Authors: Patti Berg
She was fired.
THE MARES WERE GONE. THOUSANDS UPON thousands of dollars in horseflesh had disappeared— trouble Mike Flynn didn’t need or want.
He stood in the center of his boss’s barn and stared at the stalls. Half a dozen of them were occupied by geldings, two by aging mares. But the stalls, where the black-and-white spotted horses had been stabled when they arrived from
Memphis
this morning, were empty.
So much for Jack Remington’s birthday present to his wife. So much for Sam Remington’s plan to breed Tennessee Walkers, at least with those two mares. That Jack would be furious about the missing horses went without saying. When he found out the mares had been spirited away by a renegade stallion, there would be hell to pay.
So much for Mike’s good standing as a man who knew horses.
He slammed through the barn door and came to a stop in the corral where he’d left the wild mustang that afternoon. After years of chasing the beast, Mike had finally won, trapping the horse in a narrow box canyon and bringing him back to the ranch, kicking and screaming. But his victory had been short-lived.
Satan had escaped.
He should have known the corral rails weren’t high enough to keep the stallion penned up, should have known that the dappled gray devil with the shaggy black mane would find a way to get to the mares. What a fool he’d been to let something wild get so close to something tame.
Never again!
Tucking his chin into the collar of his sheepskin coat for protection from the bitter February cold, Mike stared at the ranch house sitting on a gentle rise not more than a long stone’s throw from the corral. Through the home’s big picture window, he could see the party going on—a family reunion of sorts. No need to march up there now and spoil Jack’s evening with bad news about the two prize Tennessee Walkers taking off for parts unknown.
No need to tell Jack that they could forget about inseminating the mares with the pricey sperm in the freezer, because, sure as shooting, Satan had already taken care of that procedure the old-fashioned way.
No need to let his friend and boss see his frustration over Satan’s great escape, not to mention the way the blasted animal had flaunted his freedom, parading past Mike’s cabin with newfound additions to his harem in tow. The mustang had been Mike’s nemesis for years, but if Satan thought he’d won this time around, he had another think coming.
Mike heaved out an irritated sigh, his breath clouding before him as he eavesdropped on the Remington and Wilde get-together. Over the honky-tonk tune plunking away on the piano inside, he heard a woman’s laugh, and for one instant he thought he’d see Jessie run out of the house and beckon him to join the fun, as she’d done so often. But his wife wasn’t there.
Mike shoved his gloved hands deep inside his coat pockets and watched Jack Remington swing his wife, Samantha, around the living room, while Jack’s sister Lauren and her husband, Max Wilde, danced up close and personal, ignoring the brisk rhythm of the music.
He and Jessie had danced that way a long time ago. Her heart had beat against his chest as they whispered about their future together—a future that had ended all too abruptly.
Mike watched Jack let go of his wife and swoop one of his twin babies into his arms, laughing as he raised the tiny bundle high in the air then gently cuddling the infant against his shoulder. Moments like this reminded Mike how much he and Jessie had wanted children, and made him wish he had sons and daughters to fill his home with laughter.
Many times he’d thought about marrying again, because God knows he wanted to go to sleep at night and wake in the morning with a warm woman in his arms. But his chance for that kind of happiness had come and gone.
What woman in her right mind could be happy with a man who tossed and turned all night, who rarely slept, and when he did, woke in a feverish sweat, haunted by dreams and racked with guilt?
What woman would want to marry a man who’d killed his wife?
Anguish tightened around his throat, a noose that had been his constant companion for six years, one he could loosen at times but couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried. It stayed with him now, even though he turned away from the merriment he’d been observing through the window.
He headed for
Crosby
’s cabin on the far side of the corral, just as he did most every night. The old codger had been a hired hand for sixty-some-odd years and could barely get around anymore. He was crotchety and set in his ways and wasn’t always the best of company. But spending time with Cros was better than spending time alone with his thoughts.
Knocking his boot heels on the edge of the porch, he left clumps of snow and mud on the redwood steps and walked into the cabin without bothering to knock.
“Thought you were going up to the big house,”
Crosby
hollered at Mike over the blaring noise on the TV.
“Changed my mind.”
“Can’t blame you. Too damn many people up there making too damn much noise.” Cros aimed the remote control at the screen and turned the sound even louder. “There’s some kind of fancy dessert on the counter. That chef Lauren married called it Easy Ridin‘ Mud Pie. Looks like cow dung to me, but you help yourself.”
Rufus, the Border collie that had once been Jack’s but had lately taken to hanging on Crosby’s heels, settled his front paws on Mike’s boots and waited patiently for attention, just as he did every night.
Mike shoved his gloves into his pocket then shrugged out of the heavy coat and hung it, along with his hat, on the rack just inside the door. A cool draft wafted past him and while he ruffled Rufus’s silky fur he took a quick glance around the room to see if
Crosby
had opened one or more windows to let in the fresh air. Didn’t matter to Cros if the weather was bitterly cold or not. He didn’t like being cooped up and was bound and determined to let the outside in.
Mike cranked the thermostat up a couple of degrees, to keep his old friend healthy, then, falling into his usual routine, he headed for the kitchen. Reaching over the sink, he shoved the window closed and latched it before filling Rufus’s bowl with dog food and checking out the dark chocolate concoction Max Wilde had cooked up. He wasn’t big on chocolate, but he’d long ago tired of his own cooking and figured he might take some home and eat it in the middle of the night, when he woke from one of his dreams and spent the rest of the night prowling the house or immersed in paperwork.
