“Sweetheart, you’ve only been to Nevada once, when you were a tiny baby. You might hate the place.”
“Or love it. Gramma loved it, right?”
Anne motioned her daughter into the room, then led her to the fainting couch in the far corner and sat down. She pulled Zoey’s little body into her arms and settled back against the worn, red velvet. The couch had been a wedding present from A.J. and Esther. If A.J.’s claim was true, the ornate piece of furniture once resided at the Mustang Ranch—one of Nevada’s most notorious bordellos.
She stroked Zoey’s baby-fine hair and kissed her ear. “Your grandmother Esther was a free spirit. She sought change like some people seek gold. She met my father at a dance she’d been forbidden to attend. Two weeks later, they eloped and I was born nine months after that.”
Zoey snuggled close. When she sighed, Anne could feel the slight rattle in her chest. Bothersome, but no need for the inhaler, she decided.
“What happened then?” Zoey asked.
“Well, they moved around a lot because Daddy was a salesman. But when I started school, he took a job in a hotel in Springfield, Illinois, so we could stay in one place. Mama worked there, too, on weekends while Daddy stayed home with me. She claimed it was her time off.”
Zoey fiddled with a button on Annie’s shirt. “Then he died, and Grandma was very sad and you moved back to Maine to live with Great-Grandma and Grandpa Jensen for a couple of years, until she stopped being so sad and started living again and went looking for adventure.”
“Who’s telling this story?” Anne teased.
“That’s when she found Grandpa A.J. in Nevada, right?” Zoey asked with a barely stifled yawn. “They wrote love letters. And talked on the phone. Then one day, he showed up in Maine and took her home with him.”
Anne smiled against her daughter’s crown. Her mother had loved to tell that story. “Nobody thought it would work out,” Esther would tell people. “My parents begged me to leave Anne with them, but she’s an adventurer—just like her mother.”
Anne knew that was a lie. In truth, she’d been terrified that her mother would forget about her, her grandparents would die, and she’d be left alone. She’d chosen Nevada out of fear, not adventure.
Zoey’s body went boneless. Anne closed her eyes for a few seconds. She was so tired her joints ached, but she still had to finish packing Zoey’s things then write a report for Roger. Penance of another kind.
She eased the sleeping child down carefully and covered her with a chenille throw. As she walked to the bathroom to pack her toiletries, Anne’s thoughts lingered on her Nevada experience.
To this day, the most memorable moment from that period was the kiss she and Will had shared. Not only her first kiss, but her first French kiss. Will’s tongue in her mouth. A breathless joining of heat and passion that even now brought a flush to her cheek.
She made a face in the mirror and stuck out her tongue. “You’re a hard-luck case,” she muttered. It was just a kiss. No hands under her shirt. Or down her pants. Just a stupid kiss that should have been washed from her memory years ago.
Anne opened the cupboard door and started to fill a zippered plastic bag with cosmetics. A small smile tugged up one corner of her lips. Why do women remember things like that? I bet Will has forgotten it completely. Will had been a year older and light-years more advanced, both socially and sexually. A single kiss would hardly have made much of an impression on someone like him.
He’d barely spoken to her after their encounter on the porch. Not that she’d given him much opportunity, Anne had to admit. Humiliated by his apparent rejection and mortified by her passionate reaction to his touch, she’d scurried the other way anytime she saw him approach.
And something had happened to Will at the national rodeo competition later that summer. She hadn’t attended, of course, but she recalled the grim look on his face when he returned. Not long after that, Will set off to follow his dream of becoming the number-one cowboy in the country.
Anne left for college the following spring. Busy with her career, a difficult marriage and a sick child, she seldom found time to return to the Silver Rose. Despite the familial link, Anne and Will rarely crossed paths—until this past February. At her mother’s funeral.
He’d arrived late. A gentle handshake had segued into a hug. Too numb to cry, Anne had blinked against the fine wool of his suit before he let her go. They’d mumbled words of mutual despair, then she’d been whisked away to catch her plane.
