Cowgirls Don't Cry

I’m sorry, Daddy. She offered the apology to the heavens, knowing it covered so much more than her wayward thoughts. Cass squiggled her nose, fighting the burn of tears. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

Her dad’s voice echoed softly in her memory, reminding her to be strong. She flashed back to the time she’d just lost the final round of a barrel-racing event by mere tenths of a second. That she’d lost to the reigning national champion, who was twenty years older didn’t mean a thing. At the age of seven, all she’d wanted was that shiny buckle and the saddle that went with it for winning.

“No, Daddy. No time for tears. Cowgirls just get back on and ride.” Back in the present, she whispered the words in the hopes that saying them out loud would make them true. She hadn’t been a cowgirl for ten years. Not since she’d left home to attend college back East. Not since she’d taken the job in Chicago. In fact, she’d only been on a horse a handful of times since then. She hated going home. Hated the heat and dust, the smell of cattle manure.

She didn’t want to be a cowgirl. She’d liquidate the ranch, get Boots set up somewhere comfortable and haul ass back to Chicago where she belonged. No regrets. It’s what her dad would expect her to do. She’d told him often enough she’d never be back, never take over the ranch.

Those guilty jalapeños boiled and raged in her stomach again. Returning to Chicago was the right thing. Really. She conjured up the picture of her close encounter from the night before in her mind, shutting out the remorse. His chiseled face still seemed familiar, and she felt as if she should know him. Was he an actor? Or maybe a professional cowboy? She nudged the feeling this way and that, seeking an answer, but didn’t find one.

The passenger in front of her shoved his seat all the way back jostling her tray table so that the coffee, served moments before by the flight attendant, sloshed out. The man on her right in the window seat snored as his head fell over toward her shoulder. She dodged him but bumped the woman on her left. That earned her a scathing look. Cass rolled her eyes and shrugged. She could only hope this flight from hell ended sooner rather than later.

She gulped what little coffee didn’t spill and passed off the sodden napkin and cup to the attendant as she came back down the aisle. Feeling far too much like a sardine for comfort, Cass closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Thoughts of the handsome cowboy danced in her head. She was positive she knew him from somewhere. Since she didn’t watch much TV, she discarded the idea he might be an actor. Could he be someone she’d met in college? Or, heaven forbid, high school? She didn’t have the best memory for faces, but there was just something about the man.

Giving up any pretense of relaxation, she shoved her tray table up and fastened it with the little lever, using a lot more force than technically necessary. Then she stretched her legs under the seat in front of her and drummed her toes against the bottom of it. When the occupant twisted to stare at her over the top of the reclined seatback, she flashed the smile of a two-year-old brat. And didn’t care. The man eventually turned around and since he raised the seat a few inches, she quit kicking.

More memories of her dad swamped her. Moisture filled her eyes, and her nose stung. She blinked rapidly and had to sort through more guilt. She was a terrible daughter. Her dad had died, and she couldn’t be bothered to get there in time to say goodbye. If she never saw the ranch again, never saw Oklahoma again, it would suit her just fine. Yes, she was selfish. She admitted it. So there. Boots had begged her for months to come, and she’d stalled. Her dad had been too proud to call. And she’d been too proud to bend. Now it was too late.

When the tears finally came, Cass dashed them from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her elbow caught the arm of the passenger sitting on her left. The woman exhaled, the sound uncompromisingly disdainful as she shifted away from the contact. The guy on her right just snored, mouth open and drool threatening Cassie’s wool blazer.

Already walking a fine line between anger and grief, Cass lost control. “Well, pardon my tears.” She didn’t bother to keep her voice down. “My father died last night, and I was stuck in a freakin’ blizzard and didn’t get there in time. I’m on my way home to bury him. If my crying is too much of an imposition, you can just move your...self to another seat.”

Around her, the hum of conversation petered off into silence. She could tell from the heat radiating off her face that she’d turned beet-red—a legacy from her mother. She flushed scarlet whenever she got mad, cried or laughed too hard. Yeah, that was Cassidy Morgan. She wasn’t pretty when her emotions ruled. Unfortunately, that was a great deal of the time. At the moment, her emotions slammed her with a double whammy.

The woman stared, mouth gaping, left speechless by Cassie’s outburst.

