Cowboy, Take Me Away

“Where are you staying?” The question was out before Trace could stop himself. He knew the answer. Larry hadn’t scored in the money, and he was nobody’s favorite road warrior, so he had to be sleeping single in his pickup.

“Put it this way, there’s no running water,” Larry said.

“Come on over to the Sheridan Inn. I got myself a room this time out.”

“I wouldn’t wanna put you out, Trace. That’s a fancy place.”

“I know. All I’m offering is soap and water.” Trace tapped the big man’s chest with the back of his hand. “You don’t wanna out-reek Bob’s burgers.”

Trace topped off his steak by washing down a few aspirin and left the hotel dining room hoping Larry hadn’t left the bathroom in a mess. Trace didn’t mind sharing—he’d been raised to share—but he’d also been taught to clean up after himself, especially when he was sharing a room or a bed. Growing up he’d shared a low-end range of small quarters and smaller beds with his younger brother, Ethan, who’d never done well with rules. Cleaning up after Ethan had taught Trace a corollary to the clean-up rule. People should do it for themselves. Otherwise, each mess was a little harder to deal with than the last. Leaving a mess in the bathroom had become a deal breaker for sharing a room with Trace. But he’d still make an exception for his brother. All Ethan had to do was show up.

Or the camera lady. She could drop her towel on Trace’s bathroom floor anytime. He hadn’t expected her to use the ticket, but he knew damn well she’d given it some thought. No matter what her circumstances, he knew he’d caught more than her eye. And she’d sure stimulated his imagination. If a woman like her went out on the town, where would he find her? Provided he felt like looking for a woman who smelled like an orange tree standing in the middle of a horse barn. Pretty risky for a horse-barn kind of a guy.

He was on his way to the hotel bar and a shot of pain reliever when he ran into calf roper Mike Quinn, who said he was buying. He could have sworn Mike wasn’t old enough to get served, but his driver’s license said he was legal. Barely. Trace had just finished turning up Mike’s roping horse, a sideline that was becoming increasingly profitable.

“I owe you one,” Mike said as he smacked his cash down on the bar as though he had a point to make. “Eleven-two, man, that’s the fastest run I’ve made all summer. You put a hell of a handle on that horse.”

“That’s what you paid me for.”

Trace stepped aside for a lady looking for a barstool.

He wouldn’t be riding one of those tonight. With a rodeo in town, one drink in a fancy hotel bar was all he was good for. If he could get past his headache, he’d find the party down at the low end of Main Street on the other side of the tracks.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mike said quietly. He’d suddenly gone shy. “The horse did his part, but the roper’s a little slow on the ground.”

Trace lifted one shoulder. “You drew a big calf.”

“Caught him, too, but damn them doggies’re getting heavy. Now that you’ve got my horse lined out, I’m gonna have to get myself a personal trainer. I don’t suppose you’d …”

“I only work with horses. Cowboys can be temperamental.” But they didn’t call calves doggies anymore. Mike needed to put some new tunes on his iPod.

“Not this cowboy. Win or lose, I celebrate.” Mike was pushing it, laying his novice hand on Trace’s proven shoulder. The kid had a lot to learn before he could rightly call himself a cowboy. “Whatever you’re drinking tonight, it’s on me. Frank Taggert’s here and Earl Kessler. You know Earl?”

“I don’t.”

“Earl has a big spread over on the Powder River. I belong to a team-penning club that meets at his place. You should check us out. We’ve got guys coming from as far away as Casper.”

“I haven’t played team sports since high school.” And he damn sure wasn’t interested in driving a hundred miles or more to play cowboy. Not that he had anything against the popularity of team penning. He’d trained a couple of cutting horses for penning club members.

“Earl’s place is kinda central, easy to get to, he doesn’t charge us to use his stock, and he always fires up the grill and ices down the beer. I fixed him up for dinner tonight.” Mike laughed. “With my mother. You believe that?”

Trace glanced up from his drink, ready for some weird punch line. Mike had a weird sense of humor.

The kid shrugged. “My dad’s been dead a year now and it’s time she moved on. So to speak.”

Trace remembered a time when he’d hoped for a new dad. Not that he’d missed the old one, whoever he was, but at the age of ten he’d imagined his mother doing a better job of mothering if she hooked up with a man who’d stick around. He couldn’t have asked for better than Logan Wolf Track, who’d stuck by Trace and his brother even after their mother had walked out on all of them. So Mike had just earned a few points in Trace’s book for looking after his lonely mother.

Glancing past Trace’s shoulder, Mike frowned. “Speak of the devil …”

Trace suddenly felt a little buzzed and he knew the whiskey wasn’t that potent. He turned slowly. She was a willowy silhouette standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright lobby. He suddenly got all tingly. Strangest, most godawful giddy sensation he could imagine, partly because he knew who she was, knew she was surprised to see him even though he couldn’t quite make out her face. “That’s your mother?”

“Stepmother,” Mike said quietly as they watched her approach them at the bar, at once purposeful and unhurried. “But I don’t like that term. Sounds cold, y’know?”

“Cold as the devil.” Trace nodded, inadvertently lifting his hand to touch a hat brim that wasn’t there. “Mrs. Quinn.”

“Trace Wolf Track,” she said, eyes alight. “Your name was on the program.”

“You were there?”

“How else was I going to get a program?” She smiled. “You were magnificent.”

“Thanks.” Magnificent. Damn. “For eight whole seconds.”

“Just a sample. Imagine eight whole hours.” Her quick laugh was throaty and rich. “You’re all alike.”

Trace raised one eyebrow and challenged her with a look. Try me.

“Looks like we can skip the introductions,” Mike said.

“Only if your mother likes to be called Mrs. Quinn.” But Mike could skip town now for all Trace cared. He only had eyes and ears for …

“Skyler.”

“This is the guy who trained Bit-o-Honey,” Mike supplied. “You wrote the check. Remember?”

Trace glanced down at the glass in his hand. He’d hardly looked at the check. Counted the zeros, copied them onto the deposit slip. Why did it feel funny knowing that she’d been the one who’d paid him?

“I’m the bookkeeper.” She gave a honeyed laugh. “Names might escape me, but I never forget an expense category.”

“You remembered mine from the program.”

“I had a face to put with it.” She turned to her son. Stepson. “I was taking pictures at the arena this afternoon, and Trace and I … crossed paths.”

Trace slid her a smile.

“What happened to Earl?” Mike demanded, glancing toward the lobby.

Skyler stabbed Mike’s arm with a small but forceful forefinger. “The question is, what happened to you?”

“I told you guys to go ahead and get supper. I’m toasting my trainer here.”

“Were you invited to Mike’s party, too?” she asked Trace.

“I was offered a drink.” He lifted his half-full glass. “I’m a long way from getting toasted.”

She claimed Trace’s drink and mirrored his gesture. “Here’s to Mike and his trainer.”

Down the hatch.