How to Wrangle a Cowboy (7 page)

She brought her fist to her mouth, and he realized she hadn’t been smothering a yawn during the funeral. She’d been stifling a sob.

Maybe he’d misjudged her.

Either that, or she took after her grandma and was one heck of an actress.

“They’re going to start the eulogies soon.”

Grace had arranged for everyone to share stories of Bud during the reception, after folks had a chance to get, as she put it, “liquored up.”

“You ought to be there,” Lindsey said. “Let’s go back.”

He shook his head, his mouth drawn into a tight, thin line.

“Even if you can’t speak, he’d want you there, don’t you think? To hear how his friends and neighbors loved him and respected him.”

She was right, but danged if he’d say so. He stood staring into the grave, watching the cloud reflections drift across the shiny surface of Bud’s coffin, until she finally sighed and walked away.

Only then did he follow.

Chapter 8

The eulogies seemed to take forever. Fueled by the seemingly endless amounts of food and equally available drink, the local ranchers, their hands, their wives, and even their cooks waxed eloquent on the subject of Bud Ward’s finer qualities. His generosity, his kindness, his compassion, his sense of humor—every side of his personality had been spilled onto the long dining table and examined by the crowd like an assortment of rare gems, as toast after toast was raised to his spirit.

Shane knew he ought to join in, but how could he put his feelings for Bud into words? He stayed in the shadows, keeping his hands steady and making sure his face was a somber mask of control. One word, one thought, even, and he’d weep.

As the night wore on, the older folks left. The younger attendees, mostly ranch hands, drank more and more, and reminiscences turned ribald. Shane was about to put a stop to things when Alma, the cook who’d worked for Bud and Grace for over twenty years, took off her apron and drove them out as if they were cattle who’d strayed into the corn.

Shane followed them outside, making sure those who were too intoxicated got rides.

“Hey! Over here.”

Dusk had settled over the fallow field they’d used as a makeshift parking lot, so Shane had to squint to see his brother Brady waving from the bed of his pickup. Standing in a truck bed hollering Shane’s name was behavior better suited to a teenager at an AC/DC concert than a grown man attending a funeral. But Brady was the life of every party, whether it was a wedding or a wake.

Shane strode through the stubble to find his other brother, Ridge, sitting on the truck’s lowered tailgate holding a bottle of Jeremiah Weed—cheap whiskey they’d started drinking as kids on the rodeo circuit. Now it was a tradition, no matter how bad it tasted.

“You look like you need a swig,” said Ridge.

“Can’t,” said Shane.

“Can.” Brady sat down on the edge of the tailgate beside Ridge. Taking the bottle, he pressed it into Shane’s hands. “You’re not on duty; you’re at a funeral.”

“Don’t remind me.” Shane upended the bottle, letting the whiskey burn its way down his throat. He hoped it would clear out the lump that formed every time he thought of Bud, but the lump stayed put, along with the tight feeling in his chest. “So what’s your plan?” Brady clapped Shane on the back. “You coming back to Decker Ranch?”

Their foster father had passed on, and his place belonged to the brothers now. Ridge lived there with his wife, Sierra, who ran a much-improved version of the foster home the boys had come from in the nearby town of Wynott. Meanwhile, Brady used the ranch as home base while he traveled the country riding broncs and raising hell—although he raised a whole lot less hell now that his wife, Suze, was taking a break from barrel racing due to a surprise pregnancy.

Shane shook his head. “Cody likes it here, so I’m going stay.”

“You’re going to let a six-year-old run your life?” Brady shook his head in mock concern. “You’ll end up living at Disney World.”

“He and his mom moved all the time.” Shane took another swig of whiskey, then passed it over to Brady. “He’s had enough upheaval for a while.”

“What if Grace decides to sell the place?”

“She won’t,” Shane said. “But even if she did, most buyers who could afford it aren’t ranchers. They’ll need a manager, and I’ve kept the Lazy Q in the black for years. Plus, I’m familiar with Bud’s breeding program. Anyone with sense would want to keep that going.”

“What if Ed Brockman wants to buy it?” Ridge asked. “His land butts right up against the boundary.”

“Brockman won’t buy it.” Shane thought of the Brockman place with its peeling paint and tumbledown outbuildings. “He doesn’t have any money.”

