How to Wrangle a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  As she crossed the wide front porch, the hollow sound of her shoes on the old boards brought back memories of summer days long gone. Then she stepped into the front hall, and was instantly enveloped in the sweet scent of home. Even after all these years, the masculine, outdoorsy scents of sage, saddle leather, and dust combined with the more civilized odors of home-baked cookies, Lemon Pledge, and her grandmother’s perfume to overwhelm her with a rush of memories.

  She swallowed hard. Sooner or later, a sob was going to escape. Hopefully it would be in private, as it was likely to be loud, ugly, and not at all ladylike.

  As a girl, the ranch had been her sanctuary, a safe place where she’d always felt loved and protected. Even now, it was the “happy place” she fled to in her mind when the stress of her work piled up. She’d picture the porch with its white-painted swing, remembering how she’d whiled away summer days as a child with a good book and a bottle of Grace’s homemade root beer. The memory always made her feel at peace.

  But today, the front room was filled with people balancing plates of cheese pinwheels, shrimp with cocktail sauce, and ambrosia salad. Edging past the door into the dark hallway that led to the back of the house, she dabbed at her eyes.

  She’d never understood funerals. Grief, for her, was a private affair. Her sorrow over the loss of her grandfather was almost overwhelming, and she didn’t want to break down in front of this crowd. She’d had enough experience to know people only understood the soul-darkening misery of true mourning when death struck their own loved ones.

  If she wept like she wanted to, they’d move away and whisper among themselves about her lack of self-control.

  The hall beyond the parlor was dark, but Lindsey could have sworn she heard a rustling sound coming from its depths. Slipping off her beautiful but profoundly uncomfortable shoes, she padded down the hall and peered around the corner, toward the back entrance to her grandfather’s study.

  An old oak china closet stood by the door, filled with rodeo trophies and mementos of his and Grace’s film careers. Lindsey had always loved to explore the contents, begging her grandfather to tell the stories connected with each object—a gold buckle, a pair of spurs, a costume necklace.

  Apparently, she wasn’t the only one interested in the contents of the hutch. The tall stranger she’d spotted earlier stood before it with the doors wide open. He held a buckle in his hand and was tracing the raised image of a bucking horse with one finger.

  The Pendleton buckle. Lindsey held her breath. It would be so easy for him to slip the buckle into his pocket. What would Lindsey do if he turned out to be a thief?

  Get Lockhart.

  She gave her head a quick shake, annoyed that the foreman had come so quickly to mind. She didn’t need Shane Lockhart to help her. This man wasn’t going to attack her—especially not if she announced her presence before he’d taken anything.

  She cleared her throat, and the man gave a guilty start. Replacing the buckle, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “He was quite a guy, wasn’t he?” The man rocked back on his heels, obviously uneasy. “Quite a guy.”

  “Yes, he was.” Lindsey cocked a hip and gave him a hard glare. “And who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m nobody.” The stranger’s smile was tentative and unsteady. “Nobody at all. Not compared to Bud, you know.”

  Lindsey remembered a poem she’d read in school.

  I’m nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too?

  It had always creeped her out.

  “No, really,” she said. “Who…”

  Rudely, the man shoved past her and disappeared down the hall.

  She followed, determined to make sure he didn’t do any further exploring. It was clear he was checking the place for valuables. If he wasn’t actually stealing things, he was surely coveting Bud’s possessions.

  She didn’t begrudge anyone a legacy if they deserved it. It wouldn’t surprise her if Bud had left generous chunks of his fortune to old friends, and that was fine with her. But something about this stranger’s surreptitious exploration and his sly smile made her wonder what he was up to.

  She knew she should put aside her foolish pride and find Lockhart. He might be rude, but that could be a good thing. Maybe he’d eject the stranger from the premises.

  She smiled to herself, picturing the foreman’s anger, his curt dismissal of the interloper, and a little shiver raced up and down her spine. He was cute when he was mad.

