His gear was there, too. His plan had been to put off riding for Izzy until he picked it up on Sunday when he went out for his mom's birthday, but with riding for Izzy on Thursday, he hadn't had time between now and then to make the trip to the Lazy B.
Izzy had told him she had tack she preferred him to use, anyway. A saddle used for cutting would have different features from the ones he used for calf roping.
When he pulled up beside her big barn, he saw the sorrel mare, Trixie, penned in one paddock and the stud in the other.
Izzy met him with a big smile at the barn door. "Early," she said. "I wasn't sure you'd make it."
He grinned, taken with how pretty she looked with her cheeks and lips even rosier than usual from the chilly morning air. "I always get up early," he said.
Her eyes watered from the cold and looked shiny and alive. She wore a tan jacket and a bright blue turtleneck sweater and the most worn pair of stovepipe boots he had ever seen. Tan chinks covered her jeans. She must be planning to ride with him. Her spurs clinked as she briskly led him to the tack room and showed him the saddle. "You ride Dancer," she said, handing him a pair of spurs. "But I warn you, he can be a challenge."
John couldn't think of a time when he'd had to prove his horsemanship to a woman, but he swallowed his pride and strapped on the spurs.
She patted a saddle mounted on a sawhorse. "You can use this one. It was Billy's. The stirrups should be about right." She dragged a different saddle off a neighboring sawhorse and lugged it outside.
John picked up Billy's saddle and followed. Good God, if the man didn't take his saddle, he must have left home in a hurry.
When he started across the driveway carrying the tack, Dancer's ears perked up and he watched from a still position. Uh-oh. That horse had rodeo on his mind. Though years had gone by since John had last ridden a strong-willed horse, he wasn't frightened. It just called for a little patience.
When John set the saddle on the ground, Dancer lived up to his name and snorted and stamped around the corral, then stopped on the opposite side and stared at him. John stood there, willing the horse to come to him. Minutes later, dark ears pricked forward and the blue devil walked to where John waited. Despite misgivings about hand-feeding a stallion, John dug a couple of carrot pieces from his shirt pocket and offered them. Dancer's attitude softened and finally, with a little neck sawing and a few head tosses, he let himself be haltered.
Munching on the carrot, Dancer accepted the bridle, but sidestepped away from the saddle blanket. John took his time, baby-talking him and letting him smell the wool fabric. After several attempts, the horse stood for the blanket, but he moved every time John started to swing the saddle across his back. Even after he consented to be saddled, he sidestepped when John tried to cinch up. Yep, Fancy Dancer wanted the world to know he had a mind of his own. Izzy had called him ornery. That was a fitting description, but John didn't think him mean.
Meanwhile, Izzy had saddled the sorrel mare, led her over and tied her to a pole rail. "Dancer hasn't been ridden in weeks," she told him with a grin.
That's just great. John had no idea what to expect when he climbed aboard the stallion, but he looked him in the eye. "Pal, you and I are gonna be friends whether you like it or not."
The horse snorted.
Izzy tilted her head back and hooted. "He's smarter than both of us."
She left the corral and propped her arms on the top rail. Shit, she intended to watch. Only a lesser man would be intimidated at being set up, then judged by a woman, John told himself, as he stuck his boot in the stirrup.
The moment his butt sank to the saddle seat, he knew he was horseback. Dancer reared on his hind legs, bucked on a dime a few times, blew a few snorts and settled down to a fidget. They circled the corral, warming up, then gradually picked up the pace. Rowdy was fast and smart, but Dancer's stamina and footwork amazed John. The stud's response to subtle signals for flying lead changes, sliding stops and turns on the hindquarters soon had John feeling as if the two of them were one entity. When he wanted to—emphasize wanted to—Dancer handled as well as any horse John had ever ridden.
After a half hour of steady work, he reined the horse over to where Izzy stood. "You the one trained this horse?"
She looked up at him, grinning and squinting in the sunshine. "You betcha."
