Cowboys Do It Best

Fifteen minutes later Ricky tore out the back door, his backpack slung over one shoulder, making his usual mad dash for the school bus stop down the road. She glanced at the clock and sipped her second cup of coffee. Seven-thirty. Normally she’d start cleaning the dog pens about now. Today...well, she didn’t think she could shovel poop one-armed, but maybe she should try. Fortunately, the kennel only held five dogs right now. January was slow.

Well, she thought, pushing away from the table, sitting here brooding didn’t accomplish much. She’d do what she could and let the rest go, then come back to the house and find some way to squeeze enough from her budget to hire someone.

Summer grabbed the keys to the kennel from their hook by the door, stepped out onto the wooden porch at the back of her house, and got assaulted. Kelpie knew better than to jump up, so she ran in tight little circles and yipped. The black-and-white Border collie mix was supposed to be Ricky’s dog, but she adored everyone impartially. Two years ago Summer had found Kelpie huddled outside her fence, obviously abandoned. The dog had needed food, love and 132 dollars’ worth of trips to the vet to regain her health, and she’d been rejoicing ever since. Summer smiled and managed to stroke Kelpie’s head a few times before the animal raced off in delight.

At the end of the porch, Hannah, the aging bloodhound who had belonged to Summer’s father, limited her greeting to a dignified thump-thump of her tail.

A breath of wind stirred the sign at the main gate, the one that read “Three Oaks Kennel and Stable” with the little drawing of the oak tree on it. Summer inhaled deeply, enjoying the slight bite in the air, even enjoying the smell of the nearby stable—a smell that meant horses and home.

Some people liked to wander, she knew. Not her, not anymore. Running off with Jimmie had taught her that much. Summer needed roots. She needed to be on her own land, in her own house, with the people who were important to her nearby.

She was a lucky woman, Summer thought as she started across the big, grassy yard, heading for the kennel. She was living the life she wanted, she had a bright, wonderful son she loved more than her next heartbeat, and she’d learned a valuable lesson while still young.

Men were too damned much trouble. Period.

She had just reached the paddock that lay between the house and the kennel when a huge old Buick pulled up next to the chain-link fence that surrounded the front part of her property. Summer slowed and shook her head. She knew that car.

The woman who got out was as tiny as her car was big. She was a dried-up little dab of a woman in a faded cotton dress, with a face like crumpled tissue and thin white hair scraped back in a bun. “Summer!” the little old lady bellowed. “What do you think you’re doing? Didn’t I tell you I’d come over and take care of those dogs this morning?”

All bones and mouth, that was Maud Hoppy. Summer stopped. “Yes, you did. And I told you not to.”

Maud slammed the door of her tank shut and walked over to the small gate, the people-sized one just west of the big, truck-sized gate. “Don’t know what difference you thought that would make.”

Exasperated, Summer propped her good hand on her hip. “You’re nearly eighty, Maud. You don’t need to be shoveling dog poop.”

“I’m seventy-one.” Maud always lied very positively. She closed the gate behind her. “And I’m not going to shovel poop. I’ll just feed the silly things. Do you need me to feed the horses, too?”

“Ricky and I already fed the dogs. As for the horses, I got hold of Raul last night. He’s already been and gone.” Raul usually worked in the afternoons during the week, but he’d agreed to come early that morning to take care of the stable chores before school. He wouldn’t do the kennel, though. The strapping sixteen-year-old hunk of Latin machismo was afraid of dogs. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

“Good, then you and I can go back inside and drink coffee while you figure out how much you can afford to pay a hand for the next two months.” Maud took Summer’s good elbow and pulled. Her snowy white head barely reached Summer’s shoulder.

“Two months is impossible,” Summer said, towed reluctantly back towards the house by her tiny friend.

“The doctor said two months.”

“Dr. O’Connor doesn’t have to pay my bills,” she retorted. “I have to pay his.”

Still, somehow Summer found herself seated at her kitchen table with her checkbook, a pad and paper, and a computer printout of her current bills and projected expenses in front of her. Her shoulder throbbed in rhythm with her pulse as she added up a column of figures while Maud darted around the kitchen like a hummingbird, looking for things to clean.

Summer hoped Maud found something to clean soon. If she didn’t, she was apt to start cooking, and Summer really couldn’t afford to throw out whatever mess resulted. “Sit down and drink some coffee.”

“In a minute.” Maud pounced on the toaster, unplugging it and taking it over to the sink to shake the crumbs out. “Have you figured out how much you can afford to pay?”

