LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS)

by Hutchinson, Bobby

  “I tried to phone Frankie the other night, but I had to leave a message. I hope she calls back today while I’m home,” Sara remarked to her mother.

  She’d wanted to touch base with her sister, but mostly she’d wanted to hear what Frankie had to say about Mitch Carter, Sara admitted to herself with a trace of guilt.

  Frankie kept an apartment in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, as home base, but in the summer months when rodeo season was at its peak, she was on the go, traveling from one rodeo to the next.

  “What was all that hollerin’ and cussin’ I heard from downstairs just after midnight?” Gram sat down beside Sara and raised a questioning eyebrow at Dave.

  “Oh, just a couple of the young guys from the saloon got in an argument. I had to help them out the door,” Dave explained with admirable understatement.

  Jennie and Gram exchanged a telling glance, and Dave forked up a huge bite of breakfast, chewed and swallowed before he went on, “I know, you’ve both been telling me that it’s past time we made a few changes here at Bitterroot, and I agree. I sure don’t want to spend my life wrestling young bucks half my age out of the tavern every Friday and Saturday night. Trouble is, at the moment the saloon earns us a fair chunk of the money that keeps this place operating, so we’ve got to be cautious about making drastic changes.”

  “Wasn’t Bitterroot once a famous spa, Dave? Mom told me some of its history, and I remember she said it attracted people from all over the world at one time. Didn’t your grandfather build the whole thing himself?”

  Dave nodded, and Sara listened closely as he filled in details for her.

  Jennie had explained that the sprawling hundred-acre holding that comprised Bitterroot had been in the Hoffman family for years, consisting of ninety acres of timbered wilderness and ten acres of half-cleared, half-developed land surrounding the sturdy, spacious two-story log building.

  The main floor consisted of the tavern, several bathrooms, the huge old-fashioned kitchen with wrap around enclosed porches, plus the combined living-dining room where they now sat, and there were bedrooms upstairs.

  Outside were seven rustic little cabins scattered across the property, arranged more or less in a wide circle around the large central pool of naturally warm mineral water that formed the central core of the area.

  “Grampa Hoffman was a surveyor for the railroad in the late 1800s,” Dave explained, settling back in his chair and lighting a pipe to enjoy with his coffee.

  They’d all consumed so much food no one felt like moving.

  “He heard about the mineral springs from an old Indian. He came to have a look and fell in love with the place. The sparkling water flowed constantly, just as it still does, maintaining a steady eighty-six-degree temperature. Anyway, he right away saw the commercial potential of such a natural phenomenon, and he bought the land, dug out the original water hole and cemented in the swimming pool. He put up all the buildings and even built much of the furniture, and then he wrote letters to people he knew, craftily inviting them to come and spend a holiday, free of charge. He installed bathtubs in each of the upstairs bedrooms here, so the modest Victorian ladies could enjoy the mineral water in absolute privacy. He’d ingeniously and practically piped the hot water to each of the buildings for both heating and plumbing purposes.” Dave drew deeply on his pipe and expelled a cloud of fragrant smoke. “He was smart enough to hire the best cook he could find—prob’ly not as good as you, Adeline, but good enough so everybody who came raved about the food.”

  Gram looked pleased as anything with the compliment, and Sara decided that Dave had inherited a great deal of his own grandfather’s cleverness. She looked around with new interest at the room they were sitting in. Like all the other rooms in the central lodge, its high-beamed log ceilings and handmade furniture supplied an authentic rustic charm.

  For years, Bitterroot enjoyed a popularity that made Dave’s grandfather a wealthy man. But ironically, that wealth turned his only son into a ne’er-do-well, an irresponsible playboy who had no interest whatsoever in the prosperous resort where visitors from all over came to bathe and relax.

  “When Grampa Hoffman died and my father took over,” Dave admitted with rueful candor, “he quickly leased the place out, moved to Seattle and lived off the money. Without supervision and with the ever-dwindling profits going to pay his drinking and gambling debts, Bitterroot soon disintegrated.”

