Last Chance Cowboy

by Cathy McDavid

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “We called. Last week.”

  “I received no phone call.”

  “It’s noted in the records. I don’t have the name of the individual we spoke to offhand, but I can easily obtain it if you give me a minute.”

  He glanced at the girl—Cassie, wasn’t it?—and his gaze narrowed.

  “Don’t look at me,” she protested, a hint of defiance in the downward turn of her mouth.

  Not that Sage was good at determining ages, but Gavin Powell didn’t appear old enough to be Cassie’s father. Sage guessed him to be around her own thirty-one years. Maybe older. Rugged and tanned complexions like his could be misleading.

  Broad shoulders and well-muscled forearms also spoke of a life dedicated to hard physical labor and being outdoors. She’d always found that kind of man attractive. One who rode a horse or swung a hammer or chopped trees rather than earning his pay from behind a desk.

  Gavin Powell exemplified that type, with the glaring addition of a very testy and confrontational personality. Something she didn’t find attractive.

  Sage stood straighter. She’d come to Powell Ranch on business, after all. Not to check out the available men.

  “Is it possible someone else took the call and didn’t tell you?” she asked.

  “Not likely.”

  “Grandpa forgets to tell you stuff all the time,” Cassie interjected.

  “Go do your homework,” Gavin told her.

  “I hardly have any. I did most of it in class.”

  “Now.”

  “Dad!”

  Her cajoling had no effect on him. At a stern “Cassie,” she exited the room, another flash of defiance in her eyes.

  So, the girl was his daughter. No sooner did Sage wonder how often those exchanges happened than she reminded herself it was none of her concern.

  “Sorry about that,” he mumbled when his daughter had gone.

  For a tiny moment, he appeared human. And vulnerable.

  “I have a daughter, too,” she admitted, “though she’s only six.”

  Why in the world had she told him that? She rarely discussed Isa when on the job. It was easier when dealing with obstinate or difficult individuals—an unfortunate and commonplace occurrence in her job—to keep the discussions impersonal.

  She promptly brought the subject back around. “Look, Mr. Powell. I’m here to capture the horse, which can’t be allowed to wander on state and city land. I’d like your help.”

  His scowl deepened. Heck, maybe it was permanent.

  “To be honest,” she said, making a civil plea, “I really need it. You know this area, I don’t. And from the information you sent the BLM, you’ve clearly been tracking the horse.”

  “No.” He shook his head. A lock of jet-black hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back with an impatient swipe. “I want the mustang, Ms. Navarre. I won’t help you.”

  “If you persist in capturing him yourself, I’ll report you to the authorities.”

  “No kidding?” The challenge in his tone told her she would have to go that far, and perhaps further, to obtain his cooperation.

  Sage released a frustrated sigh. Her tidy plan was unraveling at an alarming rate. A few days, a week at the most, was all the time she had to capture the horse. Then, as she and her boss had agreed, she’d spend her annual two weeks’ vacation in nearby Scottsdale visiting her cousin. It was the main reason she’d asked to be assigned to this case—locating and confronting her errant ex with her attorney cousin-in-law at her side.

  After four years, she’d finally gotten a reliable lead on her ex’s whereabouts, and it had brought her to Mustang Village. The back child support he owed her—owed Isa—amounted to a considerable sum of money. Well worth two weeks of vacation and scrambling to rearrange both her and her daughter’s schedules.

  Much as she hated admitting it, she couldn’t capture the horse without Gavin Powell’s help and his resources. Not in one week. Probably not ever.

  She could try for an order, but that would require time she didn’t have. Besides, the task would go quicker and easier with his voluntary cooperation.

  Sage thought fast. She was a field agent, her job was to safely capture wild horses and burros. Once in federal custody, the adoption of those horses and burros was handled by a different department. She knew a few people in that department and was confident she could pull a few strings.

  “What if, in exchange for your help, I guaranteed you ownership of the horse?”

  Gavin Powell studied her skeptically. “Can you do that?”

  She lowered herself onto the couch, the well-worn leather cushions giving gently beneath her weight. She imagined, like the coffee table, the dated but well-constructed couch had been in the Powell family a long time.

  “Can we sit a minute? I’ve had a long drive.”

  He joined her with obvious reluctance and, rather than recline, sat stiffly with a closed fist resting on his knee.

  She’d almost rather face a pair of flailing front hooves—something she’d done more than once in the course of her job.

  “The fact is, Mr. Powell, we have trouble finding enough homes for the animals we round up. Despite the novelty of owning a feral horse or burro, most people aren’t interested in spending months and months domesticating them. Even then, some animals never truly adapt, and only a handful of the horses make decent and dependable riding stock.”

  “I wouldn’t be using the horse for riding.”

  Though she was curious, she didn’t ask about his intentions for the horse. “I think the BLM would be happy to have a home for the mustang and will likely just give him to you with a minimal amount of paperwork and processing.”

  He nodded contemplatively.

  “You’d still have to pay a fee.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know for certain. I can find out if you want. Most of the horses are adopted for a few hundred dollars. My guess is it would be something in that range.”

  Another nod. Gavin Powell was clearly a man of few words.

