A Cowboy's Promise

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.

Situated across the street was a turn-of-the-century Victorian home that had been converted into a tavern. Joe’s was scrawled in red paint across the front window and a Michelob sign hung from the flagpole bracket mounted on the overhang of the porch. A pot of faded plastic daisies decorated the bottom porch step and two battered aluminum chairs graced either side of the front door. An orange tabby rested in a windowsill on the second floor.

Roxie’s Rustic Treasures occupied the abandoned gas station on the corner. The treasures: iron headboards, broken furniture and an assortment of tools and dishes were scattered about the parking lot. Next to Roxie’s, a life-size horse statue pawed the air in front of Pebble Creek Feed & Tack.

A sidewalk sign outside Pearl’s advertised, Parking in Rear, so Matt drove around the corner and swung into the lot behind the block of businesses. He left his hat on the front seat and entered through the back door of the diner, deciding he’d order a thick juicy burger.

“We’re out of burger meat. Delivery truck jackknifed near Pocatello. Won’t get here till morning,” the waitress groused when she arrived to take his order at the lunch counter. The middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair scrutinized him through her mango-colored bifocals. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

Matt read her name tag. “I’m from Oklahoma, Pearl.”

“I met an Okie years ago. Didn’t impress me none.” She batted a set of false eyelashes.

“Maybe I’ll change your mind.” Matt’s grin teased a twitch from the corner of the woman’s mouth. “What do you recommend for a hungry cowboy?” He read the offerings scratched in white chalk on the blackboard mounted to the wall behind the counter.

“If you’ve a mind for home cooking try the meat loaf. Otherwise the Reuben ain’t bad.”

Pearl’s World-Famous Meat Loaf…Matt shook his head. Every diner in America boasted a world-famous something. “Meat loaf it is and a cup of decaf.”

“Sure thing.”

After Pearl delivered his coffee, Matt forced his current dilemma to the far reaches of his mind and soaked up the atmosphere. Over the years he’d broken bread in plenty of small-town diners while traveling the circuit. After a while the mom-and-pop eateries blurred together. Pearl’s business possessed candy-apple-red tabletops. Worn seats made from cheap leather that sported their share of cracks and splits, allowing the yellowed foam cushion inside to poke through.

Cigarette burns scarred the Formica lunch counter, which was the same red color as the booth tables. The wall facing the street displayed a collection of license plates from all corners of the United States—even Hawaii. Framed photographs hung near the door—famous people like the 1978 4-H Fair Queen and the 2007 school district spelling-bee champion. Instead of the custom jukebox in the corner wailing Gatlin Brothers’ songs, the local farm bureau report droned from a radio at the end of the counter.

Snatches of conversation filtered into Matt’s ear. A group of elderly women gossiped about the local pastor and traded apple pie recipes. A couple of hippies in their fifties, wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and torn jeans, shared an animated conversation—probably reminiscing over a recent biker rally. A middle-aged couple in a corner booth sat stone-faced over cups of coffee. And a trio of anglers nearby complained about the new state-wide limit on chinook salmon.

“Passin’ through to the next go-round?” The question came from two stools away. Friendly gray eyes smiled out of a chiseled face covered in white whiskers. “Noticed the buckle.” The geezer’s arthritic pointer finger crooked at an odd angle.

“Here on business.” Matt swiveled his stool and shook hands. “Matt Cartwright by way of Tulsa.”

“Jake Taylor. Foreman out at the Gateway Ranch.”

“Horses?” Matt guessed.

“Yes, sir. This here part of Idaho is horse country. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“I’ve got business with the Broken Wheel.”

“How much you givin’ Amy for the place?”

Hadn’t Amy claimed her house and land weren’t for sale? Matt didn’t want to hear that Ben Olson’s death was forcing his wife to sell out. “I’m not interested in her farm.”

“Hope your business ain’t with that stallion in the barn.”

“It’s true then? The horse attacked Olson?”

“Hard to say. Amy found Ben on the ground inside the stall with his chest caved in. Could be the stud went loco or could be it was a freak accident.”

Matt winced as the scene played out in his mind. Most folks would refuse to take a chance on a stallion with volatile behavior, no matter how famous the stud. “I’m surprised she hasn’t put the horse down.”

“I reckon she’s hopin’ to sell the animal so she can hang on to the place.” The old man slurped his coffee. “Amy ran a horse-boardin’ business, but her customers up and left. Can’t say I blame ’em. Wouldn’t want my animal in the same barn as SOS—Ben’s nickname for the stud.”

“That’s too bad.” Matt had a weakness for underdogs, and the temptation to rescue the widow nagged him, but he doubted she’d appreciate his interference.

“She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that,” Taylor continued. “But ain’t no way she’s gonna hang on to the farm without an income.”

“Meat loaf should be up in a minute, cowboy,” Pearl informed Matt as she topped off the men’s mugs.

