More Than a Cowboy

“Hello,” he said. “Did I lose you?”

“N-no.” She turned toward her mother and sister. They’d been as unnerved as her to learn Deacon McCrea was representing Mercer. The irony wasn’t lost on Liberty. They’d blamed him for the bull-goring accident regardless of any evidence. “What do you want, Deacon?”

The alarm on their faces matched the panic Liberty felt.

“Is your mother available?” he asked.

She held the phone away and pressed the mute button. “He wants to talk to you.”

Sunny shook her head vehemently.

Liberty returned to the call. “I’m sorry. She’s not in at the moment.”

“Could you give her a message for me?”

“What is it?”

Liberty hadn’t intended to sound so curt with Deacon. Nothing about this situation with her family was his fault. But he’d positioned himself squarely in Mercer’s camp and had to know that squashed any potential relationship with her. She did, and grieved just a little for what was lost.

“Your father and I would like to meet with you, your mother and sister tomorrow. Is one o’clock convenient?”

“For what?”

“To discuss terms. Can Sunny or someone else call me back and confirm? Here’s my number.”

Discuss terms? An ambiguous phrase that held the power to tear their lives apart.

With shaking fingers, Liberty reached for the pad and pen kept by the phone and jotted down the number he recited.

“I’m not sure we’re available,” she said. “It’s summer. I teach riding classes both mornings and afternoons, and my mother—”

“The sooner the better.”

His abrupt businesslike manner caused her to bristle. To think she’d wasted all those hours daydreaming about him, now and in the past.

“Fine. I’ll give her the message.” Hanging up, she faced her family. “Mercer has requested a meeting. It doesn’t sound like he’ll take no for an answer.”

* * *

DEACON PULLED INTO the Easy Money Rodeo Arena grounds and was instantly transported eleven years into the past. That hadn’t happened for weeks. Lately, he’d begun to hope the past was dead, that he might actually belong here again and have a chance with Liberty. Turned out he’d been wrong. On all three counts. He wasn’t sure which disappointed him the most.

Relocating to Reckless had been a six-month impulse. He’d returned briefly to handle some old business for his parents. They’d moved to Globe years ago. Several people had recognized Deacon and stopped him on the streets, mentioning the accident. When he left, he vowed never to set eyes on the place again. Except he couldn’t get those encounters and the town out of his mind.

He was innocent. He would clear his name. He would not run away again.

Mercer must be going through a similar trip down memory lane for he’d grown suddenly quiet after having talked Deacon’s ear off during the entire drive from town.

Maneuvering his pickup into an empty space outside the arena office, Deacon parked and shut off the engine. He reached for the door handle. “You ready?”

Mercer didn’t move.

Deacon waited while the cab quickly heated to an uncomfortable temperature.

“Anytime,” he prodded.

“Yeah, sorry.” Mercer’s smile was weak at best. “Got lost in thought there for a second.”

Outside the truck, Deacon paused and surveyed his surroundings, much as he had that first day back. On the surface, little had changed.

The office was housed in the main barn and could be entered from either the outside or inside of the barn. The arena was to the west and directly across from the main barn. Aluminum bleachers flanked the two long sides of the arena. On the south end were bucking chutes, large ones for the bulls and horses, smaller ones for the calves. Narrow runways connected the chutes to the livestock-holding pens. Above the chutes, and with a bird’s-eye view, was the announcer’s stand.

A lengthy row of shaded stalls had been built behind the main barn, along with more livestock pens and three connected pastures. About half of the box stalls in the main barn and most of the outdoor stalls were available for lease to the public. Deacon himself rented two stalls for his horses.

He’d long ago given up rodeoing. A couple years ago, at the urging of a buddy, he’d started team penning and discovered he not only had a knack for it, he quite enjoyed it. The horses were a gift to himself when he passed the bar exam.

Liberty also had a love of team penning. It was something they’d shared these past couple of months, often practicing and competing together. He was going to miss that.

Deacon and Mercer strode in the direction of the office. An old wooden picnic table sat to the right of the door, the innumerable scars and gouges indistinguishable from the initials and names carved into it. Three folding lawn chairs were clustered near the picnic table. All empty.

At the office door, Deacon paused and knocked. Most people simply entered. He’d decided to give the three Beckett women a quick heads-up. Turned out they weren’t there. Instead, the tiny waiting area was deserted, and a woman Deacon didn’t immediately recognize occupied the desk.

“Hi.” Her smile was guarded. “I’ll let Sunny know you’re here.” She reached for the desk phone and pressed a series of buttons on the dial pad. “Sunny Beckett to the office. Sunny Beckett to the office.” Half a beat behind, the receptionist’s voice blared from speakers inside the barn and at the arena. “She shouldn’t be long,” the woman said after hanging up.

“Thank you kindly.” Mercer took a seat in one of the two well-worn visitor chairs.

Deacon joined him. He understood this was a game. Sunny didn’t want to appear as if she was waiting for them. That would show weakness. Forcing them to wait for her, on her home turf at that, showed strength.

He perused the pictures on the walls. Some were of familiar scenes and faces, others evidently taken after his time here as a wrangler. The ones of the bulls had been removed.

“I remember you,” Mercer said. “You’re Cassidy’s friend.”

Deacon swiveled in his chair. Mercer was staring at the woman, the beginnings of a grin on his face.

“Yes,” she answered hesitantly.

He snapped his fingers as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Tatum Hanks.”

“It’s Tatum Mayweather now.” Her smile lost some of its wariness. “How are you, Mr. Beckett?”

“Just dandy. And call me Mercer. I take it you work here.”

“For the last four months. Before that, I taught third grade at the elementary school.”

Deacon watched the woman as she and Mercer chatted. He’d seen her off and on, naturally, and noticed her staring at him, as did anyone who’d been around at the time of the accident. He’d ignored her stares. In hindsight, he should have paid more attention.

She was, he now recalled, Cassidy’s friend. Best friend. The few memories he could muster crystalized. One centered on a wedding at the arena.

“How’s that husband of yours?” Mercer asked.