Pulling the glass pot out of the coffee maker, he called out to
Crosby
, “You want some coffee?”
“That slop’s been brewin‘ all day,” Cros answered. “I already got enough stomach problems without dumpin’ crap in it.”
Mike was more concerned with
Crosby
’s lungs and heart than his stomach, but he pushed his friend’s rapid decline to the back of his mind and poured what looked like sludge into a mug, warming his hands on the cup as he headed for the living room.
“Gall darn it! Ain’t nothin‘ worth watchin’ no more.”
Crosby
aimed the controller at the television and flipped rapidly from one channel to the next. “No
Gunsmoke
, no
Rawhide
, and I ain’t about to watch no do-good angel or one of them game shows.”
Mike ignored his cranky old friend. It didn’t do much good commenting when Cros got on one of his tirades. At eighty-seven
Crosby
was deaf in one ear, pretended to be deaf in the other, and didn’t much care for feedback anyway.
Considering how much time he spent with Cros, Mike imagined he’d end up just as ornery— not a particularly good state of mind for a man in his profession. Preachers weren’t supposed to be ornery, or bitter, or racked with guilt and regret, so he tried not to be any of those things on Sunday or when he ministered to his flock. A ranch manager—his other job—could be all those things and more, and tonight Mike allowed himself to be purebred cowboy.
He took his usual place on the faded brown plaid couch, plopped his boots on the battered oak coffee table, and stared at the worn leather, a pursuit he found to be far more stimulating than the wrestling
Crosby
had decided to watch.
When monotony set in, he crossed to the big rock hearth and stirred the embers on one lone log until fire leaped about, then added more wood. Inhaling the fresh scent of pine, he rubbed his hands in front of the flames and wiped away what remained of the chill. If only he could wipe away everything else that bothered him so easily.
Heading for the window, he looked out across the yard to see if Satan had reappeared, something he half expected the stallion to do just to grate on his nerves, but Satan was nowhere around. Maybe the horse had given up for the night, just as the occupants of the ranch house were doing. It was well past ten and Mike watched one light after another go out until the house was as still and quiet as the weather outside.
It was a night just like this when his wife had died—bitterly cold with no hint of wind. The skies were clear and the moon and stars had brightened the prairie. But a blizzard threatened. So had Jessie’s death.
The grief that had torn him apart six years ago caught hold of his thoughts again, and even though he willed the nightmare away, it stayed with him. He hated it when those memories returned, usually at night, usually in bed when he was alone and lonely. He hated the torment, the guilt.
“Somethin‘ troublin’ you?”
Mike didn’t turn from the window to answer his friend. He didn’t want
Crosby
to see his anguish. It was better to let Cros think he was worried about the storm the weatherman had predicted and how many cows would die when the blizzard hit. “I’ve gotten to where I hate nights like this.”
“Then you’d better hightail it out of
After thirty-five years of living on the prairie, Mike knew that full well. He couldn’t tell Cros that it wasn’t the cold he hated, but the calm before the storm, the way the weather had been while Jessie lay in a hospital bed, so still, so small, kept alive only by a roomful of machines.
A
log
shifted on the grate, jolting him from painful memories, and from the corner of his eye he saw sparks fly out of the hearth and turn to ash before floating to the hardwood floor. Behind him he heard the heavy thud of
Crosby
dropping the footrest on his recliner, heard the cheering and catcalls of the wrestling match fade from clamorous to a muffled hum as Cros lowered the volume on the TV.
“Need some help?” Mike asked, as Cros worked his way out of the chair.
“Nope. Don’t need help till I’m dead and you have to plant me in the ground. And I suspect that ain’t gonna happen this winter.”
“Is that a promise?”
“You know I don’t make promises I can’t be sure of keepin‘.”
Crosby
hobbled across the room, stopping beside a weathered bookcase filled with ragged paperbacks by Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey. A few bottles of whiskey and an assortment of mix-and-match glasses sat on top. “Want a drink?” He screwed the lid off a bottle of Wild Turkey and poured the liquor into a tumbler.
“No thanks.”
“Whiskey cures a lot of ills. Course,” Cros said, tilting the glass to his mouth and taking a long swallow, “a good woman’s what you really need. Me, I’m long past the days where a woman— good or bad—can get a rise out of me. You hang out with this old guy much longer and your pecker won’t work, either.”
Mike grinned, glad that
Crosby
had given him something to laugh about. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell Cros that he had no doubts whatsoever that his
pecker
was in perfectly fine working order. He was celibate, not dead.
Cros leaned an arthritic hip on top of a low bookcase and glared at Mike. “I hear Fay Atkinson’s got a niece who’s lookin‘ for a husband.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. Every Sunday morning, as a matter of fact.”
“Why don’t you go out with her?”
“Since when did you start playing matchmaker?”
“Maybe I want some peace and quiet around here at night.”
“Just say the word and I’ll stop coming by.”
“Then you’d be lonely.”
Crosby
took a gulp of whiskey. “So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Fay’s niece.”
“Not interested.”
“I seen her once or twice. Pretty young thing.”
“She’s nineteen. I’m thirty-five.”
“All the more reason for going out with her. I heard stories about things those young fillies do these days. Things that could make a feller blush if he weren’t enjoying it so much. Ain’t like the old days when a man had to do all the work.”
“Still not interested.”
Crosby
’s bushy white brows knit together, deep in thought. “Is it the