A Cowboy Summer (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Salonen, Debra

  “How do you feel?”

  Startled from her thoughts, Zoey frowned and looked out the window. “Fine.” One part of Zoey liked it that Mom worried about her, but another part hated to be treated like a baby.

  “Good. Sometimes the recirculated air really bothers me when I’m on a long flight. Do you want a drink of water? I brought two bottles.”

  Zoey knew that. She’d unpacked them during the inspection of their bags. The frowning man in uniform had spent five minutes examining Zoey’s plastic zippered bag full of medicine bottles. Finally, he’d given her a sympathetic smile and let them pass.

  It made her mad when people acted as if she was pathetic.

  “Do you want to play cards?” her mother asked through a yawn.

  “Sure. Old Maid?” Zoey produced the pack from her carry-on bag. They’d played hours of the game in hospital waiting rooms. As she dealt the cards on their fold-down plastic tables, she asked, “Can I ride a horse this summer?”

  Mom picked up each card and immediately arranged it in her hand. “The horses are there for the guests, honey. The Silver Rose gives them a chance to practice their equestrian skills,” she replied, a subtle emphasis on the second-to-last word.

  Zoey rolled her eyes. Her mother loved to use big words to challenge Zoey’s vocabulary. “Horseback riding,” she supplied, because she liked knowing the answer.

  “Very good. Can you spell it?”

  No. “I could, but I’m on vacation.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  They looked at each other and laughed. Her mother winked. “You’re a good sport. Thanks for putting up with me, pal.”

  Zoey’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t from asthma. She loved her mother, but she worried about her, too. Mom had changed in these past few months. Zoey didn’t know if it was from her job or from Grandma Esther dying or what. But she had bags under her eyes—not that they made her less pretty. Zoey noticed the way men looked at her mother, even if Mom didn’t.

  That was another reason Zoey thought this move might be good for them. Maybe in Nevada, Mom would meet a man. Possibly even a cowboy. Which might not seem like her mother’s type, but a cowboy would have horses, and riding a horse was Zoey’s goal in life.

  “You know, Mommy, someday I’ll be gone.”

  Anne gave a horrified gasp.

  “To college.”

  Without thinking, Mom laid down a card that played right into Zoey’s hand.

  “I win,” Zoey said. Her mother was really easy to beat when she was distracted.

  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you, my sweet little cheat?” Mom’s teasing tone made Zoey smile.

  Zoey used her special Hello Kitty pen to draw a cross on her tablet, then put their names at the top of the two columns. After writing down the score, Zoey said, “I think you should get married again.”

  The cards went flying every which way, like germs when somebody sneezed. “Did you do that just to watch me pick up cards?” her mother asked. Her neck was scrunched up against the seat in front of her. “You’ll have to get the Old Maid, I can’t reach her.”

  Zoey squeezed into the space with no problem. She retrieved the card. “I said it because I don’t want you to be lonely. To wind up an old maid.” She looked at the image on the card in her hand. The cartoon figure had buck teeth, silly socks pulled up to her knobby knees, fat ringlets and big lips. “Maria says women who aren’t married by the time they’re thirty are old maids.” She glanced at the card again. “Not that you look like one. You’re beautiful. And nice. I think some man would like to marry you a lot.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Well, thank you for that endorsement.” She tucked the Old Maid card back into the deck and finished shuffling. As she dealt the cards, she said, “You know, honey, I don’t have anything against marriage. I loved your daddy to pieces when we first got married. But marriage is a lot of work, and I’m pretty busy with my job. And you.”

  Zoey could vouch for that. Some nights she was asleep before her mom got home. Maria was nice, but she wasn’t as smart and fun as her mom. And she spent a lot of time playing blackjack on the computer—although Zoey didn’t share that information with Mom. There were worse things than a nanny who gambled. Like after-school child care. Little kids with runny noses. Bad smells from wet coats and stinky feet in the locker room.

  Zoey had been sick so much of that first year of school, her teachers had suggested holding her back a grade. Instead, Mom had hired Maria. No more before-school and after-school day care.

