The Trouble With Cowboys (8 page)

He let out a breath and gave himself over to the worshipful words of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” letting the cares of the week drain away. The music was his favorite part. He was convinced God could speak through lyrics, even through the melody, if He chose to. And the reminder of God’s bountiful provisions spoke to him this morning.

When the music ended, the congregation was seated and Pastor Blevins began preaching on letting go of earthly cares. It was a fine sermon, but Dylan found his thoughts, and his eyes, drifting. As luck would have it, Annie was in his line of vision, her silky black hair glistening under the chandeliers. She sat straight as a ponderosa pine. He wondered for the dozenth time if Oakley had kissed her good night the night before, then he chided himself for caring.

When the service ended, he intended to wend his way over to Annie and confirm their plans for Thursday. Not because he was unsure, but because he needed an excuse to talk to her.

But when the service ended, Wade and Abigail appeared at his side, and then Travis and Shay, and he got caught up in Founders Day plans.

He scanned the crowd, hoping to catch sight of Annie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

By the time they wrapped up, the church was nearly empty, save for Miss Lucy, who was tidying the hymnals. Even the pastor had left his post at the door.

Dylan scowled as he left the building and set his hat on his head with a firm push. So much for that.

“Dylan.” Annie pushed away from the brick building. She looked fresh as a daisy in a baby blue shirt that matched her eyes to a T.

“Annie . . . you’re looking quite fetching this mor—”

“Save it, Taylor. I want to talk to you about that, that
cowboy
you set my sister up with.”

He remembered the introduction at the Chuckwagon. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. He kept Sierra out all night. All night, Dylan, when she has a child at home to care for.”

That didn’t sound like Sutter. “Is the little guy okay?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I was home with him, but that’s not the point.”

“Sutter’s a good kid, Annie. Wouldn’t have introduced him to your sister otherwise. Listen, I don’t think—”

“No, you listen.” Annie’s eyes glittered, and two dashes had formed between her brows. “My sister’s young, and she’s trying to get her life together, which isn’t easy considering she had a child at sixteen. She doesn’t need the distraction of some Rodeo Romeo sweeping her off her feet.”

“Calm down, Annie. Sutter’s not like that. ’Sides, I only introduced them and—not that I approve of what they did—they are both adults.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened into a flat line. “Just keep your friends away from my sister.”

He held up his hands. “Whatever you say.”

Annie shot him one final look and stalked away, her hair blowing in the breeze. He admired her spirit and her desire to protect Sierra, but if you asked him, she was holding the reins a smidge too tight.

Dear Confused,

    
There’s no reason to be confused. He already left you once. Taking him back is an open-ended invitation for heartbreak.

9

S
ierra went out with her new cowboy three nights in a row, leaving after Ryder was asleep and returning late. Each time her sister left the house, Annie bit her tongue. Then she called Shay and whined until she got it out of her system.

On Tuesday night she lay in bed flipping through the copy of
Montana Living
she’d snagged from Pappy’s Market. “Dear Annie” was on page eight. She read it for the fourth time, then looked at the title again. It felt good to have her own name in print. Folks in town had waved her down today, telling her they’d read her new column. Maybe this was going to work out after all. It had better since Sierra seemed in no hurry to get a job.

She closed the magazine and turned out the lamp but lay awake
awhile. It was hard to sleep when Sierra wasn’t safe and sound in her bed.

For what seemed like forever she watched the glow-in-the-dark hands on her clock slowly pivot around the face. What if Sierra fell for the guy? What if she got pregnant again? It was all they could do to keep their heads above water now. And she knew better than to count on a cowboy for child support or anything else, despite Dylan’s glowing reference. Hadn’t all her mom’s cowboys proven that? Hadn’t their own father?

She’d been watching the clock on that long-ago night when he’d left them. Watching the clock and listening to her mom’s sniffles from the next room. She was glad when the rain started. The pattering on the metal roof covered the sounds.

She’d been five years old. Sierra was still a baby—Annie checked on her on the way to her mom’s bedroom.

The light in Mom’s room was off, her door pulled almost shut. It squeaked on the hinges when Annie pushed it open and the sniffling stopped. The smell of her mom’s paints filled her nostrils, a comforting smell.

“Mom?”

“What is it, honey?” She sounded like she had an awful cold.

Thunder cracked, rattling the windows. Annie didn’t like storms. They were loud and scary. She crept closer to the bed. The wood floor was cold on the bare balls of her feet, and her toes felt like ice cubes.

When she reached the bed, she climbed in, and her mom pulled her close, tucking her into her soft belly. Annie’s head sank into her dad’s pillow, and his musky smell filled her nose. The words she’d heard earlier echoed in her head.

“He didn’t mean it, Mom.” She’d closed her bedroom door, but she could still hear her father’s cruel, calm words. Then the front
door had slammed, and the crying had started. Annie’s tummy had been aching ever since.

“Oh, honey, I’m afraid he did.” Her mom smoothed her hair, sniffled again.

Annie was sure her mom was wrong. Daddies weren’t supposed to leave. They were supposed to come home from work and call you princess and feed the horses. They were supposed to tickle your belly and help you with the hard puzzles and put you on their shoulders so you could see the parade.

But what if Mom was right? What if he didn’t come back? What if . . . “Doesn’t he love us anymore?”

The ache in Annie’s tummy spread all through her body.

“He does love you, sweetie, very much.”

“See? He’ll come back. He was just mad.” But he hadn’t sounded mad. Just flat and empty.

Her mother’s breath was a shuddery sigh. “Don’t go getting your hopes up, honey. It only hurts when you’re wrong.”

Sometimes grown-ups didn’t make sense. “If Daddy loves us, then he has to come back.” She was sure of it.

