How to Handle a Cowboy (10 page)

“All right,” she said. “We'll go.”

Sierra couldn't even begin to list all the reasons she should
not
be attracted to Ridge Cooper. His rusty pickup, for one. The fact that he lived in a place that couldn't be reached with a perfectly normal Econoline van, for another. And last but not least, his insistence that the boys—for whom she was responsible—pile into the back of his truck like a litter of puppies.

Because while she'd been scowling at him, the boys had done exactly that. Carter and Jeffrey sat on a couple of hay bales toward the front, while Josh and Isaiah perched precariously on the sides of the bed. They were grinning from ear to ear, happier than she'd ever seen them. But she couldn't help picturing them tumbling off and falling under the vehicle's wide wheels.

“Get
in
the truck, please,” Sierra said. “No sitting on the side.”

For once, they obeyed her without a single groan.

“Honestly,” Ridge said with an exasperated grimace, “it's not far. Nobody's going to get hurt.”

She went to the passenger-side door and stared down at a complicated construction of barbed wire that looped around the handle and connected to the side of a toolbox in the bed. She didn't want to go, but she wanted even less to see the boys' smiles fade to disappointment.

“Oh, sorry. It's probably easier to climb in from the driver's side.”

Ridge opened the door as she came around and watched, expressionless, as she did her best to climb over the gearshift with grace and dignity. It was hard to be graceful and dignified with your butt in the air, though. Especially in tight jeans.

When he eased behind the wheel, Ridge turned and slid the cab's back window open. “Ready?” he called to the boys.

“Ready,” they shouted in unison.

Maybe this would be a team-building exercise. The boys rarely agreed on anything, and here they were shouting in unison.

The pickup lurched into motion, rumbling steadily until it reached the hill, where it groaned like an old man heaving his way up a flight of steps. The gears clattered like old bones as Ridge shifted down, down, down, and finally motored up the incline at a thrilling five miles per hour.

It actually
was
kind of thrilling, because Ridge hadn't been kidding about the ruts. The truck lumbered over deep potholes and nearly high centered on the weedy strip that ran down the middle of the road. Sierra clutched the edge of the window as the cab rocked and rolled, eliciting happy shrieks from the boys in the back.

“Hang on.” Ridge gunned the motor as they hit a curve, and Sierra slid across the seat until her shoulder hit his. The boys were laughing now, but she wasn't; she was floundering for the door handle so she could pull herself back to the passenger's side. The cab was canted at a forty-five degree angle, and her thigh was pressed against Ridge's, her hip against his. Her shoulder—wait.

His arm was around her shoulder.

No wonder she was having so much trouble climbing back to her side of the seat. And no wonder she felt all happy and warm inside.

This would never do.

***

Ridge felt Sierra stiffen in his grip then relax by increments. Did she think he was being affectionate?

Was she starting to think that was okay?

“Just wait,” he said. “The next switchback goes the other way. Don't want you to hit your head.”

The next turn was a hard left, and only his tight grip on her shoulder kept her from sliding across the vinyl seat and slamming into the door frame. She hardly seemed grateful, though. Now that they weren't scrabbling for the door handle, her hands were clenched primly in her lap.

He looked down and saw the cut and the blood.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Oh, nothing.” She tried to cover it up.

“There are wipes in the glove compartment and a first aid kit with Band-Aids.”

“You keep that kind of thing handy?”

He nodded. Maybe now she'd realize he was a responsible adult.

But instead, her eyes narrowed. “You get hurt a lot around here?”

He sighed. “It's a ranch. Barbed wire, horses, wood fence—what did you expect?”

“I expect to keep the kids safe.”

“They'll be safe enough.” This woman sure didn't like to take risks. She wanted guarantees on everything, which meant she sure as heck wouldn't like ranch life. Ranchers took risks every day. That was part of the fun of it.

As they rounded the turn, the ranch came into view—a big red barn, a white house, and a network of pastures and corrals that covered the shallow scoop of a valley. Barbed-wire fences bordered plots of hay-like stitches on a patchwork quilt.

He remembered the first time he'd come here, bouncing in the back of a pickup with his brothers, just like these boys today. He hadn't shrieked or laughed. He'd sat as stiffly as Sierra, staring at the brickred barn with yellow straw gleaming from the hay window up top. The house had glowed white against the hard blue sky, and the surrounding fields had been so green he and Shane and Brady had shielded their eyes with their hands in perfect unison, as if they were saluting the place. He'd felt like he was entering the pages of a storybook, though he'd known, as well as anyone, that life was nothing like a storybook.