“Yeah.” Nothing. That’s what she could afford. But by making a partial payment on her property taxes and putting the rest off another month or two—they weren’t going to seize her land, she assured herself, even if she was late—she could pay everything else that was due and hire someone for a while. “It’s not going to be easy finding someone, though. Getting someone who knows horses and doesn’t mind that the job is temporary—”

“Now there,” Maud announced in her raspy, Mae West voice, “I can help.” She turned around, toaster in hand, polishing it as she spoke. “You know Will Stafford?”

“You know I do, Maud. His wife Rosie and I are on the SPCA board together in Bica. But their son Joe already has a part-time job, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not talking about Joey. Last night Will was calling around, trying to find someone who needs a hand. Seems Will is helping out an old buddy from his rodeo days—”

“A rodeo bum.” Summer’s lip curled.

“Now, don’t you be judging everyone by that husband of yours. And it doesn’t matter, anyway, whether this fellow is like your Jimmie was or not. He’s desperate. Seems his truck died and he’s about broke. You could board him in that little room off the kennel and pay him real cheap.”

Maud sounded so satisfied with the poor man’s plight that Summer couldn’t help grinning. “Still, if the man is anything like Jimmie, I’d have a battle getting my money’s worth, no matter how little I paid him.”

“Jimmie was lazy. This fellow, though—I don’t imagine a fellow gets to be ‘Best All-Around Cowboy’ at the NFR without working for it. Besides, Will Stafford vouches for him.”

Summer frowned. “So who is this paragon?”

“Chase McGuire.”

“Chase McGuire?” she asked disbelievingly.

Maud put the toaster back where it belonged. “I’ll just make us some more coffee,” she announced. “You know this McGuire?”

Summer stood up. “Not really. I’ll make the coffee, Maud. I’m not helpless.” At least the coffee would be drinkable if Summer made it. She managed to beat Maud to the coffeepot, grabbed the glass carafe and took it to the sink.

She and Jimmie hadn’t exactly run in the same crowd as Chase McGuire. Jimmie had never made it near the top, while the other man had stayed high in the rankings for years. Why would such a man be interested in a two-bit job?

While the carafe filled with water, Summer used her good hand to shift her left arm in the sling, trying to ease the ache. “I’ve never actually met him, Maud. But no one who’s been involved with rodeo could help knowing who he is. I saw him around sometimes, back when I made the circuit with Jimmie.” Oh, yes, she’d seen him. She remembered his lean build, his shaggy blond hair and that deadly smile. And the women. She remembered that, too. He’d attracted women the way horses draw flies. “A man like that would never be satisfied with this sort of penny-ante job,” she said, and shut off the water. “No, he wouldn’t work out.”

“He’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

Summer gaped at her friend. “He...he—”

“Will’s at work, so I told Rosie to bring him by to talk to you about the job at nine-thirty. That seemed like plenty of time.”

How was it she’d never noticed that sly gleam in her friend’s faded blue eyes before? “I do not want Chase McGuire coming here. I won’t hire him, so it’s just a waste of my time and his. You’ll have to call Rosie back, Maud. I’m not changing my mind on this.”

“We’ve just got time to dust the living room before they get here,” Maud said.

Two

Thirty-two minutes later, Chase McGuire stood at her door, hat in hand, with Rosie Stafford. Rosie wore an orange blouse that went with her fiery hair about the same way that Tabasco sauce goes with jalapeños. Chase McGuire wore jeans, a sky blue shirt and that dangerous smile of his. He was a tall man, with just enough creases in his face to make it interesting. He had dark eyelashes, and his hair was six shades of blond all stirred up together.

Summer looked at the man standing at her front door and realized she’d been fooling herself when she thought she knew anything about him. Seeing Chase McGuire at a distance, hearing the gossip about him, was totally different from meeting him up close and personal. He radiated bad-boy charm the way a stove gives off heat.

Summer managed not to stutter when she told the two of them to come on in. “Have a seat, Rosie,” she said, gesturing at the old plaid sofa that Maud had vacuumed free of cat hair less than ten minutes before. “And...Mr. McGuire, too, of course.”

“Make that Chase,” he said, treating her to a smile that showed off the single dimple in his left cheek. “Otherwise I might forget to answer. ‘Mr. McGuire’ is my big brother, Mike.”

“Of course.” No, she’d never known this man. He made her feel...stupid, she thought. Stupid was definitely the word for what she was feeling. “Sit down, Chase. Can I get you something? Some coffee?”

Summer noticed two things when Chase followed Rosie to the couch. First, he limped. Not badly, but the stiffness in his stride was especially noticeable in a man so surely made for strength and grace. She also noticed his... physique. At the mature age of twenty-seven, Summer was used to considering herself past the age for youthful follies. She was dismayed to learn she hadn’t gotten over her weakness for a cowboy in a tight-fitting pair of jeans, after all.

“The coffee’s fresh,” Maud informed them. She was perched primly on a ladder-back chair, imitating a proper old lady.