  “I just think you should think about getting married.”

  Mom appeared to be concentrating on the game. “Okay.”

  “I’ll learn to ride a horse and you’ll look for a husband.”

  Her mother lowered her cards. Her left eyebrow rose in an arch. “We’ll see.”

  Zoey took a deep breath to keep her excitement from getting out of hand. Her mom had sorta agreed to think about letting Zoey ride a horse—which, of course, had been the whole point of bringing up the idea of marriage. It deflected Mom’s focus from the important topic. Not that marriage wasn’t important, but Zoey knew her mother would never get married again. She was too busy to fall in love.

  But, then again, like Grandpa said on the phone the last time they talked, “This summer is about fixing the past and getting a fresh start on the future. Who knows what will happen, kiddo?”

  Her mother cleared her throat. “Your turn.”

  The chuckle in her voice made Zoey expect the worst. Sure enough, she had to pick up the Old Maid. But at the moment, Zoey felt too happy to care.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WHAT A BEAUTY!” A. J. Cavanaugh said, running his hand along the fender of his 1998 Fairwinds motor home.

  It wasn’t beautiful. Not really. But the odometer read eighty-five thousand miles, and he’d bought it for a song. And Esther couldn’t see what it looked like. Maybe she could, but he preferred to think of her spirit as resting peacefully in the bronze metal box on the passenger seat. Once they got to the Atlantic Ocean in northern Maine, he would release her ashes in the wind and set her free.

  That was his mission. The motor home was gassed and lubed. It had new tires and brakes. He’d given it a thorough cleaning then stocked it with provisions, realizing belatedly that this wasn’t a Conestoga wagon and he could stop and buy anything he needed along the way.

  With luck, A.J. would hit the road in the morning. The girls— Anne and Zoey—were upstairs settling in. Will was due any time. The coming weekend would see the arrival of the first Silver Rose guests of the season, which in A.J.’s mind marked the beginning of summer.

  “Grandpa, may I look inside?” A.J. planted the heel of his boot in the loose gravel of the driveway and turned to look at the sprite standing at the open door of the motor home. He hadn’t even heard her approach. A bit small for her age but bright-eyed and inquisitive, Zoey waited patiently for his answer.

  Needs some fresh air and exercise, A.J. decided. A summer in Nevada might just be the ticket.

  “Of course you can, sweet child. Hop aboard.”

  She gamely clambered up the metal step. A.J. followed.

  “It’s nice,” she said, slowly spinning about to take it all in. She pointed at the wall-to-wall bed at the rear of the vehicle. “That looks cozy. You’ll be comfortable there, won’t you?”

  “I will, indeed, Miss Zoey,” A.J. agreed, watching her closely to see if she’d inherited any of her grandmother’s wry humor and gusto for life.

  She discreetly checked out the bathroom facilities then poked about the galley, asking questions nonstop. When she stepped to the helm to survey the view through the wide front windshield, she froze, her gaze dropping to the polished bronze box on the passenger seat. “Is that…?”

  “Your grandmother’s ashes? Yes, it is. This is her trip, so I put her where she can see everything.”

  Zoey’s eyes grew round, and her bottom lip disappeared behind her two prominent new teeth.
Too late, it occurred to him that Anne might not have explained about cremation. Zoey had been sick when Esther’s funeral had taken place, so she might not understand the process.

  He sat down at the built-in dining table and reached out to catch her delicate wrist in his hand. “Come’re, sweetheart. Let’s talk.”

  She came docilely. He picked her up and placed her on his knee. It had been a long time since he’d had a grandchild small enough to bounce on his knee. He hadn’t realized that he’d missed the feeling.

  “I don’t know what your mama thinks about this trip of mine, but she came when I asked her, so I have to assume she understands. Your grandma and I made a lot of plans—”

  “For when you got old?” Zoey asked.

  “Exactly. But she got sick. It came on real fast and we weren’t able to do some of the things we planned.”

  “Like take a trip,” she said sagely.

