A Cowboy's Promise

“Have, Rose. Not got,” Amy corrected.

“Butch says got all the time and his mama don’t, I mean, doesn’t yell at him.”

“I’m not yelling.” Amy rolled her eyes. “And Butch knows better.” The boy was their nearest neighbor’s son. He and Rose shared the same first-grade teacher.

Rose puffed against the pane until it fogged over, then drew B+R with a heart around the letters. Her daughter was in the throes of her first crush.

“Quit messing up the window and set the table, please.” Amy slathered butter on stale bread slices, then glanced over her shoulder and noticed too many dishes on the table. “Only three plates, Rose.”

Ben’s hazel eyes gazed at Amy from her daughter’s face. “What about Daddy’s friend?”

Daddy’s friend had been how she’d explained Matt Cartwright’s unexpected visit. “As soon as his horses rest up, he’ll leave.” She slapped cheese slices on the bread, set the sandwiches in the hot skillet, then wandered over to the window.

Her daughter was right. The mares were beautiful—American quarter horses. Two were buckskins, their yellowish-gold coats popping against glossy black manes, tails and lower legs. The other mare was chestnut with a burnished hide and a brownish-red mane and tail. Forcing her eyes away from the animals she studied the cowboy.

Matt.

Ben.

What was it about men with one-syllable names? Matt was easy on the eyes like Ben had been. And where had lusting after Ben gotten her? Screwed—literally. She’d best keep her eyeballs in her head and figure out a way to run Matt Cartwright off.

Damn you, Ben. Thirty thousand dollars? Her husband had insisted he’d gotten a handle on his gambling addiction. Or maybe she’d just yearned to believe him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

While she flipped the sandwiches, she mentally calculated the bills piling up. Her May mortgage payment was overdue, which ignited her fanny on fire. The land had belonged to her mother’s side of the family for four generations. Her parents had managed to pay off the farm before they’d drowned in a boating accident a few years ago. Because Ben had accumulated a substantial amount of gambling debt, she’d consented to taking out a second mortgage on the property to pay off his losses—under the condition he attend Gamblers Anonymous. He’d agreed.

Instead of repaying off the huge cash advances he’d taken out against several credit cards, her husband had purchased Son of Sunshine and had gambled away the rest. When he’d shown up at the farm with the stallion he’d lied and claimed he’d fallen off the wagon and had used his poker winnings to buy the stud.

If that wasn’t insult enough, Ben had had the nerve to up and die, leaving her with credit card debts, a sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month mortgage and a stud whose unpredictable behavior had caused her horse-boarding clients to flee, leaving her with no source of income.

She’d sold off her great-great-grandmother’s rare 1860’s Patent Williams & Orvis Treadle Sewing Machine for $2,495.00 to clear one of the credit cards, but that hadn’t made a dent in the thousands of dollars of debt remaining. If she had the opportunity to sell the stud she would. But who in their right mind would shell out big bucks for a dangerous horse?

“He’s hungry,” Rose said.

Amy lowered the flame under the burner, then peeked over her daughter’s shoulder. The cowboy unloaded a hay bale from the pickup bed and spread it around the corral. Then he wandered over to the stock tank, peered inside and shook his head. No sense keeping fresh water in the reservoir after her boarding business had dried up. He turned on the spigot and filled the trough. “How can you tell he’s hungry?” Amy asked.

“’Cause he’s a good worker.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if all life’s questions came with such simple answers? Sandwiches done, she sliced an apple, delivered the meal to the table and poured Rose a glass of milk. “Wash your hands. I’ll be right back.”

Amy left the house and crossed the drive to where the cowboy stood with one boot propped on the lower rung of the corral, arms folded across the top, watching the mares race about, kicking up dust. “Your horses are spectacular.”

He turned his head and his eyes sucked her into a vortex of swirling blue. How easy it would be to fall under this man’s spell. “I’m truly sorry about your husband’s death,” he said.

