympathy she felt?
As she approached, Tres stood. “Come sit for a little.” He caught her hand, directing her to the end of the sofa closest to Mattie Lou. He sat down close beside her.
Casey felt his warmth. The unique tingle of pleasure she always felt when she was near him zinged through her, kicking up her heart rate.
Before she said a word, Mattie Lou leaned over and patted Casey’s leg. “Dear, dear, Casey. J.D. would have crowed about the perfection of his plan for you and Raven to announce his departing this world with a trumpet. I cried like a big baby. I just knew in my heart that his spirit was there saying, ‘That’s my girl. She knows how to do things up right.’ As you well know, he always did like things done his way.”
Casey covered Mattie Lou’s hand with her own. “He was special. He expected a lot, but gave even more. His high expectations and unstinting support are indelible influences in my life.”