“I heard different.” Ridge knocked back another shot of Jeremiah Weed. “He’s a county commissioner, after all. You don’t get elected around here without some financial clout.”

“’Specially not if you’ve got the personality of a snakebit weasel with hemorrhoids.”

The men laughed at Brady’s description. Brockman was widely disliked among ranchers and townsfolk alike.

“He won’t buy it.” Shane was getting annoyed by the speculation. “Grace won’t sell.”

“Just keep us in mind if you’re looking for someplace to go. I’d like to make Decker Ranch a name to trust again when it comes to quarter horses, and it would be a lot easier with you on board to handle the management end.” Shane hadn’t heard Ridge talk this much since he’d wooed his wife. “I had those two champion cutters, and I’m going to build on that. Plus, Suze is going to stick around and train barrel horses now that she’s pregnant.”

“With twins.” The mention of his younger brother’s upcoming parenthood cheered Shane considerably.

“Twin
girls
,” Ridge said.

Brady groaned. He’d cut a swath through the buckle bunnies for years, so the notion of him wrangling twin daughters was enough to make anyone believe in the sorry side of karma.

“Maybe you can do some babysitting,” he said hopefully. “They’re gonna love their Uncle Shane.”

“Nope. Those little princesses are all yours. I can’t wait to see you changing diapers.”

Brady groaned again, but it was a good-natured groan. He loved his new wife, and Shane knew he’d love his babies too.

“You ought to join us. I’ve got Riley from the hardware store renovating the apartment over the machine shop.” When Ridge picked up an argument, he was like a terrier with a rat—determined to shake the life out of the thing before giving up. “There’s an office on the ground floor and quarters above.”

“I’m not taking some job you obviously made up just so I have somewhere to go.”

Ridge set his jaw. “That’s not true and you know it.”

“The Lazy Q is Cody’s home now.”

“Decker Ranch is home.
Our
home. He ought to learn that,” Ridge said. “Besides, his home is wherever you are. You don’t need to coddle him. Kids are tough. You, of all people, should know that.”

Shane didn’t bother to disagree. He’d been a tough kid, all right, but he was well aware that the shadow of his childhood hung over everything he did.

“I’ve got it.” Brady snapped his fingers and both his brothers groaned. Brady’s bright ideas had gotten them into trouble more than once. “You can marry the granddaughter. That would solve all your problems.” Staring up at the sky, he hummed a few bars of “Wedding March.”

“I don’t have any problems,” Shane said. “And I’m not marrying Lindsey Ward!”

Realizing he’d spoken too loudly, Shane kicked up a divot that flew into the air and struck the window of Brady’s truck. Glancing around to see if anyone had caught his fit of temper, he saw a gaggle of elderly women standing at the side of the road, peering at him and his brothers.

“Great,” Ridge said. “I think you just revved up the gossip mill.”

“Whatever.” Shane waved a dismissive hand toward his brothers. “I don’t have to justify my decisions to you. And I don’t want to talk about that woman.”

At that point Brady, playing peacekeeper, changed the subject. The three men discussed the current rodeo standings and Ridge’s latest horse-training quandary as the lot emptied. Suddenly, Shane realized they were lounging around on the bed of a truck that was parked in the middle of an empty field.

What if Lindsey saw them, passing the bottle and talking while her grandfather lay dead in the ground? It was bad enough he hadn’t had the fortitude to offer some words about her granddad. He’d seen her staring at him while everyone else lauded Bud’s generosity, his courage, and his riding skills. She probably wondered why he hadn’t said anything.

Hell, now that the ordeal was over,
he
wondered why he hadn’t said anything.

“Holy crap.” Brady checked his watch. “It’s late. I have to get an early start tomorrow.”

As his brothers piled into the pickup and negotiated the lumps and bumps of the rutted field, Shane started the long walk back to the house, wondering if he’d been missed. At the funeral, he’d taken on the role of family, sitting with Grace and looking out for her. But once Lindsey arrived, he’d passed those duties on to her. He hoped she’d taken good care of her grandmother. And Cody, for that matter.

Cody.

Feeling guilty, he put on some speed, but as he came over a rise, he couldn’t help pausing to stare up at the full moon that floated over the peak of the barn roof, lounging on a cloud like a pale, plump woman on a featherbed.

