The Cowboy and the Angel

by T. J. Kline

  “It’s going to be beautiful, Derek.” She stopped and turned toward him. “You never wanted to do this instead of rodeo?”

  He shrugged. “Rodeo is what we do. Building this is just how I unwind and find myself.”

  “You were lost?”

  He knew she was teasing when she asked, but it felt like a knife plunged into his heart. He didn’t think she noticed the change in him until she stopped walking and stood in front of him. “Open book, remember?”

  Derek gave her a lopsided grin. “Why is it that I am an open book but you aren’t?” He leaned back against one of the beams and pulled her between his thighs, curling his arms around her back.

  “Remember when I told you there was some tension between me and Scott?” She nodded and curled her arms around his waist, making it difficult for him to concentrate. “I’ve always tended to be the ‘black sheep,’ the one who never wanted to grow up and accept responsibility.”

  “Who, you?” He knew she was trying to keep the mood light, but he had to get this off his chest. He had to make her see why he couldn’t let his family down again, what kind of man he really was, even at the risk of losing her. His chest ached as he forced himself to go on.

  “Last year that irresponsibility almost got Sydney killed. I got involved in something that got out of control quickly. I let myself be conned into doing something completely self-serving and by the time I realized I wanted out, it was too late. Sydney was hurt, and the stallion we’d planned on building our entire breeding program on was killed.” He clenched his jaw, trying not to relive the anguish he’d felt over the pain he’d caused. “I nearly destroyed everything my family had been working for, and Sydney paid the price for my selfish irresponsibility.”

  ANGELA COULDN’T IMAGINE him deliberately doing anything that would harm his family. She recognized the self-loathing in his eyes and could see he blamed himself for what had happened, whether or not it was his fault. Maybe he hadn’t always been the man he was now. Maybe his mistakes had shaped him. She certainly understood how circumstances and decisions, especially painful ones, altered the future.

  Surrounded by his arms, the home he was creating to find himself again, and his vulnerability, something inside her broke. She didn’t want to carry her burden alone, any more than she wanted him to bear his in silence. She fingered the chain on her neck, wanting nothing more than to erase the pain in his eyes, even if it meant sharing her most painful memory.

  “I understand what it is to live with regrets.” She brushed her hand over his jaw. “My mother died when I was eight years old. I remember hearing my parents fighting in their room. They were always fighting.” She stared at the center of his chest and gave a bitter laugh. “I ran into their room and yelled at Mom to leave him alone. Not because she was wrong, but I knew if they kept fighting Dad would just start drinking again. I’d seen it happen before,” she whispered.

  She shook her head at the memory. It had been years since she allowed herself to think about that night. She didn’t want to lose herself in the emotions completely. Derek’s hands were warm on her hips, holding her against him, supportive without being forceful. He shared her pain rather than turning away from her grief the way her father had done. Even Joe, in their long friendship, hadn’t allowed her the opportunity to open the vault of her heartache and purge it. But Derek welcomed the downpour of her pain with a sensitivity she’d hadn’t expected.

  “Mama didn’t listen. They kept fighting. I don’t even remember what it was about. The next thing I knew she was heading for the front door and ran out into the rain. My father followed her out the door, yelling at her to get out.” She laughed bitterly. “He tried to kick her out.”

  “Angel,” he whispered. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and wiped the tear slipping down her cheek. That one word on his lips gave her the courage to press on, trusting him with her vulnerability.

  “I followed them to the stoop and she ran into the street.” Tears coursed down her cheek now and her hands fisted against his chest. “She never saw the car coming. I held her hand until the ambulance took her away, but she wasn’t conscious.”

  She looked up at him. “I didn’t even go to the hospital. I took care of my grief-stricken, drunk father instead of going with her. I never got to tell her goodbye.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Angela could read sympathy in his eyes, but there was more: bitterness and anger bubbling behind the tenderness he directed toward her. “Angel, I can’t imagine facing that choice as a child, but you took care of him. Your mother wouldn’t want you to shoulder this blame.” His brushed her hair from her cheek, kissing her eyelids. “You have no idea how much it means to me that you would share this.”

