One Brave Cowboy

Chapter Two

Cougar spent the night in his trailer. The bed was comfortable—great memory foam mattress one of his fellow patients at the VA had raved about until Cougar had promised to get himself one if the guy would shut up about it—and all the basic necessities were covered. The best part was the solitude. Privacy had been hard enough to come by in the army, but hospitals were worse yet. Not only did you have people around every minute of every endless day and night, but you had them poking at your body and digging into your mind.

The trailer had been another of Eddie’s homecoming surprises. Got a great deal on it for you. Eddie had used the money he’d gotten for their horses to buy his brother a horse trailer. It sounded like a story Cougar had read in English class back in the good ol’ days, only in the story it wasn’t the same person selling the two things that went together. Cougar would have taken his kid brother’s head off if he hadn’t actually been a little touched by the whole thing. They’d been partners, but the trailer was in Cougar’s name. And in the end it was a relief to know that he could still be touched in the heart, what with it being general knowledge that he was touched in the head. So who was he to accuse “Eddie Machete” of being a madman?

Logan had offered Cougar the use of his man-size shower, and he planned to take him up on it, but not without knocking on the door with a few groceries in hand for breakfast. After honoring sunrise with a song, he unhitched the trailer, drove into the little town of Sinte, parked in front of the Jack and Jill and waited for the doors to open.

The cashier gave him the once-over when he unloaded bacon, eggs and orange juice next to her register. He read the whole two-second small-town ritual in her eyes. Nope, she didn’t know him.

“Anything else?” she asked tonelessly. Half a dozen smartass answers came to mind, but he opted for a simple negative.

With one arm he swept the grocery bag off the counter, thrusting his free hand into his key-carrying pocket as he turned to the door. Two big brown eyes stared up at him—one friendly, the other fake.

Cougar smiled. “Hey, Mark, how’s it going this morning? Better than yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” A man about Cougar’s size stepped in close behind the boy. His dark red goatee and mustache somehow humanized his pale, nearly colorless eyes. He laid a hand on Mark’s shoulder, but his question was for Cougar. “What happened yesterday?”

So this is the ex-husband.

“We had a little run-in.” Cougar winked at the boy as he scratched his own smooth jaw. “Near run-in. Mark was lookin’ out for his cat, and I was looking at horses.”

“Yeah?” With one hand the man adjusted his white baseball cap by the brim—the Bread and Butter Bakery emblem identified him apart from the woman and her boy—while he tightened the other around Mark’s small shoulder and moved him two more steps into the store. “Where did all this happen?”

“The wild horse sanctuary. Are you…?”

“Mark’s father.”

Cougar drew a deep breath and offered a handshake. “The name’s Cougar.”

“What do you mean by run-in?” Handshake accepted, nothing offered in return. “Were you walking? Riding?”

“I was driving. I didn’t see him. I drive a—”

“Where was his mother?”

“She was close by.” Cougar eyed the hand on the boy’s shoulder. He could feel the fingertips digging in. Ease up, Mark’s father. “It was one of those things that happens so fast, nobody can really be—”

“In Mark’s case, everyone has to be.”

Man, those eyes are cold.

“I know. She told me. Guess that’s why it scared me more than it scared him.” He smiled at Mark, sending out you and me, we’re good vibes. “But nobody got hurt, and we found the cat, and it was all good training.”

“Training? She calls that training?”

“I call it good training.” Cougar’s keys chinked in his restive right hand. “Ever been in the army? If nobody gets killed, it’s called good training.”

“No, I haven’t served in the military.” Again he touched the brim of his cap. “But, you know… thanks for your service. Cougar, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Could I get some contact information from you? I might want to get a few more details.”

“About what?”

Not that it mattered. Cougar was all done with the pleasantries. He would have walked right through the guy and out the door if the boy hadn’t been looking up at him the whole time, asking him for something. He didn’t want to know what it was. He didn’t have it to give.

“Mark is what they call special needs,” Red Beard said slowly, as though he was using a technical term. “I’m his father, and I have rights. Not to mention a responsibility to make sure he’s getting all the services and care he’s got coming. You never know what you’ll be able to use to back up your case.”

“Case against who?”

“Not against anybody. For Mark. Proof that his needs are special.”

“His mother knows how to reach me,” Cougar said. He only had eyes for the boy as he stepped around the two. “Look both ways, Mark. I’ll see you around.”

Cougar smelled bacon. Damn, he loved that smell. He didn’t miss much about being deployed in the Middle East, but food in camp was surprisingly good, and breakfast in “the sandbox” had been the best meal of the day. Unless you were manning an outpost, in which case every meal came with a side of sand.

Logan had gotten the jump on Cougar’s plan to prepare breakfast. He stowed most of his purchases in the fridge, set the bread on the table—gave the plastic Bread and Butter Bakery bag a second look and decided he wasn’t in the mood for toast—and helped himself to coffee.

“I ran into that kid I told you about over at the Jack and Jill. He was with his dad.”

Logan turned from the stove and the bacon he was lifting from the pan and raised an eyebrow. “When you say ran into…”

“I was on foot.” Cougar watched the grease drip from bacon to pan. “His mother said he lost his eye in an accident. You know anything about that?”

“Not much. Happened on some kind of construction site, the way I heard it. Before she came here to teach. Her ex-husband started showing up a few months ago.” Logan turned the stove off. “About all I know for sure is she’s a good teacher.”

“He wanted to know how to get in touch with me in case he needed some kind of witness or something. I don’t know what he was talking about. It was a close call, but the boy wasn’t hurt.” Cougar drew a deep breath and glanced out the patio door toward the buttes that buttressed the blue horizon. “I’m sure he wasn’t hurt.”

“His mom checked him over?”

“Skinned his knee, but that’s…” The image of the boy pushing himself up to his hands and knees brought back the wrecking ball swing—boom! panic, boom! relief. Even now his heart was racing again. “He doesn’t talk. He can’t really say what’s…”

“At that age, they get hurt, most kids let you know with everything they’ve got except the kind of words that make sense. You get blood, bellowing, slobber, maybe the silent treatment, but you don’t get the story until you’ve already assessed the damage.”

“They break easy,” Cougar said quietly.

“After they’re grown, you look back at all the close calls and you figure somebody besides you had to be lookin’ out for them.” Logan handed Cougar a plate. “Go to the head of the line.”

Cougar followed orders. Logan added finishing touches to Cougar’s meal—the toast he didn’t want and the coffee he couldn’t get enough of—playing host or dad, Cougar wasn’t sure which.

“My older son, Trace, he’s a rodeo cowboy.” Logan’s plate joined Cougar’s on the table. “He’s broken a lot of bones riding rough stock. You gotta learn to bend, I tell him. Look at the trees that survive in the wind around here. We’re survivors.”

“Learn to bend,” Cougar echoed.

He hadn’t known Logan long, but he knew him pretty well. They’d worn some of the same boots—cowboy boots with riding heels, round-toed G.I. boots, worn-out high tops stashed under an Indian boarding school bed at night, beaded baby shoes. He knew the lessons, figured they’d both felt the same kind of pinching, done their share of resisting.

Considering all that, Cougar sipped his coffee and gave Logan a look over the rim of the cup.