Rough Creek

by Kaki Warner

  So strong. So sure. So willing to sacrifice everything for a promise he shouldn’t have made in the first place.

  “Well, this is apropos,” Mama muttered, panting as she pushed in beside Raney.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Looking down on Dalton. Isn’t that what you’ve done all along?”

  Raney stared at her, too shocked to deny it.

  “He is, after all, a convicted criminal,” her mother added in a low voice. “Isn’t that what you said? Several times?”

  “He didn’t do it!” Raney hissed, hoping the other watchers couldn’t hear them over the noise of the crowd. “His mother told me he didn’t and he confirmed it.”

  “Then what are you so upset about?”

  “He deceived me! That’s what. How can I ever trust him again?”

  “Oh, darling, don’t be naive. Life is filled with little lies and omissions and disappointments. If you expect perfection, you’re doomed to a lifetime of loneliness. Dalton is an honorable man. I’m sad you can’t see that. Now hush. They’re starting.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Alejandro led Big Mike over to where Dalton and Rosco stood second in line at the in gate. He looked angry. Hell, everybody was pissed off with him today.

  Keeping his voice low, Alejandro said, “Since you did not come to look over the cows, how will you tell me which ones you want without the judges noticing?” Once the ride started, communicating with your helper was frowned upon.

  “You’ll know. Watch my eyes. And if we miss, we miss.”

  Muttering under his breath, Alejandro gathered Big Mike’s reins and swung into the saddle.

  Dalton tightened Rosco’s cinch, checked his front and rear skid boots, then stood there, his mind retracing every word of the fight with Raney and wondering what he could have said differently. Was this really the end for them? He couldn’t accept that. But he didn’t regret any of his decisions, either. She was putting hidden meanings on every move he’d made, and she thought he didn’t trust her?

  Alejandro leaned down and said, “You better get your head straight, pendejo, or we will lose this thing.”

  Overhead, the loudspeaker blared as the first rider went through the gate. Dalton heard his and Rosco’s names listed as “on deck,” and nodded to Alejandro. “You’re right,” he said, and mounted up.

  Doing what he’d done in Iraq and later in Huntsville, Dalton shut his mind to the noise around him and concentrated on breathing. In and out, slow and steady. Pushing all the pain and fear and fury deep inside so he could focus only on the here and now. If this was to be the end of him and Raney, so be it. But he’d go out on the ride of his life.

  Bending down, he stroked Rosco’s neck. “We’ve got this, boy. We can do it.” Then the in gate opened, and Dalton sent him into the arena.

  He felt a shiver of excitement run through the colt as they crossed the time line and walked into the back of the herd, flushing half of the cows out into the working area. Spotting the heifer he wanted, Dalton kept his eyes fixed on her as the other cows started to regroup. Alejandro got the message. He and Mike cleared the working area by sending the stragglers back to the handlers keeping the herd bunched along the back wall.

  Dalton pointed the colt at the chosen heifer, dropped his rein hand to Rosco’s neck, and gripped the horn with his right hand as the horse jumped into action, mirroring the cow’s movements to keep her from getting back to the herd.

  She didn’t put up much of a fight and within twenty seconds had almost slowed to a standstill. Dalton immediately lifted the reins, put his right hand on Rosco’s neck to signal him to quit, then turned to find the next cow. He spotted her hiding deep inside the herd.

  Hoping she would offer a better challenge, he sent Rosco forward, moving slowly so they didn’t spook the other cows. After he reached the heifer he wanted, he had Rosco drive her toward the outside until she broke from the herd. Then he dropped his rein hand to the colt’s neck again, grabbed the horn, and let Rosco do his magic.

  This one was livelier and had Rosco scrambling. Dalton kept a tight grip on the horn as the colt darted and lunged to keep the cow from slipping past him and back to the herd. After almost thirty seconds, the heifer finally tired. Dalton signaled Rosco to let her go and went after the third cow. He got her into the working area and held her until the buzzer sounded and the ride was over.

  Dalton thanked the other handlers, shook Alejandro’s hand, then reined Rosco toward the exit gate. “Good boy,” he murmured, stroking the colt’s sweat-slick neck. “You did good. I’m proud of you.”

  Alejandro stopped beside them. “We were lucky. That was his best go. But that first heifer will cost you.”

  “I know. My fault, not Rosco’s. I made a bad pick.”

  “They don’t seem to think so.” Alejandro nodded toward several men leaning against the fence, watching them. Two gave Dalton a thumbs-up, another nodded.

  Dalton looked up at the leaderboard, saw that the previous rider had scored 220. Definitely a winning score. Then it flashed Rosco’s score: 218.5. Dalton felt a shock, looked again, then a surge of relief that made his eyes sting.

  Better than he expected. He couldn’t have asked for more.

  By the time he’d dismounted and loosened Rosco’s cinch, the vultures were descending.

  * * *

  * * *

  Raney was about to cry again. 218.5! They’d done it! And she could see by the crowd gathering around Rosco and Dalton that she wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  “Let’s hope he isn’t receptive,” Mama murmured.

  Raney glanced at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Those men aren’t giving Dalton congratulations. They’re making offers.”