  “I have one week to round up the horse. After that, I’ll be staying in Scottsdale with relatives until the end of the month. My daughter’s there now, I dropped her off on the way.” She paused, giving herself a mental shake. Why did she feel the need to rattle off personal information? “If you don’t object, the horse can stay here with you on your ranch while I’m in Scottsdale. You’ll have a chance to observe him, work with him, see if he…meets your needs.”

  She waited while he mulled over her proposition. He didn’t take long to make his decision.

  “Deal.” He extended his hand.

  “Good. Glad that’s resolved.”

  Shaking his hand for the second time that afternoon, she tried to hide her relief. Like before, she noticed both strength and assurance in his callused fingers. Gavin Powell was definitely one of those men who didn’t make his living sitting behind a desk.

  “Would you like something in writing?” She asked. “I can have the office fax—”

  “Not necessary. I was raised to take someone at their word. And not to give mine unless I intend to keep it.”

  She didn’t doubt that. “Then we’re in agreement.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Sage. We’re going to be working together, after all.”

  “Gavin.”

  She smiled.

  So did he. And though reserved, it both transformed him and disarmed her. She hadn’t noticed his vivid blue eyes or the pleasingly masculine lines of his face until now.

  For a moment, Sage lost track of her thoughts. Standing, she promptly gathered them.

  “About that stall for my mare.”

  “Sure.” He also stood. “You can pull your truck around to the stables and unload her there.”

  “Any chance I can park my trailer here? My cousin’s homeowners association won’t allow me to leave it there.”

  “No problem.
”

  They went through the back of the house rather than the front door where Sage had entered. She caught a whiff of something tantalizing when they entered the kitchen, reminding her that all she’d eaten since breakfast was a semistale leftover doughnut and a snack-size box of raisins Isa must have accidentally left in her purse.

  A man stood at the stove, stirring a pot. He turned and before Gavin introduced the man, she recognized the resemblance.

  “Dad, this is Sage Navarre. From the BLM. My dad, Wayne.”

  “The BLM?” Confusion clouded Wayne Powell’s face, then abruptly cleared. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Someone called last week.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  To Gavin’s credit, if he was annoyed at his father, he didn’t let on. There was no point anyway; they’d reached an agreement about the horse.

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Navarre.”

  “Sage,” she told Gavin’s father.

  “Will you be in Mustang Valley long?”

  “A week at the most.”

  “We’d better tend to that mare of yours,” Gavin said, inclining his head toward the door.

  Sage got the hint. Gavin didn’t wish to prolong the conversation with his father. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Powell.”

  “Enjoy your stay. I hope to see you again.” He smiled, but it was mechanical and flat. Nothing like his son’s.

  “I’m counting on it,” she answered cheerfully, and followed Gavin outside.

  “I’ll meet you in front of the stables,” he told her.

  They parted, and Sage headed toward her truck. As she drove the short distance to the stables, she caught sight of Cassie watching from the back porch, her form partially obscured by a thick wooden column.

  Without thinking, Sage waved. Cassie ducked her head behind the column, then reappeared a second later, waving shyly in return.

  An interesting family, Sage mused, though a little unusual. She supposed there was a lot more to them than met the eye.

  Pulling up in front of the stables, she reminded herself why she was in Mustang Valley: capture the wild horse and collect four years’ worth of back child support from her ex.

  Any distractions, most especially those in the form of a good-looking cowboy, were counterproductive. Not to mention inviting trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Gavin waited as Sage unlatched the trailer door and swung it wide. He expected the horse to bolt backward as most did after a long ride. Not so this one. The mare lifted her left rear foot and placed it gingerly down, as if not quite believing solid ground awaited. Her right rear foot followed, then the rest of her compact and sturdy body emerged inch by inch. Once standing on all fours, she turned her head with the regality of a visiting dignitary and surveyed her new surroundings.

  “She’s a good-looking horse.” In fact, Gavin had never seen one with that same charcoal-gray coloring.

  “Her name’s Avaro.” Sage reached under the mare’s impressively long mane to stroke her neck. “It’s Spanish for greedy. And trust me, it fits. She attacks every meal like it’s her last.”

  “A mustang?”

  “She was brought in on a roundup about three years ago in the Four Corners area. I had another horse at the time, a good one. But as soon as I saw Avaro, I wanted her.”

  Gavin could appreciate that. He felt the same about his mustang.

  “Not just because of her coat,” Sage continued, “though it’s pretty unusual.”

  “She’d make a nice broodmare.” He was thinking of his own mares, the ones with mustang bloodlines.

  Sage shrugged. “Maybe someday. Right now, I’m using her too much and too hard.”

  “How long did it take you to break her?”

  “Six months.” Sage laughed, her brown eyes filling with memories.

  “That long?”

  “It was weeks before she let me near her. Another month before I could put a halter on her.”

  Gavin considered the information. He’d been hoping to start breeding the mustang stallion right away. Might be difficult if he couldn’t even get a halter on the horse. “Your perseverance paid off.”

  “I told you, owning a feral horse isn’t easy.”

  “I’m up to the task.”