  By the time the property passed to him, Dave had had to work day and night, fixing roofs and drains and modernizing, generally making the place livable once more. But apart from the saloon trade, Bitterroot did little business. The tavern had become a wide-open, rip-snorting boozing center for the rowdy young cowboys and die-hard drinkers in the area, which successfully discouraged any family trade that might have resulted from renting the cabins.

  “The first thing we ought to do,” Adeline announced firmly, “is start serving good home-cooked food. A lot of the men who drink in the tavern would buy a plate of dinner if it was offered,” she insisted, “and with a square meal under their belts, they’d have lots less room for booze.”

  Jennie nodded agreement, looking around the large room thoughtfully. She and Gram had already put up crisp white curtains on all the windows, and flowering plants in bright pots or wicker holders created splashes of color against the weathered old log walls.

  “This used to be a public dining room,” she mused. “It wouldn’t take much to turn it into one again. All the tables and chairs are stacked out in a shed. D’you think people would start coming if we started a restaurant? What d’you think, Sara?”

  “There’s nowhere young couples can go around here and have an evening out, with dinner and maybe dancing, unless they drive for hours and want to spend a fortune,” Sara said after a moment’s contemplation, thinking of Bill and Carol Forgie, or maybe herself and Mitch.

  “It might take a while to catch on, but I think a restaurant would be a great idea. I’ll bet people from farther away would start coming again for weekends, bringing their kids for a swim in the hot springs, if you got a reputation for good food, did some advertising.”

  “That kitchen needs work, if we’re gonna start cooking for more than six or eight people,” Gram said practically. “The stove is older than I am and way more cantankerous and that’s goin’ some. But the place is plenty roomy, and the walk-in cooler works fine ”

  For over an hour, excitement grew as ideas and plans evolved. The necessary changes would be expensive, but they didn’t all have to be done at once. Gram and Jennie would start serving meals on a small scale at first and gauge the rest from the response.

  “We’ll have a limited menu, maybe a choice of two main dishes, and that way it won’t get too complicated,” Jennie was planning.

  Gram snorted. “The heck with any choice. That’s what’s the matter with eating places today. A body gets worn-out just readin’ the dern menu, figurin’ out what in tarnation he wants. We’ll serve the kind of meals people used to eat back when I was a girl, good hearty dishes with plenty of homemade bread and greens, maybe give ’em a choice for dessert of pie or cake or pudding, if they need to make choices.”

  Jennie and Adeline got into a heavy discussion about recipes at that point, and Dave was busy making calculations on several paper napkins.

  Sara got up and began clearing the table. She was in the kitchen, putting dishes in the old enamel sink and covering them with hot soapy water when the telephone rang. Drying her hands on a towel, she picked up the receiver, resigned to the fact that it would be some veterinary emergency that would use up the rest of her Sunday.

  “Sara?” The deep male voice was unmistakable. It was Mitch, and her heartbeat suddenly picked up speed. They went on for several minutes about what a nice day it was, and then Mitch cleared his throat and said nonchalantly, “I have to ride out to the west pasture this afternoon and check on some calves. I wondered if you’d care to come along? I’ll drive in and pick you up.”

  “I’d
like that, but why don’t I just drive out there and meet you? It’d be quicker that way.”

  Mitch agreed, and Sara hurried in to tell her family where she was going.

  “Why don’t you bring that young man home with you for supper tonight?” Gram was determined to check Mitch out, Sara knew.

  “I’ll ask him, Gram. See you later.”

  She was wearing fresh, faded jeans and a scoop-necked red T-shirt with short sleeves. She hurriedly pulled a brush through her curly hair, deciding to leave it loose on her neck. A touch of lipstick and mascara, and she hurried out to her car, a decidedly decrepit old Chevy.

  The drive out to the Carter ranch passed quickly, and when she drove into the yard, she could see Mitch, a saddled horse on either side of him, walking up from the barns.

  Sara pulled to a stop and swallowed hard, eyeing the animals Mitch was leading toward her.