  “Rosco’s not for sale.”

  “I’m not talking about the horse.”

  Raney looked again. She recognized Max Rayburn and Tom Hadley, both owners. The others she didn’t know. “Dalton said he wasn’t looking to move.”

  “Unless you run him off.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!” Furious, Raney left the observation deck and headed down the stairs, so upset with her mother she couldn’t get away from her fast enough. But once at the bottom, she slowed, wondering if Mama might be right. After the things she’d said, would Dalton actually consider leaving Four Star? The thought made her chest so tight she couldn’t take a full breath.

  “Raney!” Her mother came up beside her, breathing hard and looking worried. “I’m sorry I said that. But you’ve got to do something. Things can’t continue the way they are. You either accept a man, warts and all, or you let him go. And I don’t think you’re truly ready to let him go, are you?”

  “No. But what do I do?”

  “Put in your own offer.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Dalton felt cornered. Men were bidding on him like he was a piece of horseflesh they wanted for their stable. In some ways it was flattering. In others, it was demeaning. But another part of him saw it as a way out. If Raney decided they were done, at least he’d have someplace to go. And judging by the offers, someplace a lot more lucrative.

  “I’m flattered, fellas, but I—”

  “Are you gentlemen trying to poach my trainer?”

  He turned, saw Raney walking toward him, a determined look in her eye. Not smiling. Face flushed. Still upset. Seeing that closed expression broke something inside of him. “What are you doing?” he asked her.

  Before she could answer, Tom Hadley turned to her. “Is he on contract? If so, I’ll buy it out. Name your price.”

  Other men came forward.

  * * *

  * * *

  Heart drumming, Raney stopped before them, hands on hips. Her gaze swung over the men crowding around, then stopped on Dalton. “I have no
hold on him. He can go wherever he wants.” She watched disappointment tighten Dalton’s face and had to look away. “But I want him to stay,” she went on to the men gathered around. “Whitcomb Four Star needs him. Our program needs him. I need him.”

  Putting on a smile, she glanced from one man to the other. “Gentlemen, I know I can’t compete with your prestigious outfits. Not yet. And certainly not financially. But I can offer him something better.” She finally looked directly at Dalton and said, “A lifetime commitment.”

  His dark brows came down in a frown. His eyes narrowed. But he didn’t look away.

  Beside her, Tom Hadley chuckled. “You can’t promise that. What if he gets injured? You going to keep him on forever?”

  “Or if your program fails?” another man cut in. “Will you still guarantee his salary for the rest of his life?”

  “I can and I will,” Raney said, still looking at Dalton.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, that’s a promise. From me to him.”

  Dalton’s wary look eased. Mischief danced in his beautiful green eyes and the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth gave her hope that there was still hope.

  “Makes no sense,” a man said.

  Another nodded. “Why would you make a promise like that?”

  “Because I’m in love with the guy.”

  “Ah, hell,” a voice muttered.

  Mumblings all around. Raney ignored them and continued to watch Dalton. Waiting. Hoping.

  It seemed forever before he spoke. “Is that a proposal, Miss Whitcomb?”

  Her throat was so tight she had to clear it before she could say, “It is.”

  “Because I won’t let you have your way with me unless I get a ring.”

  “I’ll get one tomorrow.”

  Several onlookers wandered away in disgust.

  Max Rayburn stayed, a big grin splitting his face as he patted her crying mother’s shoulder.

  Dalton got out his phone and held it up. He stepped toward her. “Could you repeat that, ma’am? And with the proper words this time. Just for legal purposes, of course.”

  “You’re such an asshat.”

  “Seriously? That’s your proposal?”

  Raney didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. So she did both. “Dalton Cardwell, will you marry me?”

  Another step. Then another. Until he was looking down at her, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “I’d be honored to, Raney Whitcomb. Sorry, fellows,” he said, without looking their way. “I’m staying with her.” Then, slipping his phone back into his pocket, he swept her up in his arms. “Sweetheart, you’re killing me.” He planted a big, long, hard kiss on her mouth, then whispered in her ear, “Now stop crying. I’m fixing to get embarrassed.”

  “I will if you will.”

  “Done.”

  EPILOGUE

  The next day, both on the society page and in the sporting section of the Fort Worth Beacon, there were similar articles:

  As announced at the Will Rogers Memorial Center in Fort Worth, Dalton Cardwell, on Rosco Rides High, out of Follow Me Boys, sired by Hidey Ho, and owned by Raney Whitcomb of Whitcomb Four Star Ranch, tied for third place in the Open Division of the 2017 United States Cutting Horse Association Futurity, taking home prize money of well over one hundred thousand dollars. After the winners were announced, Mrs. Coralee Lennox Whitcomb hosted an impromptu and well-attended gathering at a local Tex-Mex restaurant in Fort Worth to celebrate the Futurity results as well as the engagement of her daughter Raney Whitcomb to Dalton Cardwell, both of Rough Creek. The happy couple will be managing partners of Whitcomb Four Star Ranch near Rough Creek, where they intend to build on their recent success as a leading cutting horse training and breeding facility.

