Promise from a Cowboy

The engagement was good news for a family that had had a hell of a rough ride this year. After Brock’s death, it had seemed nothing would ever be right again. The loss always hit B.J. hardest at night—he hadn’t had a straight eight hours of sleep in a long time.

But he was grateful that Corb had recovered from his injuries. He’d even fallen in love and married Laurel Sheridan, Winnie’s red-haired friend from New York City. Now they had a little daughter—life continued.

Winnie, however, still hadn’t returned to Coffee Creek since Brock’s funeral. She was convalescing at her parents’ farm in the Highwood area. The family had been shocked to learn that she’d been two months pregnant at the time of the accident. Now she had a little boy and B.J. wondered when he would meet him.

He’d called Winnie a few times since Brock’s death. Their conversations were always short, since neither of them knew quite what to say. They always ended the same way, with Winnie promising to return with her son to Coffee Creek one day soon.

But in the meantime, her staff and Laurel were running the Cinnamon Stick Café.

As for Jackson, nothing anyone said seemed able to lessen the guilt he felt for being the driver that day. B.J. felt bad for his foster brother and hoped that eventually time would heal his pain.

B.J. himself was no stranger to guilt. He knew that with Brock gone, it was up to him, the eldest son, to step in and help. But the rodeo had become more than a job to him over the years. It was an adrenaline addiction that kept him from thinking of a certain woman he should have forgotten a long time ago.

He gave his head a shake and reminded himself to focus. Lately his thoughts had been scattering far too easily.

“...and we have an eighty-nine for Mr. B. J. Lambert today, ladies and gentlemen. That pretty much guarantees him top standing for the Wild Rogue this year. Give it up, folks, for a gentleman who has dedicated many good years to this sport we all love...”

Tommy, one of the pick-up men, clapped his shoulder. “Well done.” A couple other competitors offered their congratulations, too, stopping him to shake his hand and make admiring comments about his ride.

Once upon a time B.J. would have enjoyed all of this. Winning was the point, right?

But today he felt flat. That moment in the chute with Bucking Machine had meant more to him than any of this.

And later, when he was called to the stage and given his check and trophy, it was all he could do to muster a smile and wave at the spectators.

His sister came running and threw out her arms for a big hug. “Way to go, B.J. We’re all so proud of you.”

Her fiancé, a man who had been his friend since they were mutton-busting age, gave him a firm handshake. “Impressive. Hell, you were the man to beat, but no one even came close.”

B.J. shrugged. “It’s what I do. You novices, though, you really kicked butt. You’re the ones who deserve the big congratulations.”

Cassidy flushed. She’d come in third in barrel racing after a six-year hiatus from the sport, while Farley, a full-time vet who competed only occasionally in the rodeo, had managed to take first place in steer wrestling. B.J. could tell he was still on a high from his great performance. B.J. remembered well the days when winning had made him feel that way, too.

Hard to say when the thrill had started to fade. Maybe when he’d noticed the other cowboys sharing their victories with girlfriends, wives and children, while he always stood on the podium alone?

“We were all pretty awesome,” Cassidy said, linking one arm around Farley, the other around her brother. His sister looked happier than he’d seen her in some time, and he was glad for her. She’d recently decided to leave behind her planned business career to work as a horse trainer and teacher with Straws Monahan. Her recent engagement to Farley was also a big reason for the glow in her smile.

“You two make a great couple,” he said.

And that’s when his mother joined the group. She was decked out in a stylish skirt and trimmed Western shirt, looking spry and fit for a woman in her sixties.

“You did well, Robert James.” The words were right, but the tone held the note of contained disapproval that he was used to hearing from his mother.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m glad you could be here.”

She nodded, then turned to her daughter. “I’m tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

“Oh.” Cassidy’s face fell. “Would you like us to come with you?”

“No. You go ahead and celebrate.” She sighed. It was the drinking and partying that accompanied rodeo that she most disapproved of. “I suppose you’ve earned the right to a little fun.”

“We’ll have fun,” Cassidy agreed. “But you know we won’t overdo the drinking. We never do.”

B.J. wondered if his sister thought she was speaking for him, too, when she said that. If so, she wasn’t being entirely honest.

“Ready to head over to the Rogue Saloon?” Cassidy asked him, once their mother had departed.

“I’ll meet you there. I promised an interview to a reporter from the Mail Tribune.” His sister didn’t look too disappointed, and neither did Farley. He was definitely the third wheel tonight. Maybe he’d just skip the party. He wasn’t much in the mood, anyway.

It turned out there were a couple of reporters waiting to interview him, and he answered their questions politely, giving the stock answers that he had memorized years ago.

He’d thought he was finished, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“B.J.?”

The nerves that ran along his spine tingled at the sound of her voice.

He turned slowly, taking the time for a good long look before he answered. Savannah—the local sheriff back home—wasn’t in uniform tonight. She was wearing her thick, dark hair long, and in her jeans, brown boots and black-and-gray shirt, she could have been just another pretty rodeo fan.

She had on silver hoop earrings and a silver star that hung from her neck by a black ribbon. But what really drew his gaze were her eyes, dark and wary.

“How are you, Savannah?” He almost couldn’t believe it was really her. For eighteen years she’d barely spoken to him—except when official duty required her to, like the day his brother Brock had died.

She shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter how she was.

“Something’s happened,” she said.

His heart contracted painfully. “Not another accident.”

“No.” She held out her hand in a reassuring gesture. “No. Nothing like that. It’s about the fire.”

He understood immediately that she was referring to the awful night that had changed everything between them. She’d been home babysitting her little sister while he went out partying with their friends and her twin brother, Hunter.

Right from the beginning things had gone wrong. First the location. Hunter had been keen for their group to ride ATVs out to an abandoned barn on Olive’s estranged sister’s property. B.J. hadn’t felt right about it, but he’d gone along.

Then a big electrical storm had struck, spooking the girls and sending them running. Only Brock and Hunter had stayed behind to witness the barn catching fire. Not until later did they discover that a vagrant had been passed out in the loft. Rain had put out the fire before the barn burned down, but smoke inhalation killed the vagrant.

B.J. had been the one to insist on calling the authorities. He’d also done what he thought was the noble thing—taking the blame for inviting his friends out to his aunt’s barn. He’d wanted to protect his girlfriend’s brother, not ever considering that Savannah would blame him for getting Hunter in trouble.

“Isn’t that ancient history?”

“I wish.” She exhaled her annoyance. “I had a visit from a private investigator from L.A.” She frowned as a young man carrying two beers in his hands jostled her shoulder. “Could we find someplace quiet to talk?”

He thought about his trailer. Too small, too intimate. The saloon where Cassidy and Farley were headed would be noisy. “I could stand some food. Want to go out for a steak?”

She hesitated, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes. Even after all these years, it hurt.

She blamed him for what had happened to her brother. Always a kid who invited trouble, Hunter had grown even wilder after the fire. He’d given up on school, found a rougher set of friends, and two months later, on his and Savannah’s eighteenth birthday, had stolen money from their mother and run off to his first rodeo.