  When he’d suggested a ride, she’d assumed he meant in a truck. She knew the name and location of every single muscle and bone, every organ and sinew in a horse, and she loved working with the animals. She just didn’t enjoy getting up on their backs.

  In fact, she’d only been on a horse twice in her entire life, and neither occasion was memorable.

  Mitch, with a crooked smile that forced an answering smile from Sara, wrapped the reins around a post and came striding over to open the car door. The first thing he said was, “Where’re your hat and boots?”

  Sara remembered the oversize gumboots in the trunk, considered them for all of a second and discarded the idea.

  “I, umm, actually, I don’t have any real riding boots, Mitch. Won’t my sandals do?”

  He studied the leather soles and the assorted stylish straps on her bare feet, pushed his hat back and slowly shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

  Might as well get the whole truth out at once, Sara decided. Maybe he’d decide they’d better take the truck after all. “I don’t own a cowboy hat, either,” she announced.

  “No problem,” he announced. “I think Ma’s got boots and a hat you can borrow.”

  He reached out and took her arm, tugging her out of the car.

  “C’mon,” he urged, laugh lines crinkling around his green eyes as he looked at her and caught the wary look she was giving the horses. “Ma’s been making us a lunch. We’ll just get you outfitted and be on our way. You do know how to ride, don’t you, Sara?”

  She gave him a haughty look.

  “Well, do you?” he insisted, one thick eyebrow tilted, and she felt a giggle bubbling up as she looked him straight in the eye and said “Me? Know how to ride? Absolutely... not.”

  “But you’re a vet, you learned all about horses.”

  Sara shrugged, spreading her hands as if to say, so what?

  “Nobody thought of teaching me how to ride them. Frankie tried once but she gave it up as a hopeless job.”

  Mitch tilted his head back and started to laugh, and she laughed with him.

  The old dog came out of the shed and started to bark, and one of the horses whinnied.

  They were still laughing as they went in the kitchen door, and Ruth looked up from wrapping sandwiches and had to smile at them.

  Half an hour later, Sara was on the back of a big, gentle gelding named Steamboat, doing her best to steer the animal in the general direction of Mitch and his horse, a good fifty yards ahead of her.

  She was feeling out of her element in general and a very long way from the ground in particular. She had Ruth’s well-worn brown Stetson on her head and a pair of Wilson’s worn cowboy boots on her feet because Ruth’s had been too small.

  Sara felt wicked pleasure at wearing Wilson’s boots. All sorts of smart comments occurred to her about having no problem filling his shoes, none of which she’d probably ever get a chance to use on Mitch’s father. But it was nice to have a few things in reserve, she mused, doing her best to stay upright in the saddle.

  Mitch had patiently unsaddled the sprightly filly he’d originally outfitted for Sara and saddled Steamboat, with the laconic comment that old Steamboat moved slowly, easily and had never shown the slightest sign of temperament.

  Or speed, for that matter. In fact, Mitch said with a straight face, Steamboat had a tendency to go to sleep while being ridden.

  That suited Sara just fine. If she was fated to break her neck, she’d just as soon not do it falling from the back of a horse, thank you.

  “Hurry up, you two,” Mitch called over his shoulder, and Steamboat imperceptibly increased his measured gait to catch up to the other horse, making Sara feel even more insecure. She tightened her hold on the reins and Steamboat obligingly went back into slow motion.

  Another ten minutes went by and now Mitch was several hundred yards ahead, reining his horse in constantly just to keep her in sight.

  “Kick him in the ribs, Doc. Get him to move or this is going to take us all week,” Mitch hollered impatiently, and Sara gave Steamboat the gentlest of nudges with the heels of Wilson’s boots.

  Maybe, Sara thought later, the complacent horse actually had fallen sound asleep and her halfhearted kick had given him a nasty start, because without any warning at all, Steamboat went into high gear. He accelerated from an amble to a gallop without any in-between, and Sara promptly dropped the reins and grabbed the saddle horn.

