How to Wrangle a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  At that point Brady, playing peacekeeper, changed the subject. The three men discussed the current rodeo standings and Ridge’s latest horse-training quandary as the lot emptied. Suddenly, Shane realized they were lounging around on the bed of a truck that was parked in the middle of an empty field.

  What if Lindsey saw them, passing the bottle and talking while her grandfather lay dead in the ground? It was bad enough he hadn’t had the fortitude to offer some words about her granddad. He’d seen her staring at him while everyone else lauded Bud’s generosity, his courage, and his riding skills. She probably wondered why he hadn’t said anything.

  Hell, now that the ordeal was over, he wondered why he hadn’t said anything.

  “Holy crap.” Brady checked his watch. “It’s late. I have to get an early start tomorrow.”

  As his brothers piled into the pickup and negotiated the lumps and bumps of the rutted field, Shane started the long walk back to the house, wondering if he’d been missed. At the funeral, he’d taken on the role of family, sitting with Grace and looking out for her. But once Lindsey arrived, he’d passed those duties on to her. He hoped she’d taken good care of her grandmother. And Cody, for that matter.

  Cody.

  Feeling guilty, he put on some speed, but as he came over a rise, he couldn’t help pausing to stare up at the full moon that floated over the peak of the barn roof, lounging on a cloud like a pale, plump woman on a featherbed.

  He swept off his hat and pressed it to his chest, watching as the clouds drifted away. Unfazed by her nakedness, the moon continued to hang motionless in her black velvet boudoir, her silver light echoed by a host of shining stars.

  At the sound of crunching gravel, he mashed his hat back on his head and blinked his way back to the real world. A shadowy figure was approaching, wrapped in some sort of shroud. On its head, a froth of wispy white hair tossed in the wind as it walked, with a halting, uneven gait, straight toward him.

  Shane’s heart lurched into a panicked tap dance. He’d never believed in ghosts, but hey, it was never too late to start.

  Chapter 9

  Lindsey had managed to keep her black skirt and jacket clean for two whole hours. For a while, she’d thought her grandfather’s passing might have turned her into a real grown-up, the kind who could stay tidy and composed for an entire event.

  She’d stayed polite too, dishing out the same canned phrases over and over. Everyone wanted to know where she’d been and why. Some of the local gossips were so persistent, she felt like a deer under attack by a pack of wolves.

  What was she supposed to do—tell them about Bud’s impossible ultimatum? Discuss the choice she’d had to make between her grandfather and the man she’d loved with all her naive, foolish little heart? Was it any of their business that her husband-to-be had given her the same choice? Torn between two strong men she loved, she’d chosen Rodger.

  It had been the wrong choice. She’d initially been attracted to him because he had the same strength of personality as her grandfather, but she’d mistaken personality for character. It had taken her so long to extricate herself from her marriage that Bud had died without ever knowing she’d realized her mistake.

  But she wasn’t about to tell the whole town about it, so she’d finally muttered a jumbled excuse about some vague feminine issue and fled the house, heading straight for the barn. Even after all these years, it was still a sacred refuge, a rural cathedral that soothed her soul.

  The last of the day’s sunshine slanted through the gaps in the shingles, creating barred shadows like neat rows of pews on the rough wood floor. The dim light of the hayloft drew her up the ladder and toward the dark recess at the very peak of the roof.

  From her secret aerie, she could see the guests gathering on the porch for their good-byes, but they couldn’t see her—which was a good thing, because her black funeral duds were now flecked with bits of straw, and her hair had tumbled out of its updo to hang loose about her shoulders.

  She watched the crowd disperse. Her duties, she figured, were over. Caterers would keep the food coming, drinks would flow from the hired bartenders, and no one would even notice she was gone.

  Scanning the parking area, she spotted Lockhart’s black hat, set apart from the others by an elaborate horsehair hatband. He was leaning against a pickup truck with a bottle in his hand. She squinted. Whiskey.

  Still the bad boy, then.

