Out on the street, Dawson wanted to howl with disappointment. To think there’d been a moment when he’d actually been holding her in his arms. It had felt so right. She smelled of cocoa and vanilla and her beautiful red hair had been so soft against his arms. And now everything was sideways again. And once more it was his fault.
He’d rushed forward, when he should have hung back.
But he’d already waited so damn long.
The birth of Savannah had really sparked the beginning of the process. Looking at her delicate face, he’d decided to change his life for her. But it hadn’t been just for his daughter, it had been for Sage as well.
Because for years now when he went to bed at night all he could think about was a beautiful red-head who was so damned afraid of barrel-racing, yet was gutsy enough to go out and do it anyway, week after week.
He’d learned a lot from Sage. Not just about bravery and persistence. She’d told him so many stories about her family and life on their ranch. He’d hung on ever word. She didn’t know it, but she’d helped him understand that there were other ways to live than the path he was on.
But wanting to change, and actually making it happen, were two different things.
He’d started being careful with money, saving and putting aside as much as he could. He’d cut out all the drinking and partying and registered for night classes. He was aiming for a different job. A stable life. A divorce from Gina. And a new start with Sage.
He’d managed to achieve the first two.
But the third was a lot more difficult. And the fourth was looking impossible.
“Daddy, when is Mom coming back?” Savannah was coloring at the built-in table of the trailer. Dawson loved watching her. She curled her entire body over the project, concentrating on filling the spaces just so. His daughter was a perfectionist with everything she did, and he didn’t know if that was just her nature, or the way she coped with the constantly changing patterns and routines in her life.
“I’m not sure. We’ll ask her next time she calls.” When that would be, he had no idea. Her wandering ways were fine with him. He was thrilled to have sole custody of his daughter and more than willing to be generous with visitation rights when Gina bothered to come around.
“Okay.” Savannah seemed fine with that, too, thank goodness.
She kept coloring, while he shaved at the bathroom sink with the door open so they could talk.
Savannah liked to talk to him a lot.
Once Sage had liked talking to him as well. So many nights they’d stayed up late and he’d listened to her stories about growing up on the Circle C and had marveled at the vast differences between the two of them.
From the beginning he’d worried that those differences might be too vast to bridge.
And now, the nervous twinges in his gut were saying the same thing. He’d moved to her town, but Sage was more remote than ever.
“Daddy, when are we going to the next rodeo?”
Job done, he rinsed off his razor and zipped it up in his leather tote bag. Savannah was too smart to play with it, but no sense taking chances. “No more rodeos, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
He’d explained so many times, but maybe she didn’t believe him. Or maybe she just couldn’t imagine staying in one town and not moving all the time. “I’m working for the Sheriff’s Office now. And pretty soon, you’ll be starting school and we’ll be living in that nice house we checked out yesterday.”
Savannah pressed a crayon against her cheek as she pondered this. “Is Grandma coming, too?”
He finished buttoning the shirt of his new uniform. “Would you like her to?”
Savannah sighed. “I don’t care, Daddy.”
She sounded so exasperated. So adult-like. God, this girl of his could make him smile.
“Well, I’m all ready for work. How do I look?”
Savannah studied him, clearly not impressed. “Like the man who gave Mom that ticket. Is that what you do at work, Daddy? Give people tickets if they drive too fast?”
“Yup. That’s me. So don’t you go driving too fast young lady or you are going to be very sorry.”
She gave him her little, worldly smile. “You’re being silly. I don’t drive.”
Not now. One day she would. Dawson was glad that day was far in the future.
“Ready to go for breakfast?” They were going to meet his mother in the diner across from the hotel where she was staying. Patricia would be watching Savannah while he worked his first shift.
He and his mother didn’t normally have much to do with one another, but she’d happened to call the day after Gina took off with her new fellow. Turned out husband number six had died a month ago.
His mother wasn’t used to being on her own. Usually before each divorce she had her next prospect all lined up.
“You know, honey,” she’d told him. “I’m giving up on marriage. It never seems to work out for me.”
“Maybe seventh time will be the charm?”
“I doubt it,” she said, not catching the sarcasm. “Where did you say you are right now?”
Like a fool, he’d gone and told her.
“I’m going to get in my car and drive there. With Gina gone, you need someone to look after my granddaughter.”
Never mind that he’d been doing just fine so far. Patricia needed a project, and lucky them, they were it. Since her arrival, she’d been sticking tight and talking about making the arrangement permanent.
A very scary thought.
He’d already ordered Savannah pancakes and eggs and bacon for himself, when Patricia made her entrance. She never went anywhere without styling her hair and putting on make-up. And wearing heels. Even though she was almost sixty, most of the males in the room kept an eye on her as she sauntered to their booth.
“Good morning! I hope everyone slept well.” She slid into the seat next to her granddaughter. When the server came by to fill her coffee cup, she asked for toast—not buttered.
His mother looked a lot like Joni Mitchell had when she’d been in her late fifties. Patricia could sing, too, but she didn’t have Joni’s famous three octave range. His mother stuck to the lower, sultry notes and when she was younger had performed in bars with various bands. But she’d never been foolish enough to hook up with one of the musicians.