There was no mistaking the pride in the reply. If Dancer was an example of her work, she had plenty to be proud of. "Want me to ride the sorrel?"
"No." She ducked through the pole rails and opened the gate to the large pasture. She mounted the sorrel and rode through with John trailing her. Outside the gate, they rode side by side in an easy walk, letting Dancer cool down in the frosty sunshine.
"This may be the best horse I've ever ridden," John told her. "Like you said, he's ornery, but he's good."
"Thanks."
Isabelle didn't have to be told that much. Among the many horses she had known, she had ridden no better mount than Dancer.
As for John's handling of the rebellious stud, she had seen enough. John had a gentle hand, but a firm hold. His knowledge of horse nature showed and she had seen he had a calm personality himself. Horses were sensitive to human temperament. No way would she allow her babies to be handled by an ill-tempered man.
She looked over at him, cautioning herself not to show too much enthusiasm and jeopardize her chances of cutting a good deal. "I maybe could do something different on the pay."
"I'm listening."
"If I get my asking price for all three horses, it'll be about two or two and a quarter. If you wanted to take a chance and go ahead and work with them, I'd be willing to pay you a percentage when I sell one, or all of them. It's possible I could find one buyer for all three."
She could almost see his brain gears working. A commission on two hundred thousand dollars should make a difference in anyone's thinking.
"What percentage?"
"Two percent, maybe."
He chuckled, showing even white teeth and a twinkle in his green eyes. "C'mon. That doesn't amount to gas money. You gotta do better than that."
She thought he might be teasing her. "Well, I could pay you two percent and let you fill up out of my stand tank."
John laughed. He had a deep male laugh that she liked. "The county buys my gas, even for my own rig."
"Oh. Well, then, guess I'm out of luck. I don't have anything else to offer."
A dare flickered in his eyes. "C'mon, now. I can tell you're an old horse trader, so let's deal. I could be talked into waiting for the pay—if you're willing to double the percentage."
Damn. She did a calculation in her head. She had no idea if she would get her asking price for the horses. She gave a little gasp. "You're talking about a healthy chunk of change. And what if the horses never sell? I won't be able to pay you and you'll arrest me or something."
He tilted his head and raised a palm. "Nope. Fair deal. If nobody buys them, I'll just say I worked for fun."
She cast him a dubious look. What was he up to? Probably something she wouldn't like. "I'll have to think about it."
By the time they returned to the corral, the temptation of having him help her won out. She swung out of the saddle and led Trixie outside the corral. John dismounted and began to unsaddle Dancer. She watched a few minutes, debating how best to approach a deal with him and tamping down one of her greatest fears. What if he asked for something in writing? "We don't need to put anything on paper, do we?"
His eyes bored into hers. "I trust you." He walked over and put out his right hand. "And if all of Callister County trusts me, you oughtta be able to."
In spite of her uncertainty, she smiled and shook hands, feeling the warmth and greater strength of his. Calf ropers did have good hands. A strange little shiver traveled through her.
"Okay," she said. "Four percent. I hope I don't regret this."
Chapter 8
As they carried their gear toward the tack room, Izzy told him she had to go
to Ontario and return before Ava came home from school. John glanced at his watch. The small city of Ontario was over an hour away. He volunteered to finish up in the barn.
She told him thanks and headed for her truck, then waved as she rolled down the driveway.
John put away their tack. Leaving the barn, he stopped at the stand faucet beside the barn door, wiped the spigot opening with his shirtsleeve and knelt for a drink of cold, pure well water. He missed having well water to drink. The tap water in his apartment tasted like bleach and slid down his throat like oil.
He missed more than well water. He missed living in the country. He and Julie had owned a hundred-acre place outside Marsing. They'd had half a dozen good horses and a few cows, a new truck, an SUV and a John Deere farm tractor John used for plowing snow when necessary and doing chores in general. All but the truck and the SUV had been sold during the divorce.