Now, virtual strangers, they were about to become business partners.
WILL CAVANAUGH had debated trying to slip out of the post-event hoopla unnoticed. The PBR, or Professional Bull Riders organization, was known to fine riders as much as five hundred dollars if they failed to make themselves available to the public after an event. And while Will wasn’t worried about the money, he didn’t want to leave the tour on a sour note.
Technically, he wasn’t a competitor. He hadn’t ridden, but he had been introduced to the sellout crowd. His name was still popular with fans. But fame was fleeting once a rider was out of the spotlight.
Thanks to an overly cautious doctor, Will had been sidelined for three months—minimum. If Walt Crain, an orthopedist specializing in sports trauma, had his way, Will would be off the circuit for good.
“Consider yourself the Steve Young of bull riding,” the fifty-something doctor had said after interpreting the results of an extensive round of CAT scans and MRIs. “You could wear two helmets, but nothing will erase that fracture along here,” he’d told Will, pointing to a faint white line in the uppermost vertebra.
To Will, the spidery line didn’t look any different from the fifty or so other breaks and fractures he’d suffered in the course of his career.
“Another poke and you could be eating Jell-O through a straw for the rest of your life—if you’re lucky.”
Walt’s frank, no-nonsense manner made him popular with the riders—unless they were the recipients of the kind of news he’d given Will. For the most part, riders and doctors accepted that in a sport like bull riding, which pitted the brute strength and wily contortions of a two-thousand-pound beast against a man armed only with a rope and spurs, riders would get injured. Broken bones, punctured lungs, and concussions were just part of the job. But Walt drew the line at suicide. “Giving you a green light to climb on the back of a bull would be like signing your death warrant, Will. I won’t do it,” he’d said adamantly. “It’s time for you to think about retirement.”
Washed up at the ripe old age of thirty-three, Will thought bitterly. It wasn’t fair. Bull riding was the only job he’d ever done. He had a high-school diploma, and thanks to thriftiness instilled in him by his grandfather, a fairly healthy bank account. But he was still missing that golden ring, which carried with it the title of champion. A goal he’d been pursuing with single-minded focus forever since high school.
Now, thanks to one man, Will was being told he had to step away. He was angry, frustrated and itching for a fight, but he made sure none of that showed on his face as he strolled through the throng crowding the staging area just beyond the arena where the bull riding had taken place.
Will had been in New Orleans several times. The New Orleans Arena put on a good show—fireworks exploding overhead, pre-event activities on Bourbon Street, good media coverage. Will had watched from the chutes, helping as needed. He knew from experience that a pat on the back or word of encouragement went a long way when a young rider found himself airborne well before the eight-second buzzer.
As he looked around, Will wasn’t surprised to see the largest crowd—kids and a bevy of women—clustered around Troy Jones.
Troy was twenty-three, green as his flashy trademark vest, but basically an intuitive rider with an ideal center of gravity. He was a good kid. Tonight, he’d drawn Rounder, a rank bull with more twists than a hunk of barbed wire. In bull-riding lingo, rank meant mean, nasty and hard to ride. The more difficult the ride, the bett
er the score—provided you could stay on.
Troy had earned eighty-five points for his efforts. Combined with the score from his first bull, it was enough to ensure he’d take home a sizable purse. And by the looks of it, he’d also have his pick of pretty young women.
Lord knows, Will had partaken of his share over the years—both purses and girls. He’d never found the right one, though.
An elbow jostled him. Will put on his game face and turned, ready to sign his name to a hat, program or body part.
“Still pouting, I see.” A small man dressed in Wrangler’s, a black, western-style long-sleeve shirt and black cowboy hat grinned at him.
“Yeah, Doc, better call the waaambulance. I’m about ready to cry.”
Walt Crain laughed.
“You takin’ off tonight, Will, or joining the guys downtown?”