The house's glory had faded a bit since those days; it needed a new coat of paint, for starters. But it still had that storybook look. The steps up to the wide front porch were flanked with lilac bushes and bordered with riotous gardens from which colorful mums and a few fading coneflowers peeked out. The windows—four on top and three on the bottom—were tall and narrow, decorated with graceful tie-back curtains.

Now that Bill was gone, the house belonged to Ridge and his two brothers. Since Brady had no interest in staying put and Shane had found a lucrative job running a nearby spread for one of the so-called “gentleman ranchers” that had invaded Wyoming lately, the place was his to run.

But he'd been given that gift for all the wrong reasons. He knew his brothers figured this was about all he could do, crippled as he was.

Worst of all, he knew they were right.

“This is nice.”

Sierra sounded surprised. He should probably feel insulted, but he didn't have time. The moment he pulled the truck to a stop, the tailgate clanged open and boys and dogs spilled out.

Ridge climbed out of the cab then held out a hand to help Sierra slide across the seat. Shaking her head, she made her own way, lifting each foot past the gear shift and under the steering wheel. She sat a moment on the side of the driver's seat, legs dangling, and watched the boys. They were gaping like tourists, checking out the house and gazing openmouthed toward the barn, where a few graceful horses stood idling in a paddock behind a white-painted fence.

“It's beautiful, isn't it, guys?” She joined them, putting her arm around Frankie. “Like a hidden farm, a secret one, where nobody can see us or hear us.”

The boys nodded gravely.

“Are we riding those?” Carter pointed at the horses.

“Once you learn everything you need to know,” Ridge said.

“I already know how to ride,” Isaiah said. “I did it before. The horse was black, and his name was Thunder. I rode him anywhere I wanted.”

Ridge pictured a birthday party pony, plodding around in circles. “We'll still go over safety stuff.”

“That's for babies,” Isaiah scoffed. “Thought you were a rodeo cowboy.”

“I am.”

“Well,
that's
not safe.”

“It is when you know how.”

Turning away, Ridge put his fingers to his lips and gave a long, high whistle. That seemed to interest the kids more than anything they'd seen so far, and they were so busy trying to imitate him, they didn't notice an ancient paint horse rounding the corner of the house at about two miles per hour.

Except for Josh. Josh noticed everything. “He comes like a dog!”

“Yup.” Ridge scratched the old horse up under his mane, just the way he liked it. “This is old Sluefoot, the first horse I ever had,” he told the boys. “Ain't he purty?”

The old horse cocked his head and gave them the eye. Like many white-faced horses, he'd developed eye problems in old age. He could see okay with the left, but his blind right eye made him hold his head at a peculiar angle, so he seemed to be leering knowingly. He'd had a stroke a couple years back too, and though he'd recovered pretty well, it had weakened the muscles on one side of his face. When he cocked his head to see out of his good eye, his tongue tended to flop out of his mouth. Ridge was so used to the old horse's peculiarities, it didn't faze him, but newcomers were sometimes a little taken aback.

“Look at that old horse,” Isaiah said. “I bet you'd all be scared to ride that one.”

Ridge had to admit Sluefoot wasn't looking his best. His mane and tail had grown long, and looked as dry and tangled as the before photo in a hair care ad. He was munching contemplatively on a mouthful of yellow weeds that stuck out of his mouth on both sides, giving him an oversized walrus moustache that matched his mane.

“That is one ugly horse,” Frankie said. “Hey, Isaiah, it looks like your mother!”

“Holy crap. What's
wrong
with him?” one of the kids burst out. It was the big, blond kid. He'd make a good running back for Grigsby High's junior varsity someday if he did some ranch work and toughened up.

“He's just old.” Ridge couldn't help feeling a little defensive. Sluefoot had been handsome once. His breeding was questionable, but he'd been a well-trained cow horse with a lot of flash. He'd won the brothers a slew of high school rodeo prizes, but most important, he'd been Ridge's teacher in all things equine. They'd grown up together, and he loved the old gelding dang near as much as he loved his brothers.

“There's nothing really wrong with him,” he told the kids. “He's blind in that right eye, but he's gotten used to it and gets around okay. His hocks are spavined, and you can see his back's swayed, but that's just old age. He's got some arthritis, and he had a stroke. But he's fine.”

The kid smothered a giggle, but Sierra wasn't so subtle. She burst into her lilting laughter.

“Yeah, he's fine.” She struggled to catch her breath. “Ready for the races, right?”

So she was going to make fun of his horse. Well, Sluefoot wouldn't know the difference. Ridge had noticed over the past few months that the old horse was becoming increasingly deaf. Anything less than that high whistle seemed to pass right through him. But he ate all right, and he still nuzzled Ridge's pockets for treats at every opportunity.

