The Rancher's Redemption

He climbed a metal gate and dropped into the north pasture. This was June and there wouldn’t be any cattle here. By now, they’d have been moved up the slopes across the river where the grass was greener.

Ben could see Falcon Creek in the distance and how it had carved its way through the land. The banks were at least fifteen feet high and lined with a few lush elms. The tributary may have been called Falcon Creek, but during the winter and spring, it ran high and fast, like a river. And during the spring and summer, rain in the mountains could turn it into a raging torrent, sometimes with little warning. This time of year, the water was low and slow, dancing around rocks exposed to air.

Ben kept his gaze from drifting south toward the remnants of the old bridge where his parents had died in one of those flash floods. He concentrated on losing himself in the run.

He had a good stride going. Steady.

His heartbeat was strong. Steady.

He felt his equilibrium return. Steady.

But then he heard something rumble. Fast. Uneven. Angry. Like gathering thunder.

The sky was the gentle pink-orange of approaching sunset. Not a cloud was visible. But the sound was growing louder.

Ben glanced over his shoulder and swore.

An Aberdeen Angus bull was barreling down on him, hide as black as night, eyes filled with a deadly rage.

The beast was sixty feet away and closing fast. The riverbank was thirty feet ahead. It seemed like a mile.

Ben picked up the pace. Strike that. He sprinted for all he was worth. Nothing was steady anymore. Not his stride. Not his heartbeat. Not his chances of seeing another sunrise.

His only hope was to scramble up the nearest tree before that bull tossed him onto the rocky creek bed.

* * *

RACHEL’S ROAN GELDING, Utah, was ungainly but trustworthy. Nothing spooked him. Not her mother’s yappy poodle. Not Poppy pulling on his mane.

Not even the sight of Ben Blackwell being chased by a charging bull.

Rachel was spooked, though. Her hands trembled and air stuck in her throat. Life on the range wasn’t like living in the suburbs. She’d witnessed ranch hands gored by bulls during branding, struck by hooves while training horses, lose fingers to hay balers. Lacerations. Broken bones. Internal injuries. People got hurt on a ranch. People died.

She might not like Ben, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to be trampled.

On the road separating the two properties, Rachel urged Utah into a fast trot toward the gate that opened onto Blackwell land. She freed a length of rope from her saddle as smoothly as if she was reaching for her cell phone. She loosened the noose.

Like I’m gonna rope that bull?

She wasn’t that good with a lasso. A shiver of fear ran through Rachel, originating in concern for Ben. And then another shiver startled her, one brought on by the image of her roping the bull and watching helplessly as he bolted for the river. She’d be pulled off Utah’s back, dragged into the pasture and serve as the bull’s doormat, one that read Little Ladies Not Welcome Here.

Little ladies weren’t cowboys. Little ladies didn’t run ranches or track down escaped heifers or save grown men. Rachel breathed raggedly as Utah carried her closer.

Dad wouldn’t cower in fear.

The Double T had survived generations because of strong Thompson leadership. It was why she’d come after the garden trampling, suit ruining heifer, because she was running things now and she couldn’t rely on anyone else. Although, to be honest, this little lady had eaten dinner before embarking on her heifer search. Consequently, the cow had a big head start and was nowhere to be found.

Rachel squared her shoulders. Not that the heifer mattered right now. This rancher had other priorities.

Ben reached the trees before the bull and swung up into the branches like a monkey. He looked more like a rodeo clown in red running tights beneath black shorts and a neon yellow nylon jacket. No wonder the bull was chasing him.

The bull charged the tree, bumping the trunk without reaching Ben or knocking him down. He continued to patrol, clearly hoping to catch any straggling rodeo clowns.

Erosion and the river created a natural “fence.” The pasture was about fifteen feet above the river and a narrow, rocky bank. Tree roots prevented the pasture from eroding any farther.

Spotting Utah and Rachel, the bull took a run at the gate.

“Whoa.” Rachel pulled up ten feet away and stood in her stirrups, twirling the rope above her head. This was her chance. Rope the bull and hold him long enough for Ben to escape.

She should have felt confident. The animal was a big fella and there weren’t any horns to get hung up on. In short, he’d be hard to miss.

Instead of feeling like an experienced cowboy, she felt like a first-timer, afraid to let go for fear of what she’d have to do next.

The bull rammed the metal gate with his beefy shoulder, testing the barrier to see if it would give. It didn’t. Thank heavens Big E kept the ranch in tip-top shape. Utah pawed the ground, refusing to back down.

Heartened, Rachel spun the rope higher. Now was the time to prove she was a rancher, not the rancher’s princess daughter.

“Do not taunt that bull, Rachel.”

“The superhero in red tights is giving me advice?” Rachel threw the rope.

It landed cockeyed on the bull’s forehead and over one ear, which seemed to annoy the beast. He shook his head and pranced on the other side of the gate, snorting. The rope fell to the ground.

Rachel sat back in the saddle and coiled the rope for another try. “My mother would say you’re in a pickle, Blackwell.” Her mother would tell Rachel to get her sweet patooty out of there and get help.

Rachel might have done that a year ago, before Dad died, but now things had changed. She’d changed.

“It’s June,” Ben griped from his position in the tree. “This pasture should be empty. The cattle should be over on higher ground across the river.”

Hearing Ben’s voice, the bull turned and charged the trees. He wasn’t the brightest steak-on-a-hoof. He slammed into the wrong tree.

“Quit taunting the bull.” Rachel’s heart was having palpitations to rival the ones that killed her father. “A true cowboy would’ve asked where the livestock was before he took off in his pretty running clothes.”

“I’m not a cowboy anymore. I’m a lawyer.” Ben clung to the tree trunk and shouted at the bull, “A lawyer!”

“Calm down, Blackwell. You’ll be reduced to bits of superhero tights if that bull has its way with you.” If she rescued him, maybe he’d be so shaken up he wouldn’t show up in court tomorrow.

A girl could dream.

But this girl had a former cowboy to save first. How was she going to get him to safety?

Roping the bull was too much of a crapshoot (she wasn’t that great of a roper). Riding into the pasture to Ben’s rescue was too risky (for her and Utah). She tugged her cell phone out of a pocket, but there was no signal. They were in a dead zone. Literally.

She laughed. Somewhat hysterically, if truth be told.

“Go ahead,” Ben said. “Have your fun.”

Rachel wasn’t going to explain she was losing her composure. “I’ll keep him distracted and you shimmy down that tree and jump to the bank below. Chances are, if he notices you, he won’t want to leap down a fifteen foot cliff.” Not unless he had a very big grudge against Ben. “From there you can walk to the road.” The one she and Utah were on. “And I’ll escort you back to safety.”