No, she’d looked for the rich, older men in the crowd. And picked them.
“So what should Savannah and I do while you’re at work today, honey?”
Dawson took a sip of his coffee and wondered why she would never just use his given name. A thirty-two-year-old man did not really having his mother call him “honey” all the time. He could tell he and his mom had spent too much time together when stuff like this started to drive him crazy. “Play in the park? Maybe you could take Savannah shopping for some new school clothes.” He pulled out his wallet.
“Put that away. Shopping is a great idea. I’d love to treat Savannah to a few new things. Doesn’t that sound fun, pumpkin?”
He was honey. His daughter was pumpkin. Dawson held his tongue by taking another drink of coffee.
“Maybe later I could do some shopping for the new house,” Patricia continued, moving aside her cup as the server came with their orders. She arched her brows at the sight of Savannah’s pancakes with fresh fruit and whipped cream. “My, the calories. Enjoy them while you’re young, pumpkin.”
“Mom doesn’t like calories, either,” Savannah said in a very matter-of-fact voice. “I think they’re delicious.”
Score another one for his daughter. Dawson concentrated on his own breakfast, next, finishing fast, his eye on the time. When he was done, he kissed his daughter’s cheek, then thanked his mother for taking care of her.
“Go ahead and shop for clothes, but leave the house stuff for me, Mom. I’ve got it covered.”
“You’ve never bought a house before, honey. You have no idea how many things you need.”
“I’ll figure it out.” Pu
tting on his hat, he went out to his truck.
He knew Patricia was probably going to ignore him and buy for the new house anyway. But he’d make her return it all. If he let her feather the nest, she was going to want to move in.
And that wasn’t happening.
Deputy Scott Bliven had a boyish, eager appearance, belying his ten years’ experience on the job. He raked his hand through his dark hair and his eyes brightened when Sheriff Walton assigned him to partner up with Dawson. “Show O’Dell the ropes,” Walton instructed, and Dawson nodded his agreement with the plan, even though he suspected he’d seen a lot more ropes when he was rodeoing than he was going to see as the newest deputy.
As the new hire, with no experience, Dawson ought to have been low man on the totem pole. But his standing with the CPRA, and his recent win that weekend, had accorded him a certain measure of respect.
In fact Scott, who was supposed to be touring him around the detachment, started out with more questions than answers.
“So what’s up with Trevor Brazile?”
“He’s the real deal,” Dawson said.
“You ever go out drinking with him? What’s he really like?”
“I’ve got a five-year old daughter. I don’t do much drinking anymore.”
Bliven seemed disappointed to hear that. “Well,” he finally said. “You still must have lots of stories.”
“Yup.” And Dawson was going to make him work for each one of them. Because he wasn’t in the mood for looking back. He was a deputy now and he intended to make a success of it.
After the tour was done and Dawson had been introduced to some of the key people, Bliven snagged a set of keys to one of the dark gray SUVs that were used for patrolling. “Thought we’d take the 89 south of town today, show you where we have some of the bigger ranches in the county. Believe it or not, we still have problems with rustlers, and this is one of the areas we need to keep a close watch on.”
“Good idea. Think maybe I should drive today? I’ll probably get to know the countryside a little faster that way.”
It was bull, but Bliven didn’t challenge him. Dawson had already pegged the young man as someone who wanted his approval. Not that he intended to take too much advantage of the fact. But he’d been on the road since he was sixteen years old and he had no interest in being a passenger.
It felt good to be in the driver’s seat of the silver SUV, a fine set of wheels much nicer than the old pickup he’d been driving for the past eight years. He figured he was better off saving his money for a house, than trading up his vehicle every few years like a lot of his buddies.
As they headed south through the valley, they passed a rancher using a big machine to load hay, no doubt hauling it closer to home in preparation for the snows to come. The autumn colors were still vibrant—patches of gold studded the green of the mountains, and the willows and brush along the river were still orange and yellow. There was a cool snap to the air, and once he’d accelerated to highway speed, Dawson rolled up his window.
He’d seen a lot of places in his travels, but the country around Marietta was among the most beautiful he could remember.
“You lived here long?” he asked his new partner.
“All my life. Except for the years I went to college in Bozeman.”
Quite the world traveler. Dawson couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy though. He’d never had roots like that. Well, he’d do better by Savannah.
“We just passed the MacCreadie place,” Scott said. “Tucked back in that valley”—he pointed—“is the Douglases place. Back in ’97 someone broke into the home at night and murdered the husband and wife and a couple of the younger kids. Two older boys survived.”
Dawson shook his head. Hard to believe such an ugly thing had happened in this place of amazing beauty. “Who did it?”
“Unsolved, to this day.” Bliven paused, then continued with his commentary. “Now we’re coming to Sheenan land. They own thousands of acres—as do the MacCreadies and the Carrigans. Must be nice, huh?”
“Must be.” He knew a lot about horses and quite a bit about calves and bulls, but Dawson had never actually worked on a ranch. All he had to go on were the stories Sage had shared.