  He bussed the top of her head. “That’s right. Now, some people when they die want their bodies buried in the ground so their friends and relatives can stop by and pay their respects. Grandma Esther thought that was a waste of time. She used to say, ‘People have better things to do than put flowers on graves. I want my ashes sprinkled in the Atlantic Ocean.’’”

  “How did she get to be ashes?”

  A.J. didn’t believe in lying to children. “In a beautiful fire.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  His heart clutched in his chest. “No, sweetness, it didn’t.”

  She cocked her head and looked at the box. “Good.” A second later, she hopped down, then walked to the seat and leaned across the space to pat the box. “Bye-bye, Grandma. Hope you like the ocean.”

  A.J.’s throat was too tight to speak, his eyes moist. He’d cried more tears in the past few months than in all his seventy-plus years. When he’d been told his only son and daughter-in-law had been killed in a car accident, A.J. had felt gut shot. But there had been so many demands on him at the time—two funerals, his wife’s debilitating grief, his nine-year-old grandson—he never had time to feel sorry for himself. Not so with Esther.

  “Zoey,” an out-of-breath voice wheezed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought you were resting.”

  A.J. rose as his stepdaughter entered the motor home. “My fault, Annie. We were jabbering away.”

  Zoey grabbed her mother’s hand. “He’s got Grandma in a box on the front seat. Wanna see?”

  Anne’s features froze in shock.

  “Don’t worry. He burned her up first.”

  Anne’s gaze went from the seat to A.J. After a split second of horrified panic, she laughed. A.J. chuckled, too.

  Anne stepped to her daughter’s side and leaned over the seat. She, too, patted the box. “Nice job, A.J. Mom would love this view.”

  A.J. turned away and pretended to straighten some packages of instant oatmeal. He had enough provisions to last all summer, but the planning kept him from thinking about the long, lonely drive ahead.

  As if sensing his anguish, Anne came up to him and put her arms around his middle, hugging him from behind. “This is a good thing you’re doing. I’m sorry I gave you any grief about it. I really am glad to be here.”

  He squeezed her hands where they met at his belly. He’d put on a bit of a spare tire thanks to Esther’s good cooking. Some of that weight had melted away from worry when Esther was sick, but after she passed, the church ladies and his neighbors’ wives had kept him supplied with casseroles and cookies. He’d eaten some and relegated the rest to the freezer—in case Anne wasn’t the cook her mother had been.

  The guests who were scheduled for the summer were mostly repeats. All had been apprised of the change awaiting them and not one had canceled or expressed anything but sincere sympathy. He’d sent out letters offering to refund those who had paid. None had accepted. To anyone calling about vacancies, he spelled out the changes. To his surprise, the place was booked solid through the end of August.

  A.J. knew the repeat customers would miss Esther’s hospitality and friendship almost as much as they’d miss her cooking. He reckoned Anne was smart enough to handle the kitchen, or to hire someone who could, but he couldn’t help worrying that nobody could truly replace Esther. He doubted Anne—even though she was beautiful and possessed a sweet, open smile when she wasn’t worrying about something—would ever achieve the same personal touch her mother had had with people.

  But that wasn’t his problem. Anne would work something out. She was the most organized person he’d ever met.

  “Thank you, dear,” he said. “I don’t feel like quite such a bully now.”

  She stepped away and sat down in the spot he’d vacated. “Did you have to do a lot of arm-twisting with Will? Or does the bull-riding circuit take the summer off?”

  “It goes all year, for the most part. But Will landed wrong a month or so ago and banged himself up. The doctor wants him to rest up a bit.”

  She had a serious look on her face. He could tell she was concerned about sharing the managerial duties with his grandson. Before she could say anything, Zoey asked, “Do you have a horse I can ride, Grandpa?”

  Anne’s expression turned to horror.

  “We have lots of horses, but before anybody gets on one around here, they gotta learn how to ride. Do you know how to ride?”

  Zoey’s thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Is it like riding a bike? I can do that. Mommy taught me. She has a scar on her elbow to prove it.”

  “Mommy has the scar?”