Jake nodded his thanks, then said, “A damned shame Payton Scott over at the bank’s puttin’ the squeeze on Amy.”

Matt hated to hear that the local banker had ganged up on the widow. Whatever happened to small-town folk caring for their own?

“Heard tell,” Pearl whispered, inviting herself into the conversation, “that Payton offered Amy a teller position, but she snubbed her nose at the position.”

Why would the widow refuse the job? Don’t ask. Matt remained silent, content to count the salt and pepper shakers lined up on the shelf behind the lunch counter.

“The farm’s been in her mama’s family for generations,” Taylor grumbled.

After Pearl walked away, Matt felt compelled to keep the conversation going. “I met Ben in Pocatello at the NFR this past December.”

“Ben had no business bustin’ broncs. Amy swore he didn’t stick to nothin’, includin’ a saddle. When he wasn’t off chasin’ rodeo dreams he mostly sat on his one-spot. Never did figure out why Amy’s mama allowed her to hitch up with the lazy bum.”

“Dig in.” Pearl set the world-famous meat loaf in front of Matt, and a Rueben sandwich next to Taylor before heading to the cash register to ring up the hippies.

Matt studied the charred meat.

“Pearl’s meat loaf tastes like rawhide.” Taylor bit into the sandwich. “Try the Reuben next time.”

Blah. Matt’s displeasure must have shown on his face because the geezer chuckled and slid the ketchup bottle over.

For a few minutes the men gave talking a rest. Matt’s thoughts drifted to the argument he’d had with his father before he’d loaded up his mares and left Oklahoma. His sister, Sam, had accidentally blurted out Matt’s plan to take a sabbatical from rodeoing at the supper table one evening and Matt had been forced to reveal his intent to breed his mares with SOS.

The old man had acted as if Matt had betrayed him and the discussion had escalated into a shouting match followed by his father’s pledge to withhold Matt’s trust fund until he joined Cartwright Oil and forgot his dream of raising cutting horses. Matt had thumbed his nose at his father’s threat. After purchasing the three mares, he was slowly building his savings account up thanks to his winning streak on the rodeo circuit this past winter.

Damn it all to hell. He hated to return to Oklahoma and face an I-told-you-so from the old man. “Anybody ever get close to SOS after he attacked Ben?” Matt asked.

“Nope. Ain’t nobody crazy enough to try.”

Maybe he was nuts for believing he might be able to work with the stallion. There were a million and one reasons horses snapped. Had Ben mistreated Son of Sunshine? Matt didn’t believe so. Ben had behaved with respect around rodeo stock the times Matt had observed him.

“Gotta run.” Taylor retrieved his hat from the stool next to him and dropped it on his head. “Hope your business with the Broken Wheel gets resolved to your satisfaction.” He shook hands with Matt, then left a dollar tip by his plate and shuffled out the door.

What to do now—load up his mares and head home? Or convince the widow Olson to allow him to judge for himself if SOS was dangerous or not?

“Dessert, cowboy?” Pearl frowned at the half-eaten food on Matt’s plate.

Afraid he’d offended the café owner, he assured, “It was great, Pearl. Guess I wasn’t hungry.” She rolled her eyes and slapped his meal ticket on the counter. “How’s that Sleep-Ezee Motel out by the highway?” He added a five-dollar tip to his tab.

Pearl’s mood brightened. “Arlene keeps the sheets clean.”

“Any critters on the loose in the rooms?”

“Not that I ever heard of. Have a good one, cowboy,” she said.

Now all Matt needed was a decent night’s rest and a few more minutes with Amy to salvage this road trip and hopefully ease his conscience at the same time.

AMY STOOD ON THE PORCH Sunday morning watching the sunrise. Today she prayed the warm rays would lend her courage to face the handsome cowboy barreling up the drive.

She had to give him credit—unlike her husband Matt Cartwright was an early riser. Amy suspected beneath his cowboy-calendar good looks, the man was hardworking and determined. She both admired and resented those qualities.

Her single experience with rodeo cowboys had been her husband. Ben hadn’t liked to toil too hard at anything. He preferred to spend his time searching for a pot of gold at the end of someone else’s rainbow.

The rig stopped next to the horse trailer and the cowboy marched her way. Today he wore work jeans—stonewashed and no discernable iron crease along the thigh like yesterday’s pair. His western shirt was a tad faded and wrinkled. When he reached the porch steps, he paused. No smile, but he did tap his fingertips against the brim of his hat.

“Mornin’.” The husky greeting poured over her like warm, sticky honey.

“Coffee?” Might as well be neighborly before she sent him and his mares packing.

“Appreciate that.”

“Comin’ right up.” She set her mug on the rail and disappeared inside. No sense cozying up at the kitchen table. Matt Cartwright possessed the kind of presence that wouldn’t fade after his body left the premises. The last thing she wanted in her home were reminders of the rodeo cowboy. She filled an extra-large mug with leaded brew and returned outside.

