A Cowboy's Plan

Someone slapped him on the back. Angus Kinsey.

“Hey, Angus,” C.J. said. Angus was a great guy. Like Hank, he was generous with his property, his horses and his broncs, and had let C.J. practice on his ranch as much as he’d wanted when C.J. had worked there part-time as a teenager.

“How’re things?” Angus asked. “You sold that candy store yet?”

The way Angus said candy store left no doubt what he thought of C.J. owning one. C.J. shook his head and laughed. Raging cowboy testosterone. “Not yet.”

“You need to get rid of it and start ranching, boy.”

“Amen,” C.J. answered.

This was what he wanted. A life of hard labor on a ranch with other cowboys. With camaraderie and sharing the highs and the lows of cattle ranching, with earning a living with his hands and body then falling into bed at night exhausted from a day of good solid work, and teaching his son how to ranch. His greatest desire? To give his son a future.

His own future did not include candy-making.

When he glanced along the bodies lining the white fence, arms and elbows resting along the top of it, his sights zoomed in on Janey before any other individual, and that bothered him.

She stood on a lower rung watching someone in the corral. When she leaned forward, her dress hiked up the backs of her legs, well above her knees.

Lord, for a petite woman, she had great thighs.

He inserted himself among the spectators. He felt Janey watching him and looked her way. The black lipstick she’d had on earlier was gone. Her own natural pink shone on her full lips. They looked soft and moist and pretty. Damn.

“Hey, C.J.!” Hank picked himself up from the dusty ground inside the corral, where the bronc had just dropped him, and grinned. “You want to go a round on Dusty here?”

“Sure,” C.J. called, but his pulse suddenly raced. Do it. Just get in there and do it.

He felt her eyes on him when he climbed over the fence.

He hadn’t done this in four years, since the day Davey died.

“Davey,” he whispered beneath his breath as he approached Dusty, “help me.”

The bronc shied away from him.

Kelly Cooper caught Dusty and held him still. C.J. climbed on and settled himself in the saddle, grinning at Kelly as though there weren’t ten devils dancing in his chest. God.

The second Kelly let the bronc loose, the animal bucked.

The bronc’s first buck slammed through C.J., made his teeth snap together, nearly threw him out of the saddle. He curled his fist around the rope, ignored that it cut off circulation.

He tightened his knees against the horse, used his uncanny sense of balance to stay astride.

Each kick and landing thudded through his back, his arms, legs and butt. His blood pounded. Dust flew into his eyes.

Yelling and cheering swirled around him.

His right arm ached, his fist wrapped in the rigging burned, and every particle of his spine felt as if it was being permanently twisted. But he hung on, breathed hard and felt the buzz, the high that had always trumped everything else. Common sense had never, ever stood a chance.

He jumped from the bronc, ran away from those dangerous hooves and laughed. And laughed. Taking off his cowboy hat, he waved it in the air and shouted, “Whooooohooooo.”

The applause of the audience coursed through his body like the beat of his blood. He jumped over the fence and accepted the handshakes and slaps on his shoulders.

“It’s good to have you back,” Angus said, and C.J. knew what he meant. It had been too long since his last rodeo. Four long years filled with bitterness and anger.

He banged his hat against his leg and a puff of dust rose from his jeans. He laughed again for the pure pleasure of it.

C.J. got up on a bronc three times during the evening, each time more thrilling than the last and, at the end, headed to his truck in the hush of dusk, willing his heart rate to slow and his body to relax, to come down from the high he hadn’t experienced in so long.

From behind him, Shane MacGraw tapped C.J.’s hat forward over his face. “Hey, glad you got over whatever kept you away from rodeo, man.”

C.J. caught his hat, shoved it back onto his head and grinned. “Thanks, Shane.”

He slipped into the driver’s side of his Jeep and sat still for a moment. He knew what Shane had assumed, what they had all thought—that after Davey’s death he’d been afraid to get back on a bronc or a bull. That he was afraid he, too, would get killed. That he hadn’t overcome his fear tonight to ride again.