“Oh, Annie, it doesn’t always work that way.”

“Why, Mom? Why would he leave us if he loves us?”

Her mom pulled Annie tighter, wrapped her arms around her middle. “Because, baby. That’s the trouble with cowboys. They’re always leaving.”

Annie let the words sink in, frowning. Her daddy was the best cowboy ever. Was that why he’d left? She said no more but sank into her mom’s arms and eventually drifted off to sleep.

Her mom must’ve been right, because her dad had never returned, not even to say good-bye. There were a few phone calls and postcards, just enough to keep hope alive. Just enough to hurt.

After the divorce, Annie’s mom had brought one cowboy after another into their lives, had married three of them, only to have them leave in a matter of months. By the time her mom had passed, and Annie and Sierra had gone to live with their grandpa, she knew for a fact her mom had been right: cowboys left.

Now Annie turned to her other side away from the annoying hands of the clock. Only when she heard Sierra come in for the night did she allow herself to drift off.

And the next day when Sierra told her Sutter had gone back to whatever rock he’d crawled from, Annie breathed a sigh of relief. At least he’d left before he did any real damage.

Dear Undecided,

    
A relationship rooted in friendship can grow to be the hardiest of them all.

10

A
nnie’s day had been long and stressful. She’d started at the O’Neils’ with a jiggy palomino that refused to walk. After that she’d checked on Mayor Wadell’s four-month-old filly. Wadell didn’t seem to understand that the filly’s kicking problem would require more than one visit.

She’d finished up her afternoon at Travis and Shay’s. He’d acquired a three-year-old abused quarter horse. They’d gotten nowhere with the gelding after four months of work. This was the kind of case that strained Annie the most. Not the fact that such horses were unpredictable or aggressive, but that their gentle souls had been wounded so heinously, so needlessly. Nothing raised her dander like a horse owner who took out his anger on innocent animals or neglected to learn proper handling.

She was just finishing up with the horse when Midge called. The editor got right down to business.

“Annie, we’ve received some feedback on your column already. I’m afraid it’s not as good as we’d hoped.”

Annie leaned against the stall door. “What do you mean?”

“Some of our readers thought you were off base with Betrayed in Billings. They thought the reader shouldn’t write him off so easily.”

“You know people are more likely to be vocal when they disagree. There were probably a hundred who agreed for each one who wrote.”

“You may be right.”

“I’m sure I am, but I’ll keep it in mind. You can depend on me, Midge. I won’t let you down.”

After they hung up, Annie finished up with the quarter horse and headed toward her truck. Shay approached, sporting a low ponytail. Baby Austin was perched on her hip, gnawing on his slobbery fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Shay asked.

Annie thought about brushing off the question but filled her in on Midge’s call instead.

“Did you read the column?” Annie asked.

“I did. I thought your answer was fine. It was one of those situations—could’ve gone either way.”

“Well, I’d better figure it out. With Sierra out of work, I need this job.”

“Hang in there. I’m sure it was just a few complainers. The vast majority probably agree with you; they just don’t take the time to write.”

“Hope so.” Annie gave Austin a kiss on his chubby cheek. “Gotta run. Tell Travis I said hello.”

She waved bye as she pulled down the drive. Just when she was ready for her day to be over, she had to go to Dylan’s house. She had to press him harder this time, make sure they were arriving at the right answer.

She found Braveheart much the same as he’d been the week before. He bolted from his stall and stumbled, but he let her approach so long as she kept to his sighted side. She walked the boundaries with him, talking constantly.

After working with him awhile, she led one of Dylan’s gentle mares into the pasture with the gelding and retreated to the fence to watch.

The sun was going down over the Gallatin Range, casting the mountains in muted shades of purple. A wind cut across the valley, sending a shiver across her flesh, and she crossed her arms against the chill. She took a deep whiff of pine, hay, and the earthy scent of rain, then let out her breath as she watched the horses.

A few minutes later, when a drizzle began to fall, she put the animals away for the night. Dylan had watched her working most of the evening but had slipped into the house awhile ago. She was already dreading the column, and though Sierra’s cowboy had left, Annie’s frustration with Dylan had not.

She shut the gate to Braveheart’s stall and headed toward her truck for her folder, then made a dash for the house as a bucket load of rain fell from the sky. She was drenched by the time she reached the porch. She knocked on the door, pushing her wet hair from her face. Thunder cracked, and she jumped just as Dylan opened the door.

“You’re soaked.” He pulled her in, his hand warm and firm on her arm, his scent filling her nostrils. “I’ll get a towel.”

Annie closed the door, pulled off her boots, then waited on the
rug. The room was surprisingly cozy with its hardwood floor, braided rugs, and stone fireplace. Framed pictures, mostly old black-and-white shots, filled the mantel.

“Here you go,” Dylan said, his voice lower than she remembered. He handed her a thick beige towel.

“Thanks.” Annie dried her arms and face and soaked the moisture from her hair.

“Wrap up in this.” He handed her a quilt and tossed the wet towel over a rocking chair as he left again. She watched him go, admiring the way his T-shirt clung to his shoulders, the way his damp hair curled at his nape. She couldn’t deny he was nice to look at.

A moment later he returned with a hot mug of coffee. His fingers brushed hers as she took it, and she pretended not to feel the shock of electricity that zinged up her arm.

“You’re tough to stay mad at, Dylan.”

He smiled, his dimples showing up. “That’s what I like to hear. Have a seat. Warm enough? I can get a fire going.”

He already had—he just didn’t know it. And if she were smart, she’d stick to the porch. But the thunder cracked again, making the light fixture overhead rattle, and she reminded herself she could handle Dylan Taylor just fine.