When Ridge started talking about training, about how he’d teach Moonpie to be a ranch horse, the questions came faster than he could answer them.
“Maybe you guys could come out and help sometime,” he said.
Jeffrey straightened instantly. “When?”
Ridge realized he might have promised too much. “We’ll have to see. It’s up to Sierra.”
Jeffrey drooped like a wilting flower and kicked at the air. “Oh.”
Ridge’s heart ached for the boy. He knew what it was like to find a bright spot in your life only to have it extinguished as quickly as it appeared. It had happened in his own childhood, over and over. And from what Sierra had said, and the hints he’d seen in the boy’s behavior, Jeffrey’s life had been darker than most.
“We’ll try, okay?”
The boy looked away and the ache in Ridge’s chest tightened and grew. What would happen to Jeffrey, growing up alone? Sure, there were people like Sierra, and there were the other boys. But there was no one who belonged to him, no one who would ruffle his hair or give him a playful punch on the arm once in a while.
A boy needed a father—someone he could depend on, someone who helped him along and listened to him and understood who he was. Someone who helped him become a man.
He remembered the circle, the flowing spiral of dust in the riding ring with the boy and the horse at its heart, and he knew it was time to pay back an old, old debt to the man who’d done that for him.
***
When Sierra walked into the kitchen, she couldn’t help letting out a little exclamation of pleasure. Sunshine slanted from a wide window over the sink, glossing the old-fashioned butcher-block counters and splashing the white linoleum floor. The cabinets were painted with shiny white enamel, and their chrome handles echoed the polished faucet of the old porcelain sink. A red tin canister set, decorated with tacky but charming roosters, sat against the backsplash.
Thankfully, the refrigerator was the one thing in the room that had been updated since the sixties, and there was plenty of ice. She found some old glasses decorated with Flintstones characters in one of the cupboards. As she scooped up the ice and plinked it into the glasses, she almost enjoyed the frigid bite on her fingers. The phone call had left her feeling like she deserved it.
Riley was the only thing she worried about more than her job. As an academically successful senior, Sierra had been matched with Riley, who was considered an “at risk” seventh grader at the time, in a program that was supposed to help failing students. The plan was to reduce problems like teen pregnancy, drug abuse, and smoking through mentoring.
Riley had managed to dodge the pregnancy bullet, but she’d worked her way through the rest of the menu and ordered every entrée. Despite all Sierra’s efforts, her “little sister” had sunk into a downward spiral that gathered speed as time passed, like water spinning down a drain.
Riley had been forced to move back with her mother in Denver over a year ago. Her mother hated Sierra for “interfering” in their lives, so the connection between the two girls snapped. But Sierra still woke some nights at 3:00 a.m., expecting an emergency phone call.
Now Riley was homeless and jobless—and back in Sierra’s life.
She shut the phone call out of her mind and gazed around the old-fashioned kitchen, taking solace in its homey warmth. A photo hanging by the door caught her eye and she moved in for a closer look.
It was a picture of a family, posed in front of the old house at the foot of the drive. An older man stood on the top step with a sturdy but attractive dark-haired woman. The man’s broad-brimmed cowboy hat and sharp-toed boots were as much a part of him as his erect posture and strong jaw. The woman was plump and motherly, with her hair spilling from a carelessly constructed bun. From the way they stood, it was obvious they were husband and wife.
One step down stood three boys, all of them looking at the camera with sulky, hostile expressions. Sierra suspected someone had told them to smile and they were doing their best to disobey. They wore cowboy hats, western shirts, jeans, and boots, but the clothes fit poorly and the kids looked uncomfortable, as if they were wearing costumes.
At their feet were two border collies much like the ones that had ridden in the truck, but of course they couldn’t be the same dogs. The photo had the faded brightness of Kodachrome—the grass too yellow, the sky too blue, the subjects’ skin an unreal peachy color.
She squinted at the boys’ faces. She was pretty sure one of them was Ridge. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t looking into the camera. He was looking off to the side, as if working out an escape route. She didn’t think anyone would have guessed the sulky kid in the photo would someday fill a doorway with his broad shoulders or wear a cowboy hat with the same ease as his dad.
The other boys must be the brothers he’d mentioned, and the man and woman his parents. His folks looked like a nice couple, with the open-faced honesty she’d noticed in some of the other people in Wynott.
But the boys looked miserable. There must have been some kind of trouble in their childhoods. You could tell the couple was a unit, but the boys seemed separate somehow. She wondered what had happened to divide them at such a young age.
There was something familiar about the picture, something that struck a chord in the back of her mind. Finally, she took her camera out of her back pocket and hit the review button.
The last picture she’d taken popped onto the screen—the group photo of Ridge and the boys. It was the same pose, and the parallels were almost eerie. Ridge stood on the top step, wearing the same easygoing smile as his father wore in the old photo. The boys stood below him, wearing expressions almost identical to Ridge and his brothers.
The only thing missing was the woman.
Sierra suddenly regretted her refusal of Ridge’s suggestion that they all get in the photo. It would be nice to have a picture just like this—her and the boys, even the cowboy. Since Jeffrey had spoken, she was willing to forgive Ridge his surliness.