  Her heart lifted a little, as if lofted on a warm breeze. What was that all about? She’d never liked bad boys. Rodger might have been a bad person, but he’d never been a rebel.

  Rebel. The word made her shiver as she watched Shane raise the bottle to his lips and tilt his head back.

  When he handed the booze off to one of his companions, she could have sworn he looked right at her. She was pretty sure he couldn’t see her, but those eyes had drilled into her soul earlier, so it wasn’t hard to believe he could see into the cobweb-draped darkness of the hayloft.

  Looking more closely at his companions, she recognized Shane’s foster brother Brady Caine, whose image was plastered all over the West, selling everything from jeans to saddles. The other man was probably his other brother, Ridge Cooper.

  The Decker Ranch boys were a handsome lot, and to her, they looked dangerous as ever. Their long, lean bodies rested casually against the truck, and they wore their hats low in front, like outlaws. There were no stiff, store-bought creases in their shirts now, and their jeans fit just right.

  Bad boys generally grew up to be bad men, didn’t they? And she knew from experience that Lockhart wasn’t averse to taking advantage of sad circumstances. Just thinking of the last time she’d seen him made her blush.

  She’d have to keep an eye on him. Not that that was a hardship.

  A birdlike chirrup made her drag her eyes away from the Decker Ranch boys to see a calico kitten crouched between two bales of hay.

  “Hello, kitten.” She rubbed her fingers together and the little creature approached cautiously, drawn by the rustling sound. Before long, she’d charmed the animal into her lap. It was a bony little thing, with a sweet, white face, a pink nose, and a patchwork coat.

  “What’s your name, girl?” She didn’t have to turn the kitty over to know its sex. All calicos were females, except for a very rare few. “You probably don’t have a name, do you? Bud would have called you ‘Hey, Cat.’”

  Lindsey knew this was just one of many kittens who were born in the barn. They were meant to grow up and earn their keep catching mice, but this one’s prominent ribs and dull, matted coat told her it wasn’t terribly successful at its job.

  “You were born to be a house cat, weren’t you? Not a barn cat.”

  The thought made Lindsey smile. She had always been a barn cat, loving the smell of hay and horses, the sounds of animals contentedly munching their feed in the evening. She loved the freedom of the fields too, and the cool breezes of the outdoors.

  Maybe that was the problem. Her ex-husband had wanted a house cat to decorate his fireside and lap cream at his table. Instead, he’d gotten Lindsey, a wild thing he’d tried to wedge into his world. He’d dropped not-so-subtle hints about her hair, her makeup, even her speech, and scorned her idea of opening an animal rescue; before she realized what had happened, he’d financed a ritzy, small animal practice in Charleston. With his money and influence behind her, she’d done well. Very well. But instead of caring for abandoned and abused animals, she was caring for the spoiled pets of the rich.

  Now that she’d left him, she was trapped in the practice by debt. Although she treated her patients well and had plenty of return business, the profits barely covered the expenses of her shiny new office and state-of-the-art equipment.

  Stroking the little calico, she watched one attendee after another leave the lot. The pickup where the foreman stood soon became an island in a sea of stubble torn and rutted by the tires of departing cars. After a while, his brothers climbed into the truck and left, and Lockhart started up
the driveway.

  Halfway to the barn, he doffed his hat and looked up. Lindsey froze, her hand hovering over the cat’s back until it mewed in protest. Hat in hand, Lockhart stared up at her as if struck dumb by the magic of moonlight.

  Or was he looking at her? She couldn’t tell until the clouds obscuring the moon drifted away and Lady Luna lit him from above, revealing that his gaze was fixed on the sky above, not on her.

  She couldn’t help feeling disappointed, just as she’d been disappointed as a child when the big boys—the bad boys—paid her no attention. Lockhart had been handsome even in his stiff new cowboy clothes, and he’d grown into his role now. The moonlight emphasized his strong jaw and the hawk-like line of his nose. His eyes, so deep a brown they looked black from this distance, were heavy lidded and shrouded under a broad forehead with a lock of dark hair slashing across. Native American? Hispanic? She wasn’t sure. His features had an almost gypsy cast.