  She studied him with a critical eye. “I believe you are.”

  The compliment, if indeed it was one, pleased him.

  They started toward the stables with Sage leading Avaro, who observed everything with large intelligent eyes. It was that intelligence that had enabled her to survive by her wits in what had been a harsh and dangerous world. It was a quality he hoped to produce in his foals.

  At the entrance to the stables, they heard a familiar rhythmic clinking.

  “Do you think your farrier could have a look at Avaro’s right front hoof?” Sage asked. “Her shoe’s a little loose, and I don’t want any problems when we head out into the mountains.”

  “That’s my brother, Ethan. As a rule, he only works on our horses, but I’m sure I could ask him to make an exception.”

  “If there’s a local farrier—”

  “It’s all right. Our regular guy’s usually booked several days out. We may not be able to get him here until after the weekend, and I know you don’t want to wait that long.”

  “No, I don’t,” she agreed.

  Gavin didn’t explain the reasons his brother only shoed their own horses. Farrier work was physically demanding and hard on Ethan’s prosthetic leg.

  Fixing a single loose shoe, however, wasn’t nearly as strenuous. And like Sage, Gavin didn’t want to postpone capturing the wild mustang any longer than necessary. Business tended to slow down during the holidays. He wanted his stud and breeding operation well underway before then.

  “You have a great setup,” Sage said appreciatively.

  “Thanks.”

  “How long has the ranch been here?”

  At one time telling the history of his family’s ranch had been a source of pride. No more. Not after the past ten years. But because she was being friendly, he answered her question.

  “My great-grandfather Abe Powell built the original house and stables after he moved here from Texas. According to my grandfather, he was evading the law.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. But it makes for a good story.”

  “When was that?”

  “Right before the turn of the century. Last century. The house wasn’t much more than a shack. The stable consisted of six standing stalls and one box stall.”

  “You’ve added on since then.” She smiled.

  It was, Gavin observed, a nice smile. Open and honest.

  “For thirty years, we had the only cattle operation in the area. Before he died, my great-grandfather was able to build the villa, the barn, the bunkhouse and expand the stables. We have thirty-two box stalls now. No standing stalls. And six pens out back along with three connecting two-acre pastures.”

  Gavin stopped at an empty stall not far from where his brother worked on a large gelding. He unlatched the stall door, and Sage led her mare inside.

  “My office will reimburse you the cost of boarding Avaro.”

  “I’ll draw up an invoice.” He would have liked to tell her not to worry about it. But with six empty stalls, they could use the extra income.

  They stood with forearms resting on the stall wall, watching Avaro acquaint herself with her new accommodations.

  “With that much cattle, your family must own quite a bit of land.”

  “We used to. Six hundred acres. All of Mustang Valley, which is now Mustang Village.”

  “Wow!”

  He swore he could see the wheels in her head spinning as she mentally calculated the huge chunk of change they must have received when they sold the land.

  What she didn’t know was that every dime had been spent on his mother’s heart transplant and medical care. So much money. Sadly, it had bought her only another few months of life before her body rejected the re
placement heart, and she died of severe infection. Even if there had been money for a second transplant, the doctors weren’t able to save her.

  “We kept about thirty acres.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t move,” Sage said.

  “Powell Ranch is my home. My family’s lived here for four generations.” He went to bed every night praying there would be a fifth. “And while most of the land is developed, the ranch is still the heart of this valley.”

  She looked at him. Really looked at him. Intently. As if she was trying to read what lay hidden beneath the surface.

  Gavin turned away. He didn’t want Sage, or anyone for that matter, seeing how deeply affected he was by his loss.

  WITH AVARO SETTLED AND snacking hungrily on some grain, Gavin took Sage over to meet his brother. Two of the ranch’s several dogs lay curled together by the tack room door, their heads resting on their paws and their wagging tails stirring up small dust clouds in the dirt.

  Ethan slowly straightened, letting go of the gelding’s hoof he’d had braced between his knees. “Hi, again.” Setting his rasp on top of his toolbox, he removed his gloves and stuffed them in the waistband of his chaps.

  “Ethan, this is Sage Navarre,” Gavin said. “She’s with the BLM.”

  “Really?” He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, which had risen in surprise. “Is this about the mustang?”

  “Yes.”

  Ethan’s glance cut to Gavin.

  “Sage is here to capture the mustang, and we’re going to help her.”

  “We are?”

  “She says the BLM will allow me to purchase him and bypass the usual adoption process.”

  “That’s great.” Ethan’s features relaxed into a grin. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Her mare has a loose shoe. Any chance you can check it out when you’re done with Baldy here?”

  “Happy to.” Ethan stepped forward, his leg wobbling for a second before he steadied it.

  “No rush,” Gavin said.

  Ethan responded to the concern in Gavin’s voice. “I’ll handle it.” To Sage, he said, “How long you staying?”

  They chatted amicably for a few minutes. Well, Sage and Ethan chatted amicably. Gavin mostly listened. And observed. While he’d struck a deal with Sage, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure of her. Then again, to be honest, he was betting his future stud and breeding operation on his new partner, a man he didn’t know a whole lot better than her.