Cassie bit back any further retort, instead, settling back into her seat. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared stone-faced straight ahead, ignoring everyone.

* * *

Chance sipped his French roast coffee from a ceramic mug and skimmed the information on his laptop screen. He was learning all sorts of interesting things about his father he couldn’t wait to share with his brothers. To hear the old man tell it now, he’d been born with a gold spoon up his... Chance reined in that thought and tried to scrub the image from his brain.

But back when Chance’s mother was still alive, the old man had been all about hard work and scrabbling to put the Barron name on the map. Chance’s research from the night before showed Cyrus had worked the oil patch, ranched and even been a rodeo rider on the side.

And he’d loved a woman named Colleen before he’d met and married Chance’s mother, Alice. According to the papers at the time, Cyrus Barron had done a stint in county jail after a spectacular fight at a rodeo in Fort Worth. He’d put Ben Morgan in the hospital and ended the man’s promising bronc-riding career. Colleen had turned her back on Cyrus and married Ben within weeks. Oh, yeah. The old man didn’t hold a grudge; he got even. He’d been dogging Ben Morgan’s steps ever since, throwing up roadblocks in an attempt to grind the other man beneath his boot heel. But Ben Morgan didn’t have any “give up” in him. He’d made a life for his wife, first as a supplier of rodeo stock then as a horse trainer.

Chance rubbed the back of his neck. His father was a royal jerk. He couldn’t even let the man have peace in the grave. The email from Cord first thing this morning had confirmed that Morgan had taken out a loan at a small bank—the bank recently purchased by a subsidiary of Barron Enterprises, and he’d used the ranch as collateral. The old man wanted Chance to stop off and pick up the file before coming into the office. Since he could no longer screw with Ben Morgan, Cyrus planned to screw with any heirs or successors his old nemesis might have by calling the note.

Yeah, leave it to his father to be four moves ahead of any opponent. Chance had to admire the old man’s business acumen. He’d thought the acquisition foolish at the time and certainly not worth the hassle of the federal and state banking regulators’ paperwork. Chance had hired a couple of experts in banking law to handle it because Cyrus had remained adamant. The old man wanted the bank. So they’d bought it. Chance knew why now. He tossed off a mental shrug. Barron Enterprises could afford it.

Closing the laptop, he held up his mug for a refill as the flight attendant hovered, a ready smile on her face.

“You know, I have layovers in OKC sometimes,” she whispered. She wrapped one hand around his to steady the cup as she poured, a move he recognized as an excuse to touch him.

Chance glanced up. She was a brunette, in her late twenties, and her trim uniform fit in all the right places. The girl was just his type—female—but even as he smiled, another face appeared in his memory. The blonde from the hotel. His abdomen contracted, and his heart thundered for a few beats. He hadn’t even gotten her name, yet here she was haunting him.

“Sorry, hon. This is just a quick trip for me.” The lie flowed smooth as honey from his mouth. As disappointment registered on her face, Chance wondered what the hell had gotten into him. Why would he turn down a sure thing?

While it was unlikely he’d ever cross paths with the woman, he did have a brother who was a private investigator and ran Barron Security. He’d sic Cash on her trail. All Chance wanted was one night to get her out of his system. That’s all it would take.

He shifted in his seat, glad the tray table and computer disguised his discomfort. He couldn’t pinpoint why the woman had gotten under his skin but she had, like a burr under his saddle. He shoved thoughts of her away and opened his laptop again, hoping to concentrate on the task at hand. He had to squelch his libido and his uneasiness over what his father wanted—the combination made for an odd sensation in and of itself.

The flight attendant scurried toward the economy section. He leaned into the aisle to see what was happening. Three attendants hovered around a row of seats toward the back of the plane. Everyone with aisle seats had twisted to watch the commotion, too. He heard raised voices, but the conversation was too indistinct. Within moments, the situation calmed. He returned his attention to the problem at hand.

Once the plane landed, he was the first one off. With no luggage to retrieve, he headed straight for the parking lot. He stepped into the gentle March sunshine, glad he hadn’t bothered to shrug into his heavy winter jacket. The storm pounding the upper Midwest hadn’t dipped as far south as Oklahoma, and Chance was thankful. He hated cold weather. Of course, he hated hot weather, too. If he had his way, he’d live somewhere where the temperature remained at a balmy sixty-eight degrees year-round.