In fact, right now he was trying to sniff the kids' pants in a hunt for treats. When he reached Sierra, she tried to set an example for the kids by gingerly petting his nose, which only encouraged him. As she stepped away, he reached over and nipped one of her back pockets.

With a little screech, she jumped back and waved the horse away while the kids laughed.

“See?” Ridge stroked the horse's neck. “He's fine. Nothing wrong with his instincts.”

“So are we gonna ride
that
?” Isaiah didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't afraid of Sluefoot.

“No, nobody's riding Sluefoot,” Ridge said. “He retired a long time ago.”

Jeffrey was already halfway to the barn, his gaze fixed on the small corral where Ridge had released Moonpie that morning.

“Jeffrey,” Sierra called. “Stay with the group.”

The boy turned to Ridge, wide-eyed. “Can I ride that one?”

Sierra grabbed Ridge's arm. With both hands.

“Please say yes.” She clung to him, her eyes pleading and wet with tears. “He hasn't said a word for almost two weeks. He just stopped talking. I don't know why. And he never asks for anything.” She shook his arm then seemed to realize what she was doing and dropped it. “Please say it's okay.”

Ridge shook his head. “I'm sorry.” He raised his voice to reach Jeffrey. “I can't even ride that one. Not yet. He's wild as a cougar and twice as mean.”

“Wild?” Jeffrey asked.

Ridge nodded. Jeffrey's gaze was fixed on the horse. Ridge doubted he saw anything else—the house, the barn, the beautiful late autumn day. All the boy could see was the way the sun caught the buckskin's yellow coat and turned it to gold as the horse trotted up and down the fence, up and down. The horse did that all day, no doubt missing his freedom.

Ridge sympathized. He knew what it was like to be fenced in when you were used to traveling with a herd.

“Yeah, he's wild,” he told Jeffrey. “He needs to learn to be a ranch horse, but he's got a long way to go.”

Sierra had been as horrified as anyone when Sluefoot appeared, but even though she'd laughed at Ridge's summation of the animal's health, she couldn't help being touched by the obvious affection between the man and his old horse. As they talked, Sluefoot shoved his long, homely face against Ridge's chest. The cowboy staggered slightly under the weight of the animal's affection, but he smiled tenderly while he scratched the old horse's neck. Between that and Jeffrey finally talking, she had a lump in her throat that ached so hard it made her eyes water.

Oblivious to his own charm, the cowboy was herding the kids toward the house with the help of Dum and Dee.

“We've got boots in every size up here,” he said. “Try on a few and see if you can find something that fits.”

When Sierra stepped into the house, she felt like she was stepping back in time to the Old West. The wooden floors, scarred by many bootheels, had mellowed to a rich honey color. The hallway was papered in a yellowed but surprisingly feminine ribbons-and-flowers design, in total contrast to the rough canvas jackets, leather horse tack, and cowboy hats hanging on the hooks by the door. Below was a row of boots, ranging in size from he-man to toddler. As the boys fell on the footwear like women at a shoe sale, Sierra's stomach clenched.

“You have kids?”

Of course he did. He was probably married. Why hadn't that possibility occurred to her before? Why had she assumed he was single? Sure, he'd acted single in the closet. But her mother would have assured her that lots of married men acted like that.

“No. Irene and Bill used to teach riding lessons,” he said. “They always picked up boots at thrift stores, so the kids' parents wouldn't have to spend the money.”

“Oh.” She couldn't help heaving a sigh of relief. It would have been awkward, that was all, what with all the accidental caressing and calf fondling in the closet the other day…

She shut down that train of thought. This was all about the boys.

Besides, the last thing she wanted was a relationship. The state had sent these boys out here to the boondocks partly so they wouldn't run away, but the truth was, she sometimes felt like she was the one who'd run away from home. Out here in the country, she didn't have to worry about anything but her work—and maybe her growing affection for Ridge. Sure, she was responsible for the boys, but there were other things—things that drained her—that she'd managed to leave far behind.

A quick stab of guilt pierced her chest. She'd just shrugged it off when her cell phone rang. She glanced down at the screen.

Speaking
of
things
that
drained
her…

***

Ridge just about jumped out of his skin when the pounding beat of a Led Zeppelin song suddenly filled the hallway. “Sorry. Gotta get this.” Sierra snatched up her phone and clicked it on.

“Hello?” Her eyes widened. “Riley! Oh my gosh! Where
are
you?”