  He sighed and she felt the tension fall over his shoulders. “My mistake was different. It was made by an immature, spoiled man, deliberately and selfishly. There will never be anything I can do to bring back what was lost or make up for the pain it caused.”

  His voice echoed with his self-contempt as he looked around the framework of his house. “I don’t deserve this, or the forgiveness my family has given me.” He cupped her face, his lips meeting hers in a soft caress filled with heartache. “Or you. But I need you to understand what sort of man it’s made me. I can never disappoint them that way again. Not even for you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  ANGELA PUT HER fingers to her lips, which still tingled from Derek’s kisses, as she drove her sedan toward town. It had been an emotionally draining morning but she felt oddly relieved after telling Derek about her mother’s death. She wasn’t sure why she’d opened that door and allowed him to see the depths of her pain. She’d never even told Joe what had happened that night. Maybe she wanted him to know she understood the sorrow of his regret, or perhaps it was because she felt safe with him, as if he could rescue her from the grip of her past.

  You better get control of yourself. He’s not a knight in shining armor. You don’t know this guy well enough to let him in this way.

  She twisted the volume button on the car stereo, hoping some music would sooth her mind. Her Instead, she could only think about the way she’d draped herself across Derek’s chest with her hands wrapped around his neck, her lips on his, and his hands covering her breasts. She felt a blush creep over her shoulders and neck. How could she have been so shameless? A slow sizzle of desire circled in her stomach as she remembered whimpering with pleasure at his touch. How could nothing more than a thought of him cause a reaction like this when no other man had so much as stirred a single flutter?

  Her phone chirped from the center console of the car and she glanced at the caller ID, pressing a button on the steering wheel to answer it, grateful for the distraction from her carnal thoughts. “Hey, Joe. I hope you have good news for me.”

  “You on the way to talk with the vet?”

  “I am. Depending on what I get from him, I’ll have a better idea which direction this story will take.”

  She heard the pause from the other end of the phone. “What do you mean, ‘which direction’? I thought you already knew that.” He sounded suspicious. “What’s going on out there, Gigi?”

  “Nothing,” she denied quickly. “But right now there’s nothing to indicate abuse at all. In fact, what I’ve seen disputes all of my research. Maybe we should try taking the other side,” she suggested.

  “Are you kidding?” His voice rang with impatience. Joe was known as the Tyrant of Channel 12 for a reason—it was his way or no way.

  “I’m just trying to think outside of the box. There are plenty of stories covering animal cruelty. What about one that proves the animals aren’t hurt?”

  “You were the one who brought me this story. You insisted on heading out there to prove your theory and now you’re telling me you don’t have a story after all?”

  “Well, I’m just thinking . . .”

  “If there’s no abuse, get your ass back here and quit wasting my time.” The threat i
n his voice caused panic to ripple down her spine.

  “There might be a few leads to follow up on after the interview today. And I still have the rodeo this weekend. I’ll let you know then.”

  “Follow up on them today and call me.” She could hear the finality in his voice. Friend or not, he wouldn’t allow her to cost the station any unnecessary time or money. “And, Gigi, call your dad.”

  “Is he okay?”

  His voice immediately returned to that of her friend. “He’s fine, but he misses you. He needs to hear your voice.”

  She sighed but was glad to have the concerned note back in his voice. “You know, you’re kind of a nag, Joe.”

  His chuckle filled the car. “And you’re still my favorite reporter. But they are bugging me to get you back on the air. They’re convinced people won’t tune in if they don’t get to see your pretty face soon. Monica just isn’t as good as you are and viewers aren’t talking. When they aren’t talking, they aren’t watching.” He hesitated, as if unsure how to say what he wanted. “Gigi, I can’t lose you,” he confessed.