He dug out his car keys, hit the button for the auto-unlock and dumped his carry-on suitcase and laptop case in the passenger seat before settling behind the wheel. With a reckless abandon born from experience, Chance maneuvered his sleek, phantom-black Audi R8 sports car toward the parking lot exit. The car swooped down the exit ramp, slowing to a stop just long enough for him to pay the attendant.

Without looking for merging traffic from other lanes, he downshifted and gunned the powerful 571 horsepower V10 engine. A flash of rust in the corner of his eye and the sound of squealing tires had him handling the powerful vehicle like a race car to avoid a collision. Caught by the next traffic light, Chance glanced over at the beat-up old pickup in the next lane. He looked away then looked back. He didn’t recognize the old man in the driver’s seat but the passenger? Oh, yeah. It was her! The blonde from the hotel. She’d rolled down the window, and her glare could melt the metallic paint right off the Audi.

His windows were tinted dark, and he doubted she could see him. When the light changed, instead of accelerating the way he normally would, he eased off the clutch, making sure the clunker pulled ahead of him. He made a mental note of the license plate. Now he’d have a chance to sic Cash on her and move in for the kill after all. He grinned, unable to calculate the odds of seeing her again, especially here on his home ground. Excitement tingled in his fingertips. Life was looking up. Gunning his engine, he headed toward I-40 and the command performance he had to attend.

Three

“Did you see that idiot? He could have killed us!”

“City folks drive a bit faster, sugar. That’s all. We didn’t wreck.” Boots turned his head and spit out the window.

“You shouldn’t chew, Uncle Boots. That stuff’s bad for you.”

“It’s the only vice I got left, Cassie, and I ain’t gonna live forever. Give an old man some peace.”

She ground her back teeth together but held her tongue. The seat cover—an old horse blanket—made her back itch through her cotton turtleneck. She’d shed her heavy jacket as soon as she’d stepped out of the terminal. Compared to Chicago, the fifty degree temperature in Oklahoma City felt positively balmy. The Australian shepherd sprawled on the bench seat between them yawned, and she absently scratched his ears.

“I want your life, Buddy. Nothing to do all day but nap in the sun and chase squirrels. And you don’t have to put up with the stupid people of the world. You can just bite ’em or piss on ’em.”

“You watch your mouth, Cassidy Anne Morgan. I won’t have you corrupting this poor dog with such language. Ol’ Buddy here is sensitive.”

She rolled her eyes but reached over to pat Boots on the shoulder. “Yessir.”

They rode in silence for several minutes. The old man cleared his throat but didn’t speak. A few blocks later, caught by another red light, he glanced at Cassie. “I’m gonna miss him, sugar.” Buddy whined softly and shifted to lay his head on the man’s thigh, as if to say he’d miss Ben, too.

Cass pressed her lips together and lost the battle with her tears. They streaked her cheeks even as Boots pulled a faded red bandanna from his pocket and offered it to her. She took it and dabbed at her runny nose, but the tears continued. She leaned her head against the window.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, Cassie? I asked you to come home lots of times.”

“You could have told me he was dying.”

“I told you he was sick.”

Her temper flared. “There’s a big damn difference between sick and dying, Boots!” Her tears stopped as her anger surged.

“And there’s a big damn difference between being too stubborn to come home and make amends and being too busy to worry about your daddy.”

“He started it.” She winced. That sounded so petulant. But it was true. Her dad had fought her plans the whole way. If she had to go to college, why wasn’t one of the local universities good enough? Why did she have to go traipsing off where he’d never get to see her? She’d saved her barrel-racing money and made straight As to get an academic scholarship. Even so, she’d had to wait tables to make ends meet while in college. Then she got a job with the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Granted, she was far from rich, but she didn’t have to haul her butt out of bed at the crack of dawn to do barn chores. She didn’t have to muck the manure out of stalls or round up cattle too stupid to seek shelter in a storm.

Boots made a choking noise so she glanced over at him. His face shone with tears and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel indicated how upset he was. She leaned over the dog and placed her hand on his.

“You’re right, Uncle Boots.”