She spun away from him, hunching her shoulders as if to protect the phone. Despite her lowered voice, he caught a few urgent words. It sounded like she was worried about the person she was talking to.

She walked out, still hunched over the phone, and the screen door slammed behind her. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his toes, trying not to feel dismissed. He watched the boys fight over a pair of flashy black Noconas and make fun of a pair of pink girls' Justins that unfortunately turned out to be the only pair that fit Jeffrey.

Once every kid was matched to a pair of boots, he opened the screen door and gave Sierra a questioning look. She was leaning against the house, her shoulders still rounded, her posture tense.

“I can't talk right now, hon,” she said to the caller. “I have to go, okay?”

Whoever was on the other end of the line apparently was not okay. Sierra straightened and cast him an apologetic look as a faint voice squawked from the phone.

“Of course I'm glad you're back! I'm just busy right now,” she said. “But I'll talk to you soon. Bye.” Abruptly, she clicked the phone off and shoved it back in her pocket.

Riley must not be a kid. Judging from how Sierra dealt with the boys, he doubted she'd hang up on a child.

“Trouble?” he asked.

She shook her head, but judging from her expression all was not running smoothly in Sierra land.

“Who's Riley?” It wasn't any of his business, but she seemed really upset.

“A—a friend.” She knelt to check the boys' boots, pressing toes to make sure they fit then shooing them out to the porch. “I'm fine,” she told Ridge. “And I'm sorry. That was rude.”

He shrugged. “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I guess.” She sighed. “It's my day for phone calls.”

Normally he would have grunted and changed the subject, but for some reason, he hated to see Sierra so down. That laughter, that smile—he wanted them back. “What do you mean? Something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Most people would say everything was right.” She stood and leaned against the wall. “I got a job offer yesterday. A job I applied for months ago opened up again. I guess the person they chose didn't work out, so now it's mine.”

As she said the last words, she looked straight into his eyes. He could swear he felt the floor shift under his feet. What was that all about? It wouldn't make any difference to him if Sierra went away. He hadn't even expected to see her again. It was all Shane's fault that she'd turned up at the ranch, messing up his mind with her tousled hair and pretty eyes.

Resting one hand on the wall for balance, he returned her gaze. Half a dozen emotions flickered through her green eyes in the space of a few seconds.

“Are you going to take it?” he asked.

She smiled, staring down at the floor. “Of course I am. It's a state job, in Colorado. I'd be setting policy for every foster child in the state, instead of taking care of just five. I'd be a fool not to take it.”

“But…”

“But I don't want to.” She looked up and he saw a single teardrop balanced on her lashes. “I love these kids, you know?”

“Then stay.”

He couldn't believe he'd said that. He should be glad she was leaving. He didn't want her to stay. Adjusting to his new life was hard enough without her and her little band of brothers turning up every time he turned around.

“It's not that simple,” she said. “There's money, for one thing. I can barely afford to live here. And my career—this would be a huge leap.”

“But would you be happy?”

“I don't know.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, but then a wide smile spread across her face. She nudged him in the ribs with one very pointy elbow. “Since when are you Dr. Phil, anyway?”

“Since never,” he said. “Don't take my advice. You see where it got me.”

He held up his hand for evidence, but they'd just stepped out the front door, and she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she was looking at the landscape surrounding the house—the long stretch of yellow prairie, the blue bowl of the sky overhead, and the sharp angles of the red barn standing in bold, sunny relief against the distant mountains.

“Seems to me you did all right,” she said.

He stood with her for a minute, taking it all in, seeing it through her eyes. He needed to do that more often—take the time to appreciate what he had.

“Hey! Let's get this show on the road!”

Isaiah wasn't about to let anyone waste time in contemplation.

“You guys ready to ride?” Ridge asked.

“Yeah!”

Maybe the boots made the boys feel more at ease. They raced out to the corral ahead of Ridge and Sierra, and as the morning wore on, they started to relax. Most of them did well with the horses, though it was clear some of them were frightened—especially Isaiah. Ridge pretended not to notice and did what he could to make their experiences positive.

The last rider was Jeffrey—the boy who wanted to ride Moonpie. Like the others, he sat stiffly in the saddle, gripping the reins too tightly, holding them too high.

Usually, it was fear of the horse that made the boys tense. But Ridge sensed something different in Jeffrey. He'd flinched when Ridge boosted him up and again when he touched him to adjust his position. Once Ridge stepped away, the boy's hands lowered and the furrows in his brow smoothed out.

After a walk around the corral, Ridge unclipped the lead rope and stepped into the center of the ring, letting the boy ride on his own. It took Jeffrey a while to notice, but when he did, he grabbed the saddle horn and turned to stare at Ridge, eyes wide.