  “Joe, I . . .” She let her words hang. She wasn’t sure how to respond. She’d always been honest with him about her feelings, or lack of them, and he knew she needed to leave to help her father. Every time he reminded her of his affection for her, guilt ate at her, threatening to overwhelm her, reminding her of how easy it would be to stay in the pitiful circumstances she found sadly comfortable.

  “Just call me tomorrow and let me know the status of the story.” He hung up before she could even respond.

  “DR. BRADFORD,” ANGELA greeted the vet, thrusting out her hand. “Thank you so much for taking time to talk with me today.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  She took a seat across from his massive metal desk. The office was decorated with various awards and degrees framed on the wall, in addition to several cards, pictures and collages of animals that he’d treated. The entire wall behind the doctor was covered with files sporting multicolored tabs. Angela inhaled the scent of antiseptic and looked around her, impressed by the cleanliness, before glancing back at the man sitting with his hands folded over a slightly round belly. He appeared to be about fifty, and his hair, what was left of it, was completely white and stood in messy tufts. His eyes were filled with humor, as if he were waiting for the punch line of a joke, and he gave her a friendly smile.

  “I understand you’re looking for my professional opinion about rodeo.”

  “I have a few questions, but mainly specific questions about the care of the animals.”

  “Shoot.” He leaned back, his chair creaking loudly.

  She pulled a small recorder from her purse and held it up. “Do you mind?” Dr. Bradford stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. She placed the recorder on his desk and pressed the button. “Dr. Bradford, can you please state your occupation.”

  “I’ve been a large-animal veterinarian for the last thirty years, operating my own practice for twenty-two of those.”

  “Have you ever been called out to a rodeo in a professional capacity?” She skimmed her notes.

  “I’ve worked as the vet for several local rodeos, both professional and amateur, and I’ve attended several ranch rodeos.”

  Angela looked up and frowned. “What’s the difference?”

  “A ranch rodeo is simply an event that a ranch owner puts on. Anyone can do it—provide stock, make up their own events . . . whatever. An amateur event is usually very similar to a professional rodeo but isn’t sanctioned. It’s usually where most cowboys, and girls,” he clarified, “get started. Then there are professional rodeos, those sanctioned by a governing branch, complete with rules. The purse at a pro rodeo is much bigger than at an amateur.”

  “So it’s like a baseball player starting in the minor leagues before going to the majors?”

  “Exactly.”

  She jotted down a reminder in her notebook of the comparison. “What about stock contractors? Are they all the same or are there amateur and professionals with them as well?”

  “Absolutely. But just like the cowboys, stock contractors have a number of requirements they have to fulfill to be considered ‘professional.’” He tilted his head at her. “Looking at someone specifically?”

  Angela bit her lower lips. She didn’t really want to bring up Findley Brothers but couldn’t ignore his direct question. “Maybe,” she hedged. “What about the animals themselves? Any requirements for them?”

  Dr. Bradford shrugged. “That depends on what you mean by requirements. They need to fall within certain ages or weights for some events. They must be considered healthy.”

  “Who decides that?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets a bit sticky. The rules don’t really say and most people assume it’s the vet on site. But, if the stock contractor is less than . . . conscientious about their animal care then . . .” He shrugged, not finishing his sentence, leaving his meaning clear. There were times the animals performed when they weren’t “healthy.”

  “Who polices the stock contractors?”

  “It’s supposed to be the judges. The same judges that the stock contractor hires. It’s a bit of a catch-22.” He raised his bushy brows, waiting for her to make the connection and ask another question.

  “In the rodeos you attended, were animals injured?”