  As Lindsey watched, he seemed to wake from a trance. Pressing his hat back onto his head, he strode up the drive, a man who knew where he belonged. Sometimes it seemed like he’d walked right into the space she’d left behind and joined the family.

  At the thought, she paused again, making the kitten mew in protest. What if Lockhart was one of those men who eased himself into the lives and hearts of the elderly, duping lonely old people into turning their assets over to him? Hadn’t he and his brothers inherited the Decker Ranch? Maybe he was trying to add to their holdings. It was possible the three brothers were even badder than she’d thought, con men from the time they were teens.

  Ridiculous. Her grandfather would never be taken in by someone like that.

  But had Bud really been himself when he died? It was hard to believe there was a horse in the world that could throw her grandfather. Maybe he’d been suffering from some kind of dementia. Or maybe his cinch had been tampered with.

  If Lockhart hoped Bud would leave him the ranch, it would explain the way his eyes froze over when Lindsey approached, and the way his lip curled when he thought she wasn’t looking. People usually liked her. She did her best to be friendly and kind, to make people happy.

  She sighed. That was part of her problem. She’d been a good girl all her life, going along with everyone else’s plans and letting her own ideas fall to the wayside. Maybe that needed to change.

  And the first thing that would change was her relationship with Shane Lockhart. She wasn’t going to let him boss her, and she refused to deal with his surly disrespect. She was Bud’s granddaughter and had as much right to be here as he did.

  Scooping up the kitten, Lindsey scooted down the ladder, feet dancing down the rungs, and raced into the house. The foreman’s son, who was slumped on the steps waiting for his father, smiled at the sight of the kitten.

  She handed the little bundle of bones to him, and his eyes grew wide.

  “For me?” he asked.

  “For you.” She was suddenly struck with inspiration. “From your uncle Bud. He would have wanted you to have her.”

  “Aw.” He held the kitten to his face, rubbing the soft fur against his cheek. “What’s his name?”

  “It’s a girl.” Lindsey smiled. “And her name is Haycat.”

  Lockhart probably didn’t want a cat, but he was stuck with one now.

  Good girl one, bad boy zero.

  Chapter 10

  Shane stood his ground as the ghostly phantom came closer, squinting into the darkness until it was almost close enough to touch. When the shadowed features formed themselves into a familiar pattern, he smiled.

  “Grace. What are you doing out here?”

  She passed him, walking on with a toddling but determined gait. Shane fell into step beside her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” she said.

  Shane offered his arm. “Then I’m going there too.”

  She slipped her small, bony hand into the crook of his elbow. “You’ve always been such a gentleman.” She shot him a wry look. “Until lately, anyway. What have you got against my granddaughter?”

  He chose not to answer, and her slow steps faltered, then stopped.

  “It’s a beautiful night.” Shane placed his opposite hand over hers. It was cold—too cold. “Where were you really going, Grace?”

  “I was looking for Bud.” She shifted fretfully from one foot to the other. “I can’t find him.”

  Shane felt his heart break a little for this fragile woman who’d been left behind by the man she’d loved almost all her long life.

  “He’s gone, Grace.” Shane patted her hand. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She turned her head, and he felt her gaze sharpen as it settled on his face, as if a gentle canary had morphed into an eagle.

  “I know he’s dead.” Her voice was suddenly strong and sure. She’d lost a few marbles lately, but there were times when she managed to round them all up again. “But Bud’s not gone. He’s still here, in the pastures he cleared, the cattle he raised.” Pulling away, she pointed toward the house, then the barn. “He’s in every nail in that house, every board of that barn. And he’s in that herd, those cattle he bred to be so hardy, so strong.” The pointing finger aimed at Shane himself now. “Don’t you say he’s gone.”

  “Sounds like you found him, then.” Shane started walking slowly toward the house and was relieved when she followed.