“I didn't get to do that,” Isaiah complained.

“You talk a lot.” Ridge was careful to state it as a fact, without judgment. “Horses like quiet people.”

“Well, they oughta love old Jeffrey, then. He never says a word.”

“Then he'll probably be good at this.” Ridge turned to Jeffrey, who had paused to stroke the horse's neck. “You can do that after, Jeff. Right now it's heels down, toes out, eyes ahead. Now tell him to walk.”

The boy sat up and made the kissing sound Ridge had taught them. Faithful old Dusty eased back into the weary walk of the lifelong lesson horse.

“Speed him up,” Ridge said. “A little nudge with your heels.”

Dusty's acceleration into a gentle jog threw Jeffrey backward in the saddle, and he clutched the horn for a moment before he caught himself and straightened up. Once he caught on to the rhythm, he rode with a dignity that reminded Ridge of pictures he'd seen of Indian riders in the old days. The breeze from the horse's brisk gait swept back the tail of the boy's shirt, and as he lifted his face to the wind, a slow smile spread across his face.

At the fence rail, Sierra put a hand to her chest and closed her eyes as if struck with a sudden pain.

Ridge crossed the soft dirt to stand beside her. “You okay?”

She struck her chest with her fist and opened eyes wet with tears. “He never smiles,” she said. “Never. You've given him something—something so
good
.” She turned to him with a trembling, heartfelt smile of her own. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Ridge grunted and took a step away so she wouldn't hug him or anything. Shelley would say he was being emotionally unavailable.

Shelley was probably right.

He watched Jeffrey, only Jeffrey, but he could feel Sierra staring at him. Staring
through
him.

“You understand, don't you?” she said. “You
get
these kids.”

Just then, Jeffrey rose in the stirrups, making the horse swing into a smooth, steady lope. The boy leaned into the breeze created by the horse's movement, his face a study in rapture.

Ridge
got
him all right. He knew exactly what the boy was feeling—freedom and a sense of power, the feeling of being in control of some larger force as you were carried into the future. These kids had been moved from one home to another, their lives in constant flux. The feeling of control was a rare and precious thing.

Sierra stepped away to settle some dispute between the other boys, and Ridge walked back to the center of the ring. As Jeffrey circled him, running clockwise in the sunlight, dust rose around them and time seemed to spin backward. Ridge turned, keeping the boy in view, then staggered a second, dizzied. When he caught his footing, something shifted and suddenly he was Bill, all those years ago, and the boy on the horse…

The boy on the horse was him.

As Jeffrey rocked with the motion of the running horse, Ridge could feel the bond forming, boy to horse to man. Generations of men taught generations of boys how to form the unspoken connection between horses and humans in this spinning, timeless circle. It was secret knowledge, shared in dusty riding rings like this one all over the West. Not everyone could learn it, but those who did held the key to true partnership with another species. That was where cowboys came from—real cowboys.

Through the dust, he saw Sierra approaching the fence and had to shake his head to wake back into the everyday world—back to the dull ache in his arm, the doubts and fears that had plagued him since his accident.

But when he flexed his fingers, they weren't as stiff as before. The pain was somehow lessened—or at least different. It didn't feel like the end of the world anymore.

“The natives are getting restless,” Sierra said. “And thirsty.”

“There's lemonade.” Ridge thought about telling her he'd stay out here with Jeffrey, but that wouldn't be fair to the others.

“Know how to stop?” he asked the boy.

“Whoa!” Jeffrey pulled the reins back and the horse walked a few beats then stopped. The boy leaned over and stroked the horse's neck before reluctantly dismounting.

“His name?” he asked. His voice was rough from disuse.

Ridge didn't dare look at Sierra. “Dusty.”

Jeffrey put his arms around the horse's neck and rested his cheek against the sun-warmed pelt. It was a picture Ridge had seen at a hundred junior rodeos, a boy thanking a horse for a good ride, a smooth catch, a quick run 'round the barrels.

“Thanks, Dusty.”

His face still shining with happiness, the kid handed the reins over to Ridge. Beside him, Sierra drew a shaky breath. As Jeffrey walked away, she put her hand on Ridge's arm.

“You have no idea what just happened, do you?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Ridge rocked back on his heels. “He did pretty well.”

“Pretty well? Ridge, he hugged the horse.
Hugged
it.” A tear formed at the corner of her eye and traced a slow path down her cheek. “He's never shown affection. He barely speaks. Never smiles. That was a miracle.”

Wrapping her other hand around his arm, she rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you.”