“Aw, honey. The two of you are so dang much alike. Stubborn to the core. But he loved you. And he was proud of you.”

“No.” She shook her head, unable to believe that. “No, he wasn’t. I disappointed him. I didn’t stay here to help with the ranch. I didn’t get married and give him grandbabies. I didn’t do anything with my life that he wanted me to do.”

“All he ever wanted was for you to be happy, baby girl.”

Cass didn’t know what to say. She knew in her heart Boots was wrong. She’d disappointed her dad from the day she’d turned eighteen, lost her virginity in the back of a pickup at the National Western Stock Show and Rodeo in Denver and decided she’d never get on a horse again.

The old truck rattled across a speed bump as Boots turned it into the parking lot at the funeral home. He pulled into a parking space and shoved the transmission into Park. Neither of them moved. She did not want to get out and walk inside that building. With its white-washed stucco and blue shutters topped by a red-tiled roof, the place looked more like a Mexican restaurant than a funeral home. Part of her wanted to ask Boots to just drive away. The other part knew that if she turned tail and ran she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

Cass sucked in a deep breath and held it. Letting the air hiss out slowly, she wiped her face and nose with the bandanna then stuck it in her pocket, just in case. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

The doors on the old truck creaked as they opened. Buddy jumped out after Boots, and he scolded the dog.

“Leave him be, Uncle Boots. He has as much right to say goodbye to Daddy as anyone.” She met him on the sidewalk and slipped her arm through his. “We can do this. Right?”

Boots patted her hand where it rested on his forearm. “You know what your daddy always said, sugar.”

“Yeah. Often and loudly.” She inhaled deeply again. “Cowgirls don’t cry, they just get back on and ride. I really hate that phrase, you know.”

He chuckled and gave her hand another pat.

Boots distracted the officious man who met them at the door while Cassie snuck past, Buddy at her heels. They were probably breaking some law but she didn’t care. Buddy needed this goodbye as much as she did.

Alone in a private viewing room a few minutes later, Cass stared at what used to be her father. A sheet covered his body from shoulders to toes. There’d be no burying clothes or makeup on his face since he’d be cremated once she left. The funeral home had kept the body solely for her chance to say goodbye.

His face had thinned with the years, as had his hair. And the crinkles around his eyes looked like they’d been etched in wax. This...thing wasn’t her father. He’d been full of life. Of laughter. And a few choice cuss words. She reached out as if to touch his hand but couldn’t follow through. The cancer had stolen his vitality. The thought of her skin touching that cold facsimile of her dad made her stomach roil.

“Oh, Daddy.” The words clogged up her throat as sorrow surged. “God, I miss you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. Please forgive me?” She closed her eyes against the salty sting, and her throat ached from swallowing her sobs. With her arms pressed across her stomach, she swayed with the rhythm of her grief. Something warm leaned against her leg, and Buddy’s whine joined her choking sobs. She dropped one hand to rest on the dog’s head, her fingers burrowing into the soft fur. “You miss him, too, Buddy. I know. What the hell are we going to do now?”

* * *

Chance sat in the bank’s parking lot making notes as he talked to Cash on the phone. “So Ben Morgan has a daughter.” An heir complicated matters, but he could file enough paperwork to keep the estate tied up until he could get the loan called. Morgan had been desperate so there was a balloon payment—due and owing on a date certain. “Do you have a name?”

“Cassidy. I’ve put a tracer on her. Oh, and speaking of, I have the information you wanted on that tag. Truck belongs to a guy named Baxter Thomas.”

A memory nudged him again. “Where do I know that name from?”

“Ya got me, Chance. Want me to run his financials?”

“No. Just do a quick Google search. See what comes up.” He drummed his fingers on the leather-clad steering wheel as he listened to clicking keys through the cell phone.

His brother’s low whistle caught his attention. “Now that’s interesting. Baxter Thomas is also Boots Thomas.”

“The rodeo clown?” They weren’t called that anymore—now they were called bullfighters, which was more appropriate to what they did inside the arena. Boots Thomas was a legend and anyone who’d ever traveled the rodeo circuit knew his name.