He swept off his hat and pressed it to his chest, watching as the clouds drifted away. Unfazed by her nakedness, the moon continued to hang motionless in her black velvet boudoir, her silver light echoed by a host of shining stars.

At the sound of crunching gravel, he mashed his hat back on his head and blinked his way back to the real world. A shadowy figure was approaching, wrapped in some sort of shroud. On its head, a froth of wispy white hair tossed in the wind as it walked, with a halting, uneven gait, straight toward him.

Shane’s heart lurched into a panicked tap dance. He’d never believed in ghosts, but hey, it was never too late to start.

Chapter 9

Lindsey had managed to keep her black skirt and jacket clean for two whole hours. For a while, she’d thought her grandfather’s passing might have turned her into a real grown-up, the kind who could stay tidy and composed for an entire event.

She’d stayed polite too, dishing out the same canned phrases over and over. Everyone wanted to know where she’d been and why. Some of the local gossips were so persistent, she felt like a deer under attack by a pack of wolves.

What was she supposed to do—tell them about Bud’s impossible ultimatum? Discuss the choice she’d had to make between her grandfather and the man she’d loved with all her naive, foolish little heart? Was it any of their business that her husband-to-be had given her the same choice? Torn between two strong men she loved, she’d chosen Rodger.

It had been the wrong choice. She’d initially been attracted to him because he had the same strength of personality as her grandfather, but she’d mistaken personality for character. It had taken her so long to extricate herself from her marriage that Bud had died without ever knowing she’d realized her mistake.

But she wasn’t about to tell the whole town about it, so she’d finally muttered a jumbled excuse about some vague feminine issue and fled the house, heading straight for the barn. Even after all these years, it was still a sacred refuge, a rural cathedral that soothed her soul.

The last of the day’s sunshine slanted through the gaps in the shingles, creating barred shadows like neat rows of pews on the rough wood floor. The dim light of the hayloft drew her up the ladder and toward the dark recess at the very peak of the roof.

From her secret aerie, she could see the guests gathering on the porch for their good-byes, but they couldn’t see her—which was a good thing, because her black funeral duds were now flecked with bits of straw, and her hair had tumbled out of its updo to hang loose about her shoulders.

She watched the crowd disperse. Her duties, she figured, were over. Caterers would keep the food coming, drinks would flow from the hired bartenders, and no one would even notice she was gone.

Scanning the parking area, she spotted Lockhart’s black hat, set apart from the others by an elaborate horsehair hatband. He was leaning against a pickup truck with a bottle in his hand. She squinted. Whiskey.

Still the bad boy, then.

Her heart lifted a little, as if lofted on a warm breeze. What was that all about? She’d never liked bad boys. Rodger might have been a bad
person
, but he’d never been a rebel.

Rebel.
The word made her shiver as she watched Shane raise the bottle to his lips and tilt his head back.

When he handed the booze off to one of his companions, she could have sworn he looked right at her. She was pretty sure he couldn’t see her, but those eyes had drilled into her soul earlier, so it wasn’t hard to believe he could see into the cobweb-draped darkness of the hayloft.

Looking more closely at his companions, she recognized Shane’s foster brother Brady Caine, whose image was plastered all over the West, selling everything from jeans to saddles. The other man was probably his other brother, Ridge Cooper.

The Decker Ranch boys were a handsome lot, and to her, they looked dangerous as ever. Their long, lean bodies rested casually against the truck, and they wore their hats low in front, like outlaws. There were no stiff, store-bought creases in their shirts now, and their jeans fit just right.

Bad boys generally grew up to be bad men, didn’t they? And she knew from experience that Lockhart wasn’t averse to taking advantage of sad circumstances. Just thinking of the last time she’d seen him made her blush.

She’d have to keep an eye on him. Not that that was a hardship.

A birdlike chirrup made her drag her eyes away from the Decker Ranch boys to see a calico kitten crouched between two bales of hay.

“Hello, kitten.” She rubbed her fingers together and the little creature approached cautiously, drawn by the rustling sound. Before long, she’d charmed the animal into her lap. It was a bony little thing, with a sweet, white face, a pink nose, and a patchwork coat.