Switching her camera over to picture-taking mode, she focused in on the framed photo and pressed the shutter.
“You coming with that lemonade?”
She whirled to see Ridge standing in the doorway, backlit by the sun-washed fields. Knowing something about the boy he’d been made her feel different about the man, and she was starting to understand why he was so good with the kids. He wasn’t good with women, that was for sure, but as she looked at the old photograph, something warm seeped into her heart and nested there, curling up and settling in to stay. Friendship, she told herself. Maybe fondness.
She flashed him a smile. “I’m on my way.”
He stepped into the kitchen, and she took a step backward. The room wasn’t very big, just a narrow galley with the oven on one side and the sink and refrigerator on the other.
“Why are you taking pictures in here?”
She shoved the camera in her back pocket and backed away another step, feeling like a cornered animal, and pointed to the photo. “I was just noticing how much this picture looks like the ones we just took of you and the boys.”
“Uh-huh.” He was the one who looked cornered now, as he glanced around the room in a desperate search for something—probably a way to change the subject.
“What’s your story?” She nodded toward the picture. “I’ve seen that expression on the faces of a hundred boys, Ridge. You don’t get it from riding horses.”
He turned and those pale eyes stared out from under the brim of his hat. They were suddenly hard, his gaze sharp. She felt as if she was pinned to the wall.
“What about you?” he asked. “Why is that your family out there? Why don’t you have kids of your own?”
“That’s not really your business.” She laughed nervously. “Okay. Point taken.”
And it was. She wouldn’t ask about his past again.
But she’d find out about it somehow.
Chapter 18
Once the boys had gulped their lemonade a
nd helped Ridge put away the horses, Ridge hauled them back down to the van in the pickup. Sierra sat beside him, staring out the side window. He’d done it again, ruined what felt like a budding friendship by being rude and defensive.
Why did he feel he had to defend himself against Sierra? She was a nice girl. She clearly cared about people. If she chose to give her life to these boys rather than marrying some jerk and having her own, it wasn’t his business.
But he couldn’t help resenting her plan to take that new job, to leave Wynott for good. It didn’t matter to him, of course. But she’d break the boys’ hearts. They were used to that kind of thing, but being used to having your heart broken didn’t make it any easier, and they clearly loved Sierra.
Fortunately, it was all about the boys again when they got to the van, so he didn’t have to talk to her or even look at her. As the vehicle rolled slowly out of the rutted drive, small hands waved from every window, making the vehicle look like some sort of slow-moving insect with wildly waving antennae.
Sierra didn’t wave, and he could understand why.
He might have screwed up with her, but he’d been able to make a bunch of boys happy today. Isaiah had loved being out in the sunshine and having more space to boss people around. Carter and Frankie had made no effort to hide their joy, and Josh’s smile and his shy “thank you” had been heartfelt and sweet.
And Jeffrey? Sierra seemed to think the kid had had some kind of breakthrough, and Ridge agreed. He’d seen the flash of triumph and understanding he’d experienced himself the first time he’d ridden a horse. It had been the defining moment of his life, the moment he moved from lost to found.
Since his injury had made rodeo an impossibility, he’d felt lost all over again—but watching Jeffrey, he thought he just might have found a new purpose.
He didn’t have to worry about making a living. His rodeo winnings would pay for a full makeover on the ranch house, and horse training would pay the bills when that ran out. The problem was finding something to do, something that mattered. Helping kids like the ones he’d worked with today could be just what he needed.
Heading back into the house, he glanced down at the boots that were lined up, largest to smallest, beside the front door. Last in line was a pair of black Converse sneakers, sitting neatly in the spot where Jeffrey’s pink girls’ boots should have been.
Ridge smiled. Jeffrey might not talk much, but the fact he’d worn those boots home spoke volumes.
He rinsed glasses and cleaned counters while images from the day flickered through his mind. Out of habit, he got a glass out of the cupboard when he was done and reached for the bottle of Jack on top of the refrigerator. Taking a handful of ice from the freezer, he clinked it into the glass then let a stream of amber liquid glug from the bottle.
He anticipated the bite of the alcohol, the slow burn down his gullet that would coil in his stomach and spread warmth through his veins—warmth and a dull, slow feeling that was as close to contentment as he could find these days. When he lifted the glass to his lips, the sharp, medicinal scent seemed to slow his senses before he even took a sip. Pausing, he swirled the ice in the glass. Over the past few weeks, drinking had been the only thing that came close to filling the empty space inside him.
But the emptiness was gone, at least for a while. The boys’ rambunctious arguments had brought back memories of him and his brothers, and Sierra’s gentle tones had reminded him of Irene’s voice as she’d gentled their high spirits. He’d half expected to hear Bill come in from the barn, stamping the mud off his boots. That had been the signal for him and his brothers to hush. The petty arguments would stop and they’d gather around the table, right-minded and respectful, to discuss the day’s work. Bill had treated them like men even when they didn’t deserve it, and they’d all done their best to live up to his high opinion.