  But where was he? He wasn’t in the room with the food, or in the kitchen where a group of men were drinking and reminiscing. He wasn’t with Grace, who was chatting with some women in the kitchen, or even with Cody, who had fallen asleep on a pile of black jackets in the library.

  Pausing at the back door, she glanced through the screen at the graveyard and saw the man she was looking for standing tall and lonely beside her grandfather’s grave. The black hat was pressed against his chest, and his hawkish profile stood out against the sky as he bowed his head.

  Slipping back into the torturous shoes, ankles aching from the unaccustomed exercise, Lindsey started the long walk back to the grave.

  * * *

  Shane stared down at Bud’s grave, wondering at the random cruelty of life. Bud had been a virile, vital man, despite a laundry list of injuries from jumping off moving stagecoaches, falling from fake saloon rooftops, and tumbling off running horses. He’d once told Shane he expected to die doing a stunt someday. He’d loved his work and had never expected to retire, but his body betrayed him as arthritis set in around his many broken bones. Nobody wanted a lame stuntman, so he’d become a rancher and, in his words, “enjoyed the hell out of being a real cowboy.”

  And now he’d died falling off a horse, of all things. His best cow horse got spooked by a rambling porcupine. Bud hadn’t tightened the cinch properly, and the saddle twisted, flinging him sideways. His head had hit a rock, but he’d still made a flashy Hollywood landing, rolling away from the horse and jumping lightly to his feet. Then, without a sound, he’d keeled over and died. Shane wondered if the old man had actually died instantly. The stunt moves could have been pure muscle memory.

  Shane had loved his boss like a father, and the loss hurt like hell. That was the problem with surviving a childhood like his; you never stopped looking for a dad, not even when you became one yourself. Shane needed somebody to teach him how to be a decent dad, and though he’d grown to manhood with Bill Decker, he had a lot left to learn.

  He’d expected to learn it from Bud. At the thought, his breath shuddered and he had to close his eyes to stop the tears.

  A touch on his forearm jerked him out of his reverie. He spun to see Lindsey Ward standing beside him, her forget-me-not blue eyes fixed on his.

  Close. Too close. The last time she’d been that close…

  He chased the memory from his mind and gave her a questioning glance.

  “Did you notice that tall, thin man?” she asked. “The one who looked like Bud, only younger?”

  Shane opened his mouth to speak, but his throat had closed up for some reason. He shook his head.

  “He was skulking around in the hallway. He took Bud’s Pendleton buckle out of the cabinet. It was almost like he was going to steal it.”

  It figured that this woman, who hadn’t valued the greatest treasure a person could have, would care about a gold buckle. Family—real family that loved you—meant far more to Shane than any trinket, and it always amazed him how people would throw away real treasure and hold on to trash.

  It was sad if Grace’s granddaughter had become that kind of person, because Grace needed family. Since Bud’s death, she seemed to have lost her already-tenuous hold on reality. What had been charming eccentricity had become a worrying distance from the world around her, as she lived increasingly in the rich and storied land of her memory.

  He cleared his throat and shot her a glare. “Wouldn’t want to lose anything, would you?”

  “It’s not about me.” She shr
ugged one shoulder, a graceful gesture that made him think of Tara. “None of this is mine. It’s Grace’s. And she’s lost enough.”

  He nodded absently, still focused on Bud’s grave. How could a man be so thoroughly gone in the blink of an eye? How could you live, knowing someone you loved could be gone before you could say good-bye?

  “The man.” Lindsey gripped his arm with real urgency. “Who is he?”

  Shane shook her off. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Bud didn’t leave him anything.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re just determined to believe I’m some kind of gold digger, aren’t you? Do you suspect all your dates of being after your money?”

  He was starting to enjoy this. When she got mad, she reminded him of the hell-for-leather cowgirl she’d been before Rodger took the sass out of her.

  “I don’t have any money, so I don’t have to worry,” he said.