  In her alarm, she must have brought her boots hard into Steamboat’s sides, and that unnerved the poor gelding enough to spur him into even greater effort. With absolutely no grace or dignity, Sara clutched whatever parts of the horse she could and screamed bloody murder, passing an astounded Mitch at what amounted to a full gallop.

  Her hat blew off, and she felt herself begin the inevitable slide that was going to take her down to the ground, now rushing past Steamboat’s hooves at an alarming rate.

  Chapter Six

  Sara was aware that poor Steamboat was actually making a desperate effort to keep her in the saddle; each time she lurched to the side, Steamboat would correct to the other side, obviously trying his embarrassed best to stop Sara from falling off.

  After the first moment of utter astonishment, Mitch and his horse moved like a well-oiled unit, with all the technique of countless rodeo rescues at their command.

  Mitch drew abreast of Steamboat’s neck until the horses were nearly touching. With one long arm, he then scooped Sara off of Steamboat’s back and onto his lap, holding her firmly against him.

  And Sara could feel him laughing even before she looped her arms gratefully around him and hung on as Misty slowed and then stopped.

  Steamboat stopped nearby as well, gave them a disgusted look and then calmly dipped his head and took a mouthful of grass.

  “What the...” Mitch could hardly talk for laughing. “What the hell did you do to him? I’ve never seen that horse anything but comatose, and all of a sudden, he’s going past me like the favorite at the Kentucky Derby.”

  Sara didn’t think it was quite that funny.

  “You said to kick him, so I did,” she explained in an aggrieved tone. “But not very hard.”

  She was becoming more aware every minute of being held extremely close to Mitch’s warm body, of his arms cradling her against him. He didn’t make the slightest effort to release her, even though Misty was standing stock-still by now.

  Sara was sprawled off balance across Mitch and the horse, but his arms made her feel totally secure.

  “I, umm, I lost your mother’s hat back there,” she managed to say in a shaky voice.

  “We’ll find it, don’t worry.” The laughter was fading from his voice, replaced with a husky intensity that made Sara’s heart pound. Her head was cradled snugly in the curve of his arm and chest. Her legs dangled down Misty’s side, one hip pressed against Mitch. Her arm was snaked around his torso, her fingers touching the hard muscles on his back, and his long, blue-jeaned leg was under both of hers. Tension grew between them, and she struggled to sit up straighter.

  “Don’t move,” he begged softly. “Stay c
lose to me for a minute, Doc.”

  He tipped his head, and his eyes traced the line of her lips for a long, breathless moment.

  The intense green seemed to grow smoky and opaque. He moved his hand up, cupping her head with his fingers, lowering his mouth slowly until his lips closed over hers. His hat got in the way, and he nudged it off, letting it fall in the soft grass where Misty was grazing.

  He kissed her as if they had all the time in the world. He explored her mouth leisurely with lips and tongue, inviting her to follow the path he set.

  The movements of the horse beneath them made him clasp her even tighter in his embrace, and when Sara answered his kiss with passion of her own, she felt his breathing quicken, his body grow tense against her.

  Sara was aware of the strong, hot sunlight creating a scarlet blur inside her closed eyelids, of the slight breeze that ruffled Mitch’s hair so that it tickled softly on her forehead. She felt encompassed by the rock-hard strength and security of his arms and his clean smelling body, but most of all, she was aware of his lips on hers, of the way her body ached to be even closer to him.

  Misty made an impatient, sudden movement, and they drew reluctantly apart, their breathing equally labored.

  “The back of a horse isn’t the ideal spot for this, is it?” he said raggedly as she squirmed, aware all of a sudden of the way the saddle was digging into her buttock. She sat up straighter, raised an eyebrow and smiled at him.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It feels pretty romantic to me, this getting rescued from the back of a bronco by a handsome cowboy.”

  The joking banter bridged the intensity of the moment, allowing them both time to still the emotions raging within them.

  After a moment, Mitch helped her slide down from Misty’s back. He retrieved first his hat and then her horse.

  Soon, with a few valuable pointers, Sara was once again on Steamboat, Stetson firmly pulled down toward her nose in a parody of the way Mitch wore his.