  Zoey grabbed her mother’s arm and lifted it like a boxer who has just won a match. “Right there. See? She tried to stop me when I forgot how to make the brakes work and we crashed into some boxes where the homeless people sometimes live. She landed on a wine bottle and it cut deep. We had to go to the emergency room, only this time it was ’cause of her, not me.”

  Anne confirmed the story. “Six stitches and a tetanus shot.”

  “Maybe horseback riding is safer. No wine bottles to fall on.”

  “But there are boulders and barbed-wire fences, and a horse is a lot farther off the ground than a bike,” Anne said, her tone leaving no question how she felt about her daughter on horseback.

  “Your mother is right, Zoey. Any sport is dangerous—until you’re good at it. Even bicycle riding. If you’re willing to learn how to ride a horse safely, I’m sure you’ll be able to talk your mom into letting you give it a try.” Anne’s forehead furrowed and her lips compressed. “With supervision.”

  He almost smiled at the image of his rough-and-tough bull-rider grandson teaching the petite, feminine eight-year-old how to ride.

  Anne rose. “Well, Zoey, we’d better get the rest of our stuff unpacked and survey the kitchen. Guests start coming soon. There’s a lot to do to get ready.”

  Once the two were gone, A.J. slipped into the driver’s seat. He glanced at his traveling companion. He could almost picture Esther’s long, thick silver hair waving in the breeze from the open window, her round face smiling.

  “Why are you always smiling, Esther?” he once asked.

  “Because you’ve given me the best life anyone could ask for, Albert John Cavanaugh. And I love you.”

  A.J. wiped his leaky eyes with the back of his hand. “I love you, too, dear,” he whispered.

  WILL WAS GRATEFUL to reach the turnoff to the ranch before sunset. His drive had taken longer than expected thanks to a water-pump problem in Tonapah. Luckily, the local garage had had one in stock, and he had been on his way again after a three-hour delay.

  He’d tried calling from the gas station, but no one had picked up, not even the service that handled Silver Rose bookings. The clock on the dash told him he’d missed dinner. His growling stomach agreed.

  If Esther were alive, dinner would be warming in the oven, no matter how late he arrived. Will hadn’t realized just how dear his grandfather’s second wife had been to him until she was gone.

  He’d barely made it back for the tail end of he
r funeral. The sad affair had been further hindered by the weather—a blizzard that had reached all the way to Denver and stranded him overnight at the airport. In lieu of a burial, mourners had gathered at the mortuary in town for a service and returned to the Silver Rose afterward for food and drink.

  He only saw Esther’s daughter, Anne, for a few brief moments before some high-school friends interrupted. It was the first contact they’d had in nearly fifteen years. Although Will had visited the old homestead often, his stay had never coincided with Anne’s. She’d matured into a beautiful woman who hid her pain well. Only her eyes reflected the depth of her loss. He’d watched her comfort her mother’s many friends and community members, without revealing her own grief.

  It touched Will’s heart to see how gentle she was with A.J. who, for the first time Will could picture, seemed truly overwhelmed.

  A.J. was the rock in Will’s life—the fortress that weathered every storm. To see the man so completely lost was unnerving. The coward in him wanted to leave just so he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality that his grandfather was getting old.

  Whether Anne was aware of it or not, she’d fulfilled the role of hostess just as her mother would have done, making sure every coffee cup—or whiskey glass—was full, gently directing the generous ladies of the church society as they fed the thirty or so people present. She comforted strangers who’d grown to love and respect her mother.

  Deciding the activity kept her from dwelling on her mother’s absence, Will kept in the background. But when he looked around an hour or so later, he realized that she’d disappeared.

  “Where’d Anne go?” he’d asked his grandfather as things began to wind down. Will had already checked the kitchen and study. “Is she lying down upstairs?”

  A.J. gave him a glassy-eyed look and shook his head. “She went home. Baltimore, ain’t it? Or is it New York City? She’s moved so many times I lost track.”

  “She left?” Will croaked. The fact that she hadn’t said goodbye stung, but he wasn’t sure why.