  “Well, I’m so happy for you.” Her faint Southern accent almost got Shane to smile. Folks here gave their words hard edges and flat vowels, but Lindsey’s words spilled out as thick and smooth as whipped butter. “But maybe Bud left you some. Would that worry you?”

  “I don’t care about that.” He frowned, his bad mood reasserting itself. All this talk of money was just wrong, here at the site of Bud’s grave. “Money doesn’t mean much to me. Bud did, though.”

  Her defensive posture relaxed and she seemed to deflate, along with her suspicions.

  “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, surprised into telling the truth by her gentle directness. “Yes, I did.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I know you don’t believe that. But he was a wonderful granddad. We fought, and I let my pride keep me away. I thought I had time. I mean, Grandpa Bud? He was immortal, I thought. How could he die, strong as he was? But…”

  She brought her fist to her mouth, and he realized she hadn’t been smothering a yawn during the funeral. She’d been stifling a sob.

  Maybe he’d misjudged her.

  Either that, or she took after her grandma and was one heck of an actress.

  “They’re going to start the eulogies soon.”

  Grace had arranged for everyone to share stories of Bud during the reception, after folks had a chance to get, as she put it, “liquored up.”

  “You ought to be there,” Lindsey said. “Let’s go back.”

  He shook his head, his mouth drawn into a tight, thin line.

  “Even if you can’t speak, he’d want you there, don’t you think? To hear how his friends and neighbors loved him and respected him.”

  She was right, but danged if he’d say so. He stood staring into the grave, watching the cloud reflections drift across the shiny surface of Bud’s coffin, until she finally sighed and walked away.

  Only then did he follow.

  Chapter 8

  The eulogies seemed to take forever. Fueled by the seemingly endless amounts of food and equally available drink, the local ranchers, their hands, their wives, and even their cooks waxed eloquent on the subject of Bud Ward’s finer qualities. His generosity, his kindness, his compassion, his sense of humor—every side of his personality had been spilled onto the long dining table and examined by the crowd like an assortment of rare gems, as toast after toast was raised to his spirit.

  Shane knew he ought to join in, but how could he put his feelings for Bud into words? He stayed in the shadows, keeping his hands steady and making sure his face was a somber mask of control. One word, one thought, even, and he’d weep.

  As the night wore on, the older folks left. The younger attendees, mostly ranch hands, drank more and more, and reminiscences turned ribald. Shane was about to put a stop to things when Alma, the cook who’d worked for Bud and Grace for over twenty years, took off her apron and drove them out as if they were cattle who’d strayed into the corn.

  Shane followed them outside, making sure those who were too intoxicated got rides.

  “Hey! Over here.”

  Dusk had settled over the fallow field they’d used as a makeshift parking lot, so Shane had to squint to see his brother Brady waving from the bed of his pickup. Standing in a truck bed hollering Shane’s name was behavior better suited to a teenager at an AC/DC concert than a grown man attending a funeral. But Brady was the life of every party, whether it was a wedding or a wake.

  Shane strode through the stubble to find his other brother, Ridge, sitting on the truck’s lowered tailgate holding a bottle of Jeremiah Weed—cheap whiskey they’d started drinking as kids on the rodeo circuit. Now it was a tradition, no matter how bad it tasted.

  “You look like you need a swig,” said Ridge.

  “Can’t,” said Shane.

  “Can.” Brady sat down on the edge of the tailgate beside Ridge. Taking the bottle, he pressed it into Shane’s hands. “You’re not on duty; you’re at a funeral.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Shane upended the bottle, letting the whiskey burn its way down his throat. He hoped it would clear out the lump that formed every time he thought of Bud, but the lump stayed put, along with the tight feeling in his chest. “So what’s your plan?” Brady clapped Shane on the back. “You coming back to Decker Ranch?”

  Their foster father had passed on, and his place belonged to the brothers now. Ridge lived there with his wife, Sierra, who ran a much-improved version of the foster home the boys had come from in the nearby town of Wynott. Meanwhile, Brady used the ranch as home base while he traveled the country riding broncs and raising hell—although he raised a whole lot less hell now that his wife, Suze, was taking a break from barrel racing due to a surprise pregnancy.