Plopping down on a bench in the barn's shadow, he looked around. The sun had burned off the frost and etched the landscape in colors as vivid as a painting. A hawk hovered over the greening pasture, riding a thermal against an azure sky. A thousand birds perched on the bare branches of an oak tree standing at the corner of the barn, all chittering at once. He heard no other sounds. He loved it.
A profound sense of being severed from his world came over him and he pondered how he had come to the point in his life where he had nothing and nobody. He had been valedictorian of his high school class. He had graduated in the top ten percent of his class at Boise State University and come away with a B.B.A. degree. At one time he held standing in the top ten calf ropers in the country and had numerous endorsements from major companies.
He had fathered two healthy, smart children.
Now, here he was, age thirty-two and broke. All he had to his name was a pickup truck, a horse and a trailer and some riding gear and he didn't even have a pasture for the horse. He had no workable plan for his future. He enjoyed the company of his children only for short spurts and only at his ex-wife's whim. And as for productive work in which he could take pride, he filled a chair in the most ridiculous endeavor in which he had ever involved himself.
He steered his thoughts back from the dark side, needing to home in on constructive events. Something positive had happened today. Helping Izzy with her horses might not aid him much in making his child support payments, but doing it broke the monotony and bleakness of single life in Callister. He had to not lose sight of that.
He returned to the tack room, unstrapped his chinks and spurs and hung them on a nail on the wall, thinking as he did it about the permanence implied by leaving his chaps here.
On the way back to town he continued to muse on how much he had enjoyed the morning and how the solitude and vastness of the outdoors at Rondeau's place touched so deep a chord within him that it set off the uncharacteristic depression.
A few minutes later he pulled into the driveway of his happy home—a two-bedroom apartment that was half of a duplex two blocks from the courthouse. It wasn't the Ritz, to be sure, but it provided the necessities—a big-screen TV in the living room, a functioning refrigerator in the kitchen, a firm, name-brand mattress in one bedroom and exercise equipment in the other.
"Well, you've hung your hat in worse," he mumbled as he killed the truck engine. In fact, when he had been rodeoing and sending all his money home to Julie and the kids, he lived in or slept in everything from an eight-by-ten motel room to an RV to a horse trailer, depending on where his pursuit of a ProRodeo calf-roping prize took him. He didn't miss the joys of too much fast food, sleeping in unfamiliar beds and waking up hungover, but he did miss the camaraderie of fellow competitors, individuals driven to risk limb and life to be the best at their chosen sport.
And he missed having a willing woman, even one he barely knew by name, heat up and relieve that ache low in his belly.
From out of the blue, he remembered the doghouse he had promised. Anticipating the four walls of his empty apartment felt more dismal than usual and he had taken the whole day off. He cranked the engine and pointed his pickup south. Tomorrow he would deliver a new doghouse to Izzy and her little girl.
He returned late afternoon with a fiberglass doghouse to fit a large-sized dog. He hadn't had to go all the way to Boise to buy it after all. He found one at a farm and ranch supply store fifty miles from Callister.
He also found a birthday present for his mother—a pair of silver-and-turquoise earrings he was pretty sure were authentic Zuni. The storeowner's wife had even gift wrapped them. His mom would like them better than the bouquet of flowers he had planned to pick up at Fielder's Mercantile.
He stopped off at the mailbox in front of his apartment before going inside. Though he received little mail, he always checked, just in case one of his sons wrote him. When he pulled out a letter, saw his ex-wife's handwriting and a California return address he didn't recognize, his heart made a happy little leap. At the same time, unease pinched him. She never wrote. She phoned when she wanted something.
John continued to study the letter as he walked into the chilled apartment. He often left the heat off in his absence, so he turned up the thermostat and listened to be sure the antiquated oil furnace clicked on. A few times it had failed and left him shivering through the night.
After what Dancer had put him through, he was stiff. Even working out on his home gym hadn't prepped him for an hour aboard a badass horse. Tomorrow he would be lucky to be able to get out of bed. Damned if he hadn't gotten soft in the past year or two.