Will had considered staying. He enjoyed the lusty, life-affirming abandon of New Orleans nightlife. The music, the crowds, the liquor. A person could lose himself—and his worries—in the energy. But the chasm of uncertainty facing him didn’t invite revelry. Besides, back in Nevada, his grandfather was chomping at the bit to hit the road.
“The sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be at the ranch,” Will said, making up his mind as he spoke the words. He scanned the now-thinning crowd to judge whether or not he’d put in enough public relations time. Despite what his doctor thought, Will planned to return to bull riding, and he wanted to make his temporary exit on good terms.
Early in his career, Will had enjoyed the meet-and-greet. Bull riding drew fans from all walks of life. Most were positive, enthusiastic and respectful, and usually he found it a pleasure to stand among them. But too often lately, he’d experienced the humiliation of facing the crowd after landing on his butt two seconds into his ride. And he’d never forget the surreal feeling of signing autographs before catching a ride to the emergency room, where Walt was waiting to reset his broken arm.
Will was about to turn away, when a little boy—probably seven or eight, he guessed—ran up to him, an adult-size straw hat in hand. “Could y’all sign this hat for me?” he asked, his wide grin revealing several gaping holes where new teeth were starting to sprout.
Will dropped to one knee. “Sure will, son. What’s your name?”
“Gooley Jompers.” He glanced between the men sheepishly. “It’s really George, but my kin all call me Gooley. My uncle says it’ll make a good bull-riding name. Whattay’ all think?”
Will had to suppress a chuckle. The boy was cute as a puppy and full of life. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for squashing his dreams—that’s what doctors were for. “I think Gooley is a great name. Has a real ring to it.”
He uncapped his fine-line felt-tip marker and signed his name on the hat, in one of the few remaining blank spots. It didn’t surprise him—or even hurt his feelings—that he wasn’t the first to sign. He’d been the first in other years.
He shook the boy’s hand solemnly. “You take care and study real hard in school so nobody can cheat you out of your money when you’re a rich bull rider, okay? You never know when somebody will come along and tell you you can’t ride anymore.”
Gooley nodded as if the words were gospel, but a second later he bolted away with a quick, “Thank ya, suh.”
Will watched him join his parents and stifled a bittersweet sigh. He liked kids and wouldn’t have minded having a couple of his own, but the rolling-stone lifestyle of bull riding didn’t lend itself to settling down. Hell, Will had barely even made it home to see his grandfather and Esther as often as he should have—which was one reason A.J. hadn’t needed to do much arm-twisting to get Will back for the summer. Guilt was a powerful tool. So was not having anything else going on in his life.
He got to his feet with a soft groan. His left knee wasn’t quite healed from the surgery he’d had six months earlier. Nothing serious—just a little nip and tuck to clean up some scar tissue and remove a bit of fluid.
Walt grabbed his shirtsleeve and tugged. “You’re good with kids, Will. I’ve noticed before the way you take the time to talk to them at their level—not like some of the hotshots who only have time for the ladies. Especially the ones with big hooters.”
Will started toward the locker room where his gear was stashed. Walt followed. “Maybe you ought to think about settling down and starting a family,” the older man said.
“Maybe you should mind your own business.” It irked Will to have his thoughts come out of Walt Crain’s mouth.
Walt cuffed Will’s shoulder lightly. “Son, you are my business. That’s why I want to keep you alive. Now, go back to Nevada, find a pretty gal and have a couple of kids. Maybe a few years from now your son will be out there in that arena and you’ll thank me for keeping you alive long enough to see that day.”
Will snorted. Liking kids didn’t automatically make a person a family man. He was a bull rider. First and foremost. And he would be back—just as soon as he paid this debt to his grandfather, the man who’d given him a home and raised him.
Because his grandfather had trained him to treat people civilly, Will turned to the physician and held out his hand. “Look, Doc, I don’t agree with your diagnosis, but until you say otherwise, I’m grounded. I’m heading home for the summer. But come next fall, I’m going to get a second—or third—opinion, because this is my life. I will be back.”
Walt smiled enigmatically and winked. “Unless some sweet young thing sweeps you off your feet.”