“Thanks.” When he accepted the cup, his fingers nudged hers, setting off a series of explosive prickles along her nerve endings.

She collapsed on the top step—he remained at the bottom. Eye-to-eye. And boy, was he an eyeful of wrangler perfection.

Swaying sideways, he leaned against the handrail, then squinted into the steam rising from his mug. How often had she done that—stare into the brown liquid hoping the answers to life’s questions would float to the top?

“I heard you board horses,” he said.

“Not anymore. Thanks to that stud in the barn, folks are afraid to leave their animals on the property.”

Matt focused on the mares in the corral and Amy took advantage of his preoccupation to study him. She began at his boots and worked her way north, making it as far as the faded-to-white patch of denim at his crotch when he asked, “Is it just you and the girls now that your husband’s gone?”

She peeled her eyes from his jeans. This was her property—she had a right to peek at a man’s you-know-what if she wanted. “My folks are gone now. Ben’s mother lives in Kansas, but we never kept in touch with her.” Amy had called Wynona to inform her of Ben’s death, but all the old woman had to say was, “Don’t surprise me none.”

“It’s not my place to pry—”

“Then don’t.”

He ignored her warning. “But it’s apparent you’ve had a run of bad luck.”

Seven years to be exact. Her bad luck had begun the day she’d married Ben. “My problems are none of your concern, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Matt. Call me Matt, Amy.”

The intimate sound of her name rolling off his tongue twisted her stomach into a knot.

“I’d like to strike a deal with you.” He cleared his throat. “Give me one week to work with Son of Sunshine and if—”

“No.” Stupid man. “I buried one cowboy because of that horse. Don’t intend to bury another one.”

Eyes flashing, he argued, “I’ve been around horses all my life—good ones and rotten-to-the-core ones. I’ll know after a few days if SOS is loco or not.”

“The proof’s buried up the hill.” She nodded toward the cemetery.

“Did anyone witness the horse attack your husband?”

Amy shook her head. She had no idea how long Ben had lain dying or dead. When he hadn’t answered her calls for supper, she’d walked out to the barn and that’s when she’d found him.

“There’s a chance it might have been an accident.”

“His chest was caved in, Mr. Cartwright. Whether it was an accident or not, the horse can’t be trusted.”

“My sister suffered a horse kick to the head when she was sixteen because the animal spooked while she was hosing it down. Something might have set SOS off and caught Ben unawares.”

“Did your sister survive?”

“She did.”

Matt didn’t elaborate and Amy was afraid to ask if the woman suffered any lingering effects.

“One week,” he pressed. “If the stud remains untouchable, I’ll load up my mares and retreat to Oklahoma.” He made it sound as if he was declaring war against the stallion.

She was tempted to give in because she hated the idea of euthanizing any animal unless it had been injured beyond help. But if anything happened to the cowboy, his death would be on her conscience. “No.”

“SOS can save your farm.”

The Pebble Creek gossipmongers were at it again. “Who says my farm needs saving?”

“Jake Taylor mentioned you were in danger of losing the place.”

Jake Taylor meant well, but he talked too much.

“If I can prove that SOS didn’t attack Ben, then you’d be able to sell the stud.” He motioned to the house and the barn. “The money you’d make on the sale would go a long way in sprucing up the place.”

He expected her to use the extra cash to beautify her home? Yeah, right. She’d pay off the rest of Ben’s debts first and any money left over would be socked away for emergencies. “And if no one wants the horse after you’ve worked with him, what then?”

“Then I’ll pay you what I can and take the stud off your hands.”

Now she knew Matt Cartwright was crazy. His sober eyes studied her. Sweat tickled her scalp. And a red haze formed in her peripheral vision.

Pity. The damned cowboy felt sorry for her.

How dare he. How dare he act all chivalrous and cocky. She hadn’t asked for his sympathy and darned if she’d allow him to play the white knight and rescue her.

But what if he can prove Ben’s death was an accident? Dare she walk away from an opportunity to get out of debt sooner rather than ten years from now? “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” His mouth flattened and his eyes flicked toward the burial plot. “Sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

“What happens if I waltz into the barn one morning and discover you’ve suffered the same fate as my husband?” The doctors had explained that the horse’s kick had crushed Ben’s ribcage and a splinter of rib bone had pierced his heart.

“Send my body back to Oklahoma and you can keep my mares, truck and rig for your trouble.” He grinned.

Ha. Ha.

“I’m a tie-down roper. I’ve worked with horses all my life. I know the difference between an animal who’s snapped and one who’s been spooked or mis-handled.” When Amy remained silent, he added, “SOS is too valuable a horse not to be given a second chance before he’s put down.”

Oh, shoot. She’d believed all that compassion had been for show, but obviously the man intended to do the right thing for the stud. She wondered if he was also concerned with doing the right thing for her and the girls. “I can’t afford feed and upkeep for the horses.”

“I’ll cover the costs for the animals and myself in exchange for hot showers and place to rest my head at night.”