Let them think that. The truth was far worse for him. It was eating him alive. He hadn’t feared the broncs or the bulls or that he might not like riding anymore, or performing.

He feared that he’d like those seductive sensations too much—of his blood whipping through his body, of excitement buzzing in his head, and of the adoration of the crowd. That he’d crave it even more than he used to in the old days, like a demon that had sunk in its claws and C.J. couldn’t shake free. He didn’t want that demon dogging him again. What if he couldn’t control it this time?

Who would take care of Liam then? Liam deserved someone whole and responsible.

C.J. had hoped he was over that wildness that reminded him too much of his pretty impetuous mother and of his own crazy period after Davey died, of his life in the city and a dangerous flirtation with drugs and booze. He had to force himself to be done with all of that shit.

By the time he pulled into the driveway of the Hanging W and stopped in the yard, he had himself under control and the demons of his past put to bed for the night. He could control them.

One arm resting on the open window, he drummed his fingers on the door and studied the small house. The place was dark. Gramps must be in the back room watching TV, as usual.

There hadn’t been a female in the Wright family in too many years. And it showed in the details—the house was clean, but didn’t sparkle. No flowers graced the dirt around the foundation. The furniture was only serviceable, the decorations nonexistent.

C.J. stepped out of the car and up onto the veranda, avoiding the third step that looked to fall apart any day now.

He walked into the house and called, “Gramps?”

“Back here,” came the muffled response.

Gramps sat in the closed-in back porch, watching a small TV propped on a rickety table. Dancing with the Stars blared. He slurped tea from a heavy china mug.

Moths beat against the screens of the open windows.

Liam sprawled on the sofa beside Gramps asleep, one leg hanging over the edge, his small hands curled into fists.

C.J. bent over and kissed his sweaty head. How come kid sweat smelled so much better than man sweat?

“How long has he been asleep?” C.J. asked.

“’Bout an hour.” Gramps patted the boy’s leg with one gnarled hand.

C.J. picked up his son. Liam rested boneless in his arms, as trusting as a newborn kitten. C.J. would do anything to have Liam trust him half as much when he was awake.

Instead of carrying him straight up to bed, he sat on the sofa with his boy on his lap. These opportunities were so rare.

He picked up one of Liam’s hands. It covered a fraction of C.J.’s callused palm. Every nail on every finger of the tiny hand was perfect. Dirty, but perfect. He kissed the pale smattering of freckles on Liam’s nose.

He should wake him to wash and brush his teeth, but C.J. didn’t have the heart. He should get him settled into bed.

In a minute.

Gramps bent his head in the direction of the TV. “In the next couple of minutes, they’ll announce which pair’s being booted off the show. I think it’s gonna be Cloris Leachman. She’s a hell of a gal, but she can’t dance worth shit.”

C.J. laughed. “Gramps, how did you raise a daughter who ended up marrying a minister?”

“Don’t know.” Gramps looked at C.J. with brown eyes so like his own. C.J. definitely took after his mother’s side of the family. “He’s a good man, though. Does real good work with his church.”

Yeah, he knew that.

“I’m going to put Liam to bed.” He headed for the stairs, staring at the child limp in his arms.

“How did you happen?” he whispered. “How did something so good come out of the craziness that was me and Vicki?”

C.J. had missed the first two and a half years of his son’s life. If he had to fight with his last cent, he was never missing any again.

He settled him into bed wearing his T-shirt and superhero underwear, then got a damp facecloth from the bathroom and wiped Liam’s face. A smear of something that looked like dried mustard and ketchup mixed together came off after scrubbing.

Liam squirmed. Even in his sleep, he hated getting washed.

Looked as if Gramps had made hot dogs for dinner again. The kid needed more variety in his diet than hot dogs every night. So did Gramps.

In the next second, C.J. reminded himself that Liam had probably eaten better in the last eleven months with him and Gramps than he’d eaten in the prior two and a half years with his mother in Billings.