  Dr. Bradford chuckled quietly. “You better define ‘injured’ because that could be a very broad spectrum. Animals are injured in pastures every day. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many times I’m called out to patch up a horse that has run through a fence or has been punctured by a branch on a tree. I love what I do, Angela, but we aren’t dealing with an overabundance of intelligence in many cases. Even the best-trained horses can hurt themselves, in a stall or at a rodeo. But, assuming you mean significant injuries requiring veterinarian care, I have been needed only once in over fifteen years and probably forty or fifty rodeos.”

  Angela frowned. Her story seemed to be falling apart in the middle of her interview. “That’s it?”

  “Not what you were expecting? That one time was for a mare that got overexcited in the chute and began flailing. When she wouldn’t calm, the stock contractor opened the chute and let her loose. As she was turned loose, she kicked at the gate and appeared lame when she was in the pen afterward. She was treated with bute on site and brought here after the rodeo for X-rays, which showed a small crack in the coffin bone. We had a farrier called in for special shoes, and after returning home she was confined until it healed. I heard they retired her to pasture and to be a broodmare afterward—due to her temperament, not her injury.”

  “But I’ve seen several videos with animals, especially cattle, injured in the roping events.”

  “It can happen, but it’s usually when a green cowboy or horse is involved. Stock contractors can use those calves for only a short time because they outgrow the weight and age limitations, so most don’t keep a ton of them on ranches. If cowboys injure them, they are forced to purchase more. I’ve seen a few contractors go after the cowboys for fines because their horse choked a calf by pulling backward in a roping event.” He shook his head and smoothed back a few stray tufts of hair on the top of his head. “Like I said, it happens, but I’ve never seen an injury from it.”

  Angela continued to interview the vet but was surprised by several of his answers. There might be a story here, but the evidence was for the other side. Joe wasn’t going to be happy, and she could see her hopes of an anchor position slipping away. She flipped through a few pages of her notes.

  “You mentioned ‘bute’ earlier, what’s that?”

  “Phenylbutazone. It’s an NSAID for horses. Like ibuprofen. It’s used for pain relief, reducing inflammation, things like that.”

  “Could that be considered a performance-enhancing drug?”

  He puckered his lips and bobbed his head from side to side thoughtfully. “Maybe. I guess if the animal was injured and you didn’t want anyone
to know. I would be more likely you’d see that from the horses trailered in for roping events or in barrel racing than from the stock contractor though. Even then, the livelihood of that cowboy depends on his animal, and running an injured animal will only break it down faster. Cowboys know that. There are others—bronchodilators, stimulants—but they are used more often in horse racing than rodeo. I’ve never personally seen anything used by contractors or competitors. Then again,” he pointed out, “I’ve never tested for any of them either.”

  She read through her quickly scribbled notes again. “I think that’s all of my questions, doctor. You’ve been incredibly helpful. I appreciate the unbiased answers. It was exactly what I was looking for.” Angela rose from her chair and turned off the recorder.

  “Have you thought about talking with Mike Findley, from Findley Brothers? He’s not too far from here.”

  “I’m actually heading back out to the ranch. Mike has been kind enough to let me stay there to see a few professional rodeos first hand.”

  Dr. Bradford walked her to her car. “You won’t find a nicer man than Mike, or his partners, the Chandlers. They love what they do. But, like I said, not all people are like them. I wish they were.”

  She turned and looked him in the eye. “Off the record, Dr. Bradford, do you support rodeo?”

  The vet took a deep breath, considering his words before answering slowly. “I’m not unsupportive of it. I’ve seen far worse abuse, neglect, and animal cruelty outside the rodeo arena than I ever saw inside.”

  “EARTH TO DEREK.”

  Derek shook his head, dragging his thoughts back to the present as his brother held the wire clippers toward him. Scott shot him a knowing grin. “You going to finish this fence or fantasize?”

  Derek grabbed the tool from his brother and snapped off the end of the fencing, bending the rough edge back into the fence post for safety. “What the hell are you talking about? I was listening.”

  “Really?” Scott raised his brows in disbelief. “Then you have a suggestion for this weekend?”