The old man had made all three of them believe in themselves and taught them there was nothing they couldn’t do if they worked hard enough. And he’d done it without a word of lecturing or a hint of preaching. He’d simply shown them, day after day, how a good man lived his life.
They’d all wanted to be like him, but Ridge knew he had a ways to go yet. His injury was a problem, sure, but he was sulking over it like a kid who’d been denied his shiny toys. With no buckles to wear, no trophies to show, he didn’t know how to live a life that mattered.
He knew Bill had never won any kind of trophy. He’d simply lived his life with a clear eye and a kind heart. Ridge was starting to see that living like that and never wavering—and finding a way to pass on that wisdom—might be a harder task than riding the rankest bronc that ever hit the chutes.
Striding into his bedroom, he grabbed the old composition book and carried it into the kitchen along with a stubby pencil. As always, it flipped open to his list of goals, his planned route to the championship.
But for the first time in a long time, he turned the page. Tapping his pencil on the table, he decided to stick to the same format. With its dates and specific goals, that list had told him exactly what he needed to accomplish and when.
1., he wrote.
And that was it.
The excitement drained out of him as fast as it had built up. He didn’t have any idea how to do this. Who did he talk to? Where did he sign up to change his life? Kicking a random boot aside—one of Brady’s, probably—he gazed around the chaotic room. Bill had always kept it orderly. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Ridge had groaned at that phrase throughout his teens, but the old man had a point.
Clean house, he wrote.
It would be a start.
He glanced at the feed company calendar that hung crookedly by the door. It was September third. At three days per room, the cleaning would take three weeks. Add an extra day or two for tough spots like the kitchen and Brady’s room, and the goal would be accomplished by the 26th. He put that date by step one.
2., he wrote.
What the hell was step two? What he wanted to do wasn’t easy. There would be rules, regulations, and red tape to sort through. There would be complications, and he needed a guide.
He only knew one person who understood the state bureaucracy that held kids in foster care.
2. Talk to Sierra.
She’d know what to do next. No doubt there would be complications, lots of bureaucratic barriers to leap and rivers of red tape to cross.
Since he didn’t know what else was involved in the process, he left steps three through six blank. That ought to be enough. He wrote the number seven and felt a surge of excitement. No, not excitement. Just a feeling of rightness, as if he’d finally found his purpose.
7. Adopt first foster son.
There. A clear goal, the start of his new life. He knew what he wanted, what was right for him and for the ranch.
He also knew which boy needed him most and which one had caught his heart. But you couldn’t pick out boys like you chose a puppy, could you?
Well, you had to pick them somehow. And instinct seemed like the way to go.
After Adopt first foster son, he wrote (Jeff).
He read through the list one more time. It felt good to have a goal again, and if he knew one thing about himself, it was that he made every goal he’d ever set his sights on—until his body failed him.
He looked down at his damaged hand, bending the fingers reflexively. For once it didn’t bother him that they wouldn’t clench into a fist. He wouldn’t need his hands for this project. He wouldn’t have to grip a rein or rope a calf. All he needed was a strong heart, and he didn’t think anything could take that away from him.
Returning to his task, he picked up the pencil that had rolled off the table and wrote in capital letters across the top of the page:
Plan B.
***
Sierra slouched in her desk chair, giving herself a few minutes to recover from the day. Thank goodness for the night shift. Pat Morgan, an older woman who worked days as a cafeteria lady at t
he school in Grigsby, had already arrived to take over the reins and was watching SpongeBob SquarePants in the dayroom with the boys. She and Gil’s wife, Jessie, who was Phoenix House’s cook, were taking care of dinner and bedtime, so Sierra headed upstairs to her tiny apartment on the top floor. It was a relief and a luxury to leave behind the sound of SpongeBob’s annoying laughter and relax.
Unlocking her apartment door, she stepped into the bare-bones sanctuary she’d created out of two rooms at the top of the house. The rooms weren’t air-conditioned, so they were sweltering on hot days. But from the two gabled windows at either end, she could see anyone who arrived at the house. It was like the crow’s nest on a ship—she could spot trouble a mile away.
She tried to eat downstairs with the boys most nights to give them a sense of family, but she needed to eat out tonight. A girl needed to have a life of her own—although having a life was a challenge in a town like Wynott.
If she couldn’t have a life, she could at least have a Red Dawg burger. But first she needed to call Riley back. Her stomach had been clenched like a fist ever since they’d talked.
Grabbing her purse, she fished for the phone then remembered she’d shoved it in her back pocket at the ranch. Slapping her backside, she flinched.
No phone.
She checked the other pocket then rummaged in her purse again.
Still no phone.
A picture flashed in her mind: Ridge, showing the boys how to care for the horses. Tapping Sluefoot on the leg so the horse obediently picked up his foot. He’d talked about the tender center of a horse’s foot, called the frog. The boys had laughed about Sluefoot having frogs in his feet until Ridge scowled them into seriousness and showed them how to clean the animal’s foot with a hoof-pick. She’d bent over to see, and her phone had almost fallen out of her pocket. She’d set it on the edge of the stall for safekeeping.
How to Handle a Cowboy Page 11