“Mattie, Callan and I loved the lifestyle. Mom and Dani never did. Dad expected everyone to pitch in, though, and so we all did.”
He could remember the night she’d told him that. They’d been in Oakdale, California, mid-March. He hadn’t been in love with her yet. Or maybe he had, but just didn’t realize it. She’d been wearing her thick red hair in a braid that fell over one shoulder.
All that day he’d had to fight the urge to touch it.
Unlike most redheads, Sage had milky skin, and usually she wore a hat to block the sun. He’d never seen a cowgirl who could wear a hat like Sage. She put it on her head, and she owned it. “I can dress the part,” she’d once told him, when she’d been all decked out in the light blue colors she wore for competing. “But it’s the performing that scares me.”
“...and this here is the creek that divides the Sheenans from the Carrigans. You can see their big ranch house over this rise. Nice, huh?”
Scott must have been talking all this time, but Dawson had no idea what he’d said before the name Carrigan made him snap to attention. He looked for the house and saw a long, ranch-style home tucked into a grove of pine. Beyond the main house was a compound of impressive outbuildings, painted white with green roofs.
Had Sage really grown up here?
“When you say Carrigan—is that Hawksley Carrigan?”
“None other.” Bliven pushed his hat up higher on his forehead. “You’ve heard of him?”
Dawson kept his tone cool. Casual. “One of his daughters was a barrel racer. We met a few years back.”
“Ah. You’re talking about Sage. She’s the second youngest of his four daughters. They’re all lookers. But she’s the only redhead. Pretty and rich besides. We all gave Walton a hard time when they broke up.”
Dawson’s head jerked to the side so fast, he wrenched a muscle. Bliven didn’t notice, a couple of pretty Paints on the other side of a white wooden fence had caught his attention.
“The Sheriff and Sage used to go out?”
“Yeah. For quite a while. We had a pool going on when they were going to get married.”
CHAPTER SIX
Two hours later, Dawson was cruising the SUV down Main Street, his whole body vibrating with the effort of holding in his outrage. Bliven had picked up on the tension and had hardly said a word since they’d passed the Carrigan spread.
“They make a good burger at Grey’s Saloon,” Bliven said. His stomach had been rumbling for the past thirty minutes.
Dawson parked, then tossed him the keys. He could tell Bliven was starting to get a little pissed off about the driving situation. He supposed he’d have to relinquish control for the afternoon. Least of his worries right now.
“Order me a burger, would you?” he said, walking in the opposite direction from his new partner. “I have a quick errand I need to handle.”
That would piss off Bliven, as well, but he needed to talk to Sage. Now.
He flung open the door to Copper Mountain Chocolates, setting off a wild jangling of bells. A skinny woman who looked like she needed to eat more chocolate jumped, acting as shocked as if he’d pulled out a gun and asked her to empty the cash.
“C-can I help you?”
He gave the room a quick once-over. “Sage in the back?”
“Yes, but you can’t—"
“Don’t worry. We’re old friends.” His boots thudded loudly on the polished wood plank floors as he headed for the door. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see on the other side. Maybe Sage stirring a pot of melted chocolate in a big cast iron pot?
But instead he saw a mini-factory. A counter full of equipment he didn’t recognize. A large industrial sized double sink and big wooden working table holding molds of freshly made chocolates.
And it was loud.
Sage was standing with her back to him, wearing headphones and listening to music, judging by the sway of her hips. She was wearing a dress today with a pair of black flats. With her graceful height she didn’t need heels to look good in a dress.
He hung back, banking his anger, not wanted to scare her and cause an accident. Watching her felt a bit voyeuristic, but damn she looked fine. If only he could put his hands on those hips and swing her around and kiss her.
She picked up a pot of melted chocolate and as he watched, she poured it over a cookie sheet covered with granola. The smell was incredible, a rich toasted scent that was sweet, spicy and rich all at the same time.
Using a rubber scraper thing she cleaned every bit of chocolate from the pot, then grabbed a fat metal knife and smoothed the chocolate until she had an even coating over the granola.
As soon as she put down the knife, he stepped to her side, where she would see him.
Her pretty eyes widened, but she didn’t jump. She just calmly removed the headset, then turned off a dial on one of the machines. The room was instantly much quieter.
He didn’t wait for her to ask him what he was doing there.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a thing with the Sheriff?”
“So you heard about that, did you?”
That really pushed his buttons. “You could have warned me.”
She surprised him by grabbing hold of his arm and leading him toward the back exit. “Come on. I can’t have you in my clean kitchen.” At the door she peeled off her gloves, removed her apron, then pushed him out to the alley.
He could have resisted, easily. But it was kind of hot having her manhandle him like this.
“You knew about my new job. The least you could have done was tell me you and the Sheriff had history.” It was satisfying to finally let loose some of the steam that had been mounting during the long drive back to town.
She didn’t seem overly impressed. “I don’t see why it would be your business. I’m not asking you for a list of the people you dated after we—split up.”
Promise Me, Cowboy (Copper Mountain Rodeo) Page 6