Will guffawed—the first time he’d laughed in days. He knew the likelihood of that happening was on par with his winning top-money-earner status this year. His grandfather had already informed Will that he’d be sharing the management duties of the Silver Rose with Anne Fraser.
“You’ll be in charge of the land, the animals and keeping the city slickers from killing themselves. Anne will handle things back at the house,” A.J. had explained.
Will couldn’t imagine how his grandfather had talked Anne into coming back for the summer. From everything Will had heard about her over the years, Anne was as goal oriented and driven in her career of hotel management as Will was in his.
Despite their common history, Will knew surprisingly little about her. An executive of some hotel chain. Divorced, with a young daughter named Zoey. Currently living in New York City.
He pictured her as pretty but reserved. Shy. She’d had a difficult time fitting in when she first moved to the ranch. Will had tried to keep an eye on her, but his high-school rodeo team had been closing in on the state championship that year. Then there’d been his near miss at the title, and his disappointing showing at the Nationals. Life had taken a sharp turn in the opposite direction after that.
Will remembered kissing her once. He’d been attracted to her for reasons he couldn’t wholly define, but she’d made it clear that he wasn’t her type. She planned to attend some big-name college back East and couldn’t wait to leave Nevada behind her. A cowboy didn’t figure into her life then, and from their few brief encounters over the years, Will had no reason to imagine her opinion had changed.
“Like I said, Doc. I’ll see you in Reno in September. Next year, that championship title is mine, and don’t you forget it.”
ZOEY FRASER PEEKED over the rim of the airplane’s window. Her mother said the plane was too high up to see anything, and she was right. Just clouds. Thin wispy layers of gray and white.
She took a deep breath, mentally checking for any telltale sign that something was wrong. At eight-soon-to-be-nine, she was a pro at gauging her excitement level to avoid triggering an asthma attack, but this trip had her very excited. She felt in the pocket of her sweatshirt to make sure her inhaler was there.
“What will Maria do without us, Mom?” Zoey asked, glancing toward her mother, who’d been staring at the same page of her magazine for ten minutes. Zoey was pretty good at gauging her mother’s moods, too.
“She already has a temporary job for the summer. Didn’
t I tell you that?” Mom asked, blinking repeatedly as if coming out of a dream. Zoey knew her mother was tired. And stressed. Who wouldn’t be with all that was going on? This summer would be good for her—even if she didn’t want to leave her job.
Her job. Zoey frowned. Her mother’s job—and that ugly troll Mr. McFinney—was the reason Zoey spent more time with her nanny than she did with her mother.
Zoey couldn’t wait to get to Nevada—it was a whole country away from Roger McFinney. Zoey didn’t care if they ever returned to New York. It was an okay city, but her school was crowded and the older boys were mean and pushy. The girls were cliquish and it was hard to make friends. Two girls from her school lived in her building, but they were older. They talked about boys and worried about their weight and clothes. Zoey didn’t care about any of those things. She wanted a dog, which her mother would never agree to as long as they lived in the city. She wanted to ride a horse, which she might get to do while living on a ranch. And more than anything, she wanted her mother not to work so hard.
The airplane gave a little bump and Mom reached out to touch Zoey’s leg, as if to reassure herself her baby was okay. Zoey frowned. She wasn’t a baby anymore. She would turn nine in July. She wondered if her mother would throw her a party. Who would come? Did any kids stay at the dude ranch? Summer birthdays were no fun, Zoey thought. Kids whose birthdays came during the school year got parties with lots of friends and presents. Zoey didn’t care about the presents that much, but she’d always dreamed about having a big party with lots of fun games and a special cake.
Maybe I’ll grow this summer, she thought. A ranch sounded like a great place to do outdoors things. Fresh air and exercise. According to Grandpa A.J., that’s just what Zoey needed to beat her asthma. Zoey hoped he was right. She was tired of being sick. She’d visited the emergency room so often she knew which nurses hurt you when they took your blood and which gave candy suckers.
A Cowboy Summer (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 2