He dropped Julie's letter onto the seat of his reclining chair in front of the TV, his memory of their lives together setting off a growing suspicion that the letter held something he wouldn't like. When they were married, he had called her high-strung, a description that gave her the benefit of a doubt and excused some of her more malicious conduct. If someone asked him to describe her now, the words that came to him were "bad temper," "hysteria," "chaos" and "confusion." It was Julie who taught him how much turmoil one small woman could cause.
Without removing his jacket, he put coffee on to drip. While he waited in the kitchen's dull light for the warmth of the coffee and the furnace, he listened to his phone messages. Rooster had been out on a family disturbance call. The other messages were unimportant.
The letter from Julie nagged at him. He sat down with it and a mug of hot coffee. He tore the end off the envelope and pulled out two crisp pages filled with his ex-wife's small, perfectly aligned script. The handwriting style was a reflection of her uptight personality, for sure.
Dear John,
The boys have adjusted to school here and are doing fine. Cody is super smart and making good grades. Trey is struggling with reading like always, but on the whole, they love this place. Carson signed both of them up for Little League when we first got here. They are practicing in a park up the street from our apartment.
John looked up and stared across the room at pictures in silver frames of his towheaded sons, ages ten and almost nine, trying to imagine them playing baseball in a park or closed up in an apartment somewhere in the sea of humanity that was Los Angeles. When they had lived in Marsing, Trey and Cody had their own horses and John took them on trail rides in the mountains.
He sipped his coffee to ward off the pang that settled in his gut and returned to the letter.
There is much to like, living here. Southern California is nothing like Idaho, or Washington either. There is so much opportunity and exposure to so many cultures. It will be super good for the boys.
I would have called you about this, but I was afraid I might catch you when you couldn't talk or something.
She wants more money was John's first thought.
I don't know anything else to do but just come right out and say why I'm writing you. I know you don't like people beating around the bush, so here goes. Carson wants to adopt the boys.
John's fingers began to tremble. He felt a quickness in his chest. Burning moisture rushed to his eyes.
&nb
sp; He's so good with them. He helps Trey with his reading every night, takes them to all the fun stuff to do here. They've already been to Disneyland, Magic Mountain and the other places that kids love. Carson has so many influential friends who can open doors for them and he wants to be able to legitimately call them "his sons." Like he says, if we're going to be a family, then every one of us has to belong to him.
I know you, so you're going to say no. But before you do, I hope you'll think of the boys and what a wonderful opportunity this could be for them.
"No," John said. "Goddammit, no!" He wadded the letter into a ball and threw it across the room, stopped himself just before the coffee mug followed. He sprang to his feet and stomped outside to his truck, clapping on his hat as he went. He jerked open the door and climbed in, fired the engine, then sat there with it idling. He had nowhere to go.
A stunning realization came to him. Not so long ago, a bar would have been his destination of choice.
He crossed his arms over the steering wheel and gazed out at the waning day's golden air. Had Julie gone crazy? Did she honestly believe there was a chance on God's green earth he would give his sons over to some panty-ass he had seen once in his life? He loved those kids and she knew it. He was a good father. No damn way would he give up his sons.
He drove the two blocks to town, crept up the deserted main street, looked, but didn't see much action around the three bars. He followed the street on out of town until he came to the Stony Creek Road intersection. Before he knew it, he had turned off the pavement and headed toward Izzy's house. Why not? He had a doghouse to deliver.
He pulled up near the backyard gate, climbed out and lifted the doghouse over the tailgate. Ava ran to meet him, the puppies at her heels. He hoped she had them under control and was teaching them to stay home. Dealing with another dog incident and Art Karadimos was something John didn't relish.
He carried the doghouse across the yard and placed it beside the existing one near the back door. Ava told him she had bedding. As she went inside, Izzy came out, showering him with a dazzling smile. He almost believed she, too, was glad to see him.
The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 Page 8