  “But part of him’s missing. Oh, I know he’s here.” She placed a fist over her heart. “But I can’t feel him. I used to walk into the house and know if he was home, just because I felt him there. And if he wasn’t there, I’d go to the barn, and I’d know in a second if he was there or not. But now I can’t feel him at all.”

  She sounded tearful, and tears were something Shane couldn’t bear, especially from women. Should he hug her? Rub her back?

  He settled for taking her hand. “Maybe he’s just settling in. It can’t be easy, adjusting to…”

  Adjusting to what? Death? What the heck was he saying?

  It was bad enough he’d mistaken Grace for a ghost moments before. Now he was picturing Bud settling into his grave like a man unpacking his suitcase at a Holiday Inn.

  “You think so?” Grace sounded hopeful.

  “It takes time for a man to adjust to change.” Shane had no idea what he was talking about, but Grace seemed to find his cockamamy theories comforting. “Give Bud a day or two. He’ll be back.”

  Grace gripped Shane’s hand in hers and stared up at the moon.

  “I haven’t slept alone for fifty years,” she said. “That was one thing I really loved about ranching.” Her voice began to crackle and fade like an old radio transmission from somewhere far away. “We were always together. Always…”

  Shane was about to reassure her again when Lindsey raced out of the house, taking the front steps in one huge, tomboy leap and tearing across the lawn. She’d kicked off her expensive shoes, and her long hair streamed out behind her. For a moment, in spite of her funeral clothes, Shane could see the girl she’d once been.

  But only for a moment. Then she was back to being all hissing, spitting woman, mad as a cat in a carnival dunk tank.

  “Where did you take her?”

  “Nowhere.” Grace gave Shane a conspiratorial wink—one that told him she didn’t want him to share their conversation about Bud. “That’s where I went. But Shane didn’t take me there. I went all on my own.”

  Lindsey looked confused for a second. “I was worried sick.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me.” Grace patted Shane’s arm as they climbed the porch steps. “Shane takes care of me. Don’t you, Shane?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Lindsey mumbled.

  “What, dear?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “That’s a wise choice. I’m very tired.” Grace released Shane’s arm. “Thank you, dear. I’m going to bed now.”

  The sc
reen door had barely slammed behind Grace before Lindsey jumped all over Shane—figuratively, of course. In that prim little suit, she couldn’t do much of anything literally.

  Shane couldn’t help noticing she’d been up to something though. A few wisps of hay clung to her hair, which had tumbled out of its sophisticated bun, and a bit of straw was stuck to her lapel. It was hard for him to resist the urge to reach over and brush it off. For such a slender woman, Lindsey’s breasts were…

  What was he thinking? He didn’t care about her breasts. Here she was, scowling at him when he’d done nothing wrong, and yet he was feeling—stirred. There was something about the combination of that wild, flyaway hair and the fitted little suit that worked for him.

  The anger was kind of sexy too.

  “Where was she going? Grace shouldn’t exert herself like that.” Leaning forward, she pointed at her face. “And by the way, my eyes are up here.”

  Shane didn’t know what to do or where to look. He was usually a pretty confident guy, but something about Lindsey threw him for a loop—a wide one, that settled over his shoulders and pulled tight, jerking him off balance like a roped calf. She was beautiful at the best of times, but she was beyond beautiful when she was mad.

  Maybe he just didn’t like nice women. Tara had been mad all the time too.

  “She was looking for Bud.” He kept his voice low and level. “I brought her home. Who knows where she would have ended up if I hadn’t found her?”

  She set her fists on her hips. “Yeah, if you hadn’t happened to be drinking with your brothers out in the parking lot, she’d have gotten right by you.”

  “Well, I didn’t see you taking care of her. I don’t know where you went off to.”

  To make his point, he reached over and plucked that fleck of straw from her lapel. That made her flush, which made her look even prettier. He wondered how long he could keep her mad.

  “So what about Cody?” She nodded toward the front hall, where his son was playing quietly with a kitten. “Nobody was watching him, either.”