“That’s the one. And according to this article, he and Ben Morgan were partners in a rodeo stock company.” Cash whistled again. “And the plot thickens. Cassidy Morgan was a champion cowgirl back in the day, but she quit after winning the Denver Stock Show ten years ago. That’s the year you and Cord won the team roping up there.”

“Well, damn.” Had he met her on the rodeo circuit? He couldn’t put a face with the name so probably not. His rodeo career pretty much ended after that night. He graduated from college that spring and started law school soon after. He didn’t have time to chase steers or cowgirls.

“Chance? Are you listening?”

He wasn’t. “What?”

“There’s a memorial service for Morgan day after tomorrow at the Pleasant Hills Funeral Home. As near as I can figure, it’s a cremation. I suppose it’d be really uncool to serve her with the papers at the service.”

“Ya think? Jeez, Cash, you’ve been hanging around the old man too long. What time is the memorial?”

“Ten in the morning. Why? You aren’t thinking about actually showing up, are you?”

He didn’t examine his motives very closely as he answered. “It might be a good idea to go. Just to get a feel for things.” Business. This was just business. But he could do business without being a jerk—even if his father wanted to steal a ranch out from under his enemy’s grieving daughter. He didn’t believe in coincidences, but the odds of his mystery girl being Cassidy Morgan just kept getting better.

Armed with the information he needed, Chance started his car and headed home. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed. First, he wanted a shower and a change of clothes because he felt slimy all of a sudden. Like a royal SOB. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed.

He was about to act the world’s biggest bully, all under the orders of the bastard who sired him. At a stoplight, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You are a complete slimeball, you know that, right?” He didn’t blink at the accusation. He always told the truth, at least to himself.

Lost in thought, the light turned green, but he didn’t notice until someone honked. He waved a hand hoping the car behind saw the gesture as an apology, and wondered why the hell that mattered. He was a Barron. If he wanted to sit through a whole light, he would. He accelerated through the intersection and put his thoughts on hold until he arrived at his condo. Thinking about stealing the ranch from Cassidy Morgan would only make things worse. He barked a wry laugh. As if. He wasn’t sure how they could get any worse.

* * *

Cassie wore black—suit jacket, matching skirt and heels—and felt out of place. Colorful Western clothes abounded, the room resembling a patchwork quilt—homey and warm, like the people who wore them. The small chapel was bursting at the seams with an array of folks—old rodeo hands, neighbors, the friends garnered from a lifetime of living. Death was just another part of all that living. Her dad once commented that suits were for marryin’ and buryin’, but nobody said they had to be black. She should have remembered that.

The front of the room looked like a field of wildflowers. No fussy formal arrangements. She didn’t know the minister, but he seemed to know all about her dad. While short, his eulogy painted a vivid picture of the man. When he finished, he invited any who wished to share a few words or a memory.

Near the back, a man cleared his throat. Chairs scraped and creaked on the wooden floor, followed by the sound of heavy boots marching up the aisle. A big bear of a man, with a scraggly beard, a paunch overhanging the huge rodeo buckle on his belt and a chaw of tobacco in his cheek stepped forward.

“Ben Morgan saved my life some forty years ago. We were dang sure dumb back in our twenties. At the Fort Worth rodeo, I got hung up on a bull named Red Devil. Ol’ Boots here was working the arena as a clown, and Ben rode the pickup horse. While Boots kept Devil occupied, Ben jumped off his horse, grabbed that bull by the ear and rode him down to his knees so the other boys could cut me free. Next thing I knew, I’m sitting on my ass in the dirt, and Ben is flyin’ across the arena. That dang bull broke three of Ben’s ribs but he got right up, dusted off his britches and went on with his job. He was a helluva man, and he’ll be missed.”

A chorus of yesses and amens followed the man back down the aisle. A woman approached the microphone next. She paused to offer her hand to Cassie and gave Boots’s shoulder a pat. At the lectern, she turned a 100-watt smile on the congregation. “Most of y’all know me. For those who don’t, I’m Nadine Jackson, and I own the Four Corners Diner. Ben came in most every day before he got sick. But all the regulars kept up with him through Boots. Ben’d give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. He didn’t have deep pockets, but if a cowboy was down on his luck, Ben always had a few bucks to spare and dinner to share. My granddaughter called him the Louis L’Amour Cowboy.”