C.J. trudged downstairs.

Grabbing a bowl of cereal, he poured milk on it, wandered to the front of the house and stepped outside.

A faint breeze drifted toward the veranda, carrying with it the chirp of crickets.

Thinking of Liam, he leaned against the railing and ate his cereal. Now that he’d tasted fatherhood, he wanted more—a wife to share his burdens and his bed and to give Liam brothers and sisters.

Seemed like all C.J. did these days was wait. Wait to sell the store to become a full-time rancher. Wait for Liam to finally accept him. Wait for the right woman to come along to start a family. Wait for that family, so Liam could have little brothers and sisters.

Moonlight ran like pale butter over the land. In his imagination, C.J. caught a flash of little girls running in the fields with midnight dark hair and big black boots.

Wacky. Weird.

He shook his head to clear it of that crazy image.

His cereal gone, he returned to the kitchen, rinsed his bowl and spoon then wandered to the back porch.

“I hired Janey Wilson today. The girl who lives at the Sheltering Arms.”

“The weird dresser?”

“Yup.”

“Hank mentioned her.” Gramps looked up at him. “You had any interest in the store? Any nibbles?”

“Nope.” C.J. rubbed the back of his neck. “The sale sign’s up in the window. Has been all summer. All the tourists saw it. I’ve advertised in papers across the state. Haven’t had a single bite.”

“Why not?” Gramps said.

C.J. had wondered the same thing. “Don’t know.”

Gramps shifted the leg resting on an old footstool.

“How’s your leg?” C.J. asked.

“Knee hurts like a bugger. Can’t wait for the operation.”

“Anything new from the hospital?”

“Nope. Still waiting for a spot.”

C.J. grabbed a cushion from the sofa and put it under Gramps’s foot on the stool.

“How’d the rodeo practice go tonight?” Gramps asked. “You do okay?”

“Better than I expected.” Gramps was the only soul on earth who knew how terrified C.J. was of entering the rodeo and of being sucked into that vortex of wildness in his soul. “My back feels like it’s been rearranged into a pretzel.”

Gramps huffed a laugh. “You riding broncs or bulls at the Sheltering Arms?”

“Broncs,” C.J. answered. “Won’t get on a bull until the day of competition.”

Gramps nodded, as if he already suspected that. “You’ll do good, son.” He swallowed the last of his tea. “You’ll win. Now that Amy won’t let Hank ride the bulls anymore, you’ve got no competition out there. You always were the best after Hank.”

C.J. stood. If only Dad had that much faith in him. “You heading up now, Gramps?”

“Naw, I’ll watch one more show and then drag my old bones to bed. You go on. Don’t worry about me.”

C.J. headed for the door.

“Son?”

C.J. turned at the soft word.

Gramps watched him with kinder, wiser brown eyes than the ones C.J. saw in his own mirror. “Glad to see you having fun again.”

C.J. shrugged. “I just need the money.”

“Sure.” Gramps’s voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent in the softly spoken word that C.J. refused to heed.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing through the moonbeams cast through the small round window on the landing. Where else other than on this land could he find the security he needed for his son? No way was he dragging him back to the city to live in an apartment that smelled of rotting food and dirty clothes.

His son would live a clean, healthy life if C.J. had to turn himself inside out to make it happen.

He needed this land. Provided they didn’t lose it to the government for back taxes first.

CHAPTER FIVE

JANEY SHOWED UP at his door at nine the following morning and said “Hi,” with a wave of her fingers. Instead of her I-don’t-care-what-the-world-thinks-of-me belligerence of the day before, she seemed reserved. Self-possessed.

She stood in front of him wearing a knee-length black skirt and a bright blue tank top she’d covered with a top made out of fish net, like she’d sewn a bunch of sexy lady’s stockings together into one top and had thrown it over herself. She didn’t seem to notice that it fell off one really white shoulder. All he could wonder was whether that skin felt as soft as it looked.

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