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  Landstuhl, Germany

  March 2018

  Determined to try to interview Army Second Lieutenant KD Whitcomb again, CID Warrant Officer Richard Murdock adopted a cheery expression as he walked into her hospital room. “Afternoon, Lieutenant. You’re looking better.”

  Actually, she looked like shit. Yet despite the weary droop of her eyes—brown or black, he couldn’t tell—and the pinched tightness of her mouth—pain, probably—and the rat’s nest in her brown hair, her beauty was still there. With her looks and delicate frame, she should never have been in the army. Yet she had overcome the odds, graduating with a top rank from West Point, then suffering through boot camp and officer training to earn her right to be a soldier. From what he’d read in her file, she was determined and committed, headed for the top. Richard hated that he might be the tool used to bring her down.

  He’d done a lot of thinking over the last few days—about this case, his future, how far he’d go to cover the army’s ass, and whether or not he’d be willing to ruin this woman’s career as a soldier to keep his job. Which is what would happen if he turned in the report his next-in-command wanted and bent the facts to avoid another Afghanistan scandal. A no-win situation for everybody but the army. And another reason for him to get out of the military before he lost all respect for the army and himself.

  Pushing that thought away, Richard put on a smile. “Ready for a few questions, Lieutenant?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  And totally lacking in enthusiasm, it seemed. But Richard was accustomed to that. No one liked being interrogated by the Criminal Investigation Division.

  He got out his notepad and pen and took a chair beside the bed. Hoping to put her more at ease, he said, “Again, I’m sorry about Captain Mouton. From everything I’ve heard, she was a fine officer.”

  “And friend,” Whitcomb added, blinking hard.

  To give her a chance to pull herself together—he hated when they cried—Richard shuffled through the pages a bit. When he figured she’d had enough time, he started with, “When did Captain Mouton decide to go to Farid’s quarters?”

  “We were at mess. COM radioed two women were at the gate asking for her.”

  “That would be your Afghan interpreter, Samira, and a local woman?”

  “Yes. Azyan. I don’t know her last name.”

  Richard jotted that down. “And what did they say to the Captain?”

  “That Farid had taken Azyan’s eight-year-old son, and she wanted him back.”

  “And Mouton agreed to go get him?”

  “Not at first. Especially after she learned Farid was the ANP commanding officer. We have enough problems with the Afghan National Police without stirring up more. Mouton explained that we couldn’t interfere in local matters, and asked why Azyan couldn’t go get her son herself. Samira told us she’d tried, but Farid had hit her. Azyan showed us cuts and bruises on her face and arms.”

  “And that’s when your captain decided to go to Farid’s?”

  “Not until Azyan told us why Farid had taken her son.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “For sex. Captain Mouton made it clear that she could only ask Farid to return the boy. If he refused, there was nothing more we could do.”

  Richard started a new page, wishing he’d brought new batteries for his recorder. “Did she order you to go with her?”

  “No.”

  “But you went anyway. Despite the noninterference policy in local matters.”

  A hard look came over the lieutenant’s face, making her look older, less vulnerable. And definitely not broken. “She was my captain. I had her back. That was part of my mission.”

  Instead of responding, Richard sat quietly and waited. After two years with the 8th Psychological Operations Group and six with CID, he’d found that silence often worked better than questions to keep a conversation going.

  This time was no exception. “Actu
ally, she didn’t want me going,” Whitcomb finally said. “She knew the risks, and didn’t want me to damage my career. I told her she wasn’t going alone.”

  “So both of you knowingly disobeyed the Department of Defense policy of ignoring Afghan cultural matters?”

  Emotion flashed in her eyes. Brown eyes, he saw now, showing flecks of yellow when she was mad. She studied him for a long time, her mouth set, her hands fisted against the sheets. She gave off an unbreachable aura of strength, as if showing weakness was the same as accepting defeat. She might be small, but she was tough. He couldn’t help but admire that.

  “I think I see where this is going, Warrant Officer Murdock.” She spoke calmly. Precisely. Every word carefully enunciated. “The army is worried about an international shitstorm, so they’ve sent you to find a way to spin it so Captain Mouton takes the blame.” She smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile and did nothing to bank the fire in those amazing eyes. “You’ll get no help from me. Captain Mouton was an excellent soldier. Honest, fair, courageous. And I will never let anyone paint her differently.”

  “I wasn’t trying to. I only want the truth.”

  “Oh, really? Then here’s the truth. We went to Farid’s as a courtesy to a desperate mother. That’s why female soldiers are in Afghanistan. To offer help to the Afghan women wherever and however we can. Captain Mouton had no intention of doing anything in violation of noninterference policy, and she didn’t order me to go with her. The only thing she asked of me was that we both wear headscarves to show respect.”

  Richard wrote furiously, intent on getting down every word. The woman should have been in JAG. She would have made a hell of a lawyer. When he finally finished, he absently shook a cramp out of his hand and looked up.

  The hard-faced resolve was gone, replaced by one of those looks women did so well—a cross between a smirk and bored impatience—one of those why do I have to do all the thinking looks. “Do you have a cell phone, Officer Murdock?”