  Shane shook his head. “Cody likes it here, so I’m going stay.”

  “You’re going to let a six-year-old run your life?” Brady shook his head in mock concern. “You’ll end up living at Disney World.”

  “He and his mom moved all the time.” Shane took another swig of whiskey, then passed it over to Brady. “He’s had enough upheaval for a while.”

  “What if Grace decides to sell the place?”

  “She won’t,” Shane said. “But even if she did, most buyers who could afford it aren’t ranchers. They’ll need a manager, and I’ve kept the Lazy Q in the black for years. Plus, I’m familiar with Bud’s breeding program. Anyone with sense would want to keep that going.”

  “What if Ed Brockman wants to buy it?” Ridge asked. “His land butts right up against the boundary.”

  “Brockman won’t buy it.” Shane thought of the Brockman place with its peeling paint and tumbledown outbuildings. “He doesn’t have any money.”

  “I heard different.” Ridge knocked back another shot of Jeremiah Weed. “He’s a county commissioner, after all. You don’t get elected around here without some financial clout.”

  “’Specially not if you’ve got the personality of a snakebit weasel with hemorrhoids.”

  The men laughed at Brady’s description. Brockman was widely disliked among ranchers and townsfolk alike.

  “He won’t buy it.” Shane was getting annoyed by the speculation. “Grace won’t sell.”

  “Just keep us in mind if you’re looking for someplace to go. I’d like to make Decker Ranch a name to trust again when it comes to quarter horses, and it would be a lot easier with you on board to handle the management end.” Shane hadn’t heard Ridge talk this much since he’d wooed his wife. “I had those two champion cutters, and I’m going to build on that. Plus, Suze is going to stick around and train barrel horses now that she’s pregnant.”

  “With twins.” The mention of his younger brother’s upcoming parenthood cheered Shane considerably.

  “Twin girls,” Ridge said.

  Brady groaned. He’d cut a swath through the buckle bunnies for years, so the notion of him wrangling twin daughters was enough to make anyone believe in the sorry side of karma.

  “Maybe you can do some babysitting,” he said hopefully. “They’re gonna love their Uncle Shane.”

&n
bsp; “Nope. Those little princesses are all yours. I can’t wait to see you changing diapers.”

  Brady groaned again, but it was a good-natured groan. He loved his new wife, and Shane knew he’d love his babies too.

  “You ought to join us. I’ve got Riley from the hardware store renovating the apartment over the machine shop.” When Ridge picked up an argument, he was like a terrier with a rat—determined to shake the life out of the thing before giving up. “There’s an office on the ground floor and quarters above.”

  “I’m not taking some job you obviously made up just so I have somewhere to go.”

  Ridge set his jaw. “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “The Lazy Q is Cody’s home now.”

  “Decker Ranch is home. Our home. He ought to learn that,” Ridge said. “Besides, his home is wherever you are. You don’t need to coddle him. Kids are tough. You, of all people, should know that.”

  Shane didn’t bother to disagree. He’d been a tough kid, all right, but he was well aware that the shadow of his childhood hung over everything he did.

  “I’ve got it.” Brady snapped his fingers and both his brothers groaned. Brady’s bright ideas had gotten them into trouble more than once. “You can marry the granddaughter. That would solve all your problems.” Staring up at the sky, he hummed a few bars of “Wedding March.”

  “I don’t have any problems,” Shane said. “And I’m not marrying Lindsey Ward!”

  Realizing he’d spoken too loudly, Shane kicked up a divot that flew into the air and struck the window of Brady’s truck. Glancing around to see if anyone had caught his fit of temper, he saw a gaggle of elderly women standing at the side of the road, peering at him and his brothers.

  “Great,” Ridge said. “I think you just revved up the gossip mill.”

  “Whatever.” Shane waved a dismissive hand toward his brothers. “I don’t have to justify my decisions to you. And I don’t want to talk about that woman.”