Even though the words were sincere, she’d had enough of pitying looks and mumbled sympathies. It wasn’t easy being reminded how gullible she’d been. Besides, I’m sorry wouldn’t pay the mortgage or breathe life into her dead husband. “We’re having grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. You’re welcome to join us.”

His lips curled at the corners. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll grab a bite to eat in town.”

Rude man. She hugged herself, because the wind had picked up, not because the cowboy had declined her meal invitation. “You’re not going to make this easy on me and disappear, are you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“If you don’t mind me saying—” she gestured to his horse trailer “—you appear to have the financial means to absorb a thirty-thousand-dollar loss.”

“That’s beside the point. A deal is a deal. I intend to breed my mares to Son of Sunshine.”

Enough said. There would be no changing the wrangler’s mind—not today. She spun, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “How did Ben die?”

She supposed he had a right to know. “He was attacked by a horse.”

The wind died suddenly, as if heaven held its breath. “What horse?” he asked.

“Son of Sunshine.”

If she hadn’t been watching his mouth she would never have heard his faintly uttered cuss word.

Shit.

Chapter Two

A smart man would understand when to stop pursuing a lost cause.

A smart man would know when to pull up stakes and hit the road.

At the moment Matt Cartwright didn’t give a crap about how smart he was or wasn’t.

As he drove away from the Broken Wheel late Saturday afternoon, he glanced in the rearview mirror. After issuing a supper invitation both Amy Olson and Matt knew he’d refuse, the widow stood in the gravel drive, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, watching the truck’s taillights fade into the distance.

When he reached the county road he pulled onto the shoulder and cut the engine. The anger he’d experienced at having his plans to breed his mares suspended was nothing compared to the shame consuming him.

It might not make sense, but Matt wasn’t able to shake the feeling that one stupid poker game—instigated by him—had set in motion a series of events that had culminated with Ben’s death. What if the card game had never taken place—would the future have played out differently? Would Ben be alive today?

Matt wanted to believe that if he’d been aware Olson had had a wife he’d never have suckered the compulsive gambler into playing poker.

Don’t kid yourself. You would have done anything to gain access to Son of Sunshine.

He tilted the rearview mirror and stared himself in the eye. Had Kayla’s betrayal left him with more than a broken heart and his pride in shreds? Had he channeled his hurt into a ruthless determination that ignored everyone and anything, including his own moral code?

Leave it alone, man. What’s done is done. Matt would have to deal with the wreckage left behind from his own selfish interests—a widow, two fatherless girls and a prizewinning stud whose behavior had become unpredictable and erratic.

What the hell was he going to do now? His father disapproved of Matt’s plans to enter into the horse-breeding business, and Matt didn’t relish the idea of returning to Oklahoma with his tail tucked between his legs.

You’re an ass—wallowing in self-pity while Amy Olson struggles to pick up the pieces after her husband’s death.

What was it about the young widow that got to Matt—not her looks, that’s for sure. Amy Olson didn’t come close to the sexy groupies that pestered him on the road. She was a living, breathing, walking advertisement for home and hearth—kids included. A world of hurt and stubborn pride shone in her brown eyes, yet she carried herself—shoulders stiff, chin high—as if ready to face her next test, which happened to be him.

Fingers drumming the steering wheel, he considered his options. His stomach gurgled with hunger, so he started the truck and merged onto the highway, heading north into town. Five minutes later he slowed to a stop at the sole intersection in Pebble Creek.

The quaint map dot consisted of one city block of 1920’s brick-front businesses. Fake, old-fashioned hitching posts lined the sidewalk. A livestock tank overflowing with red and purple flowers sat by the door of a beauty shop called Snappy Scissors Hair Salon. Mendel’s Drug emporium offered a park bench for customers outside its store. Smith Tax Consultants was sandwiched between the beauty shop and drugstore. Farther down Wineball Realty had been painted in white lettering across a black awning. And at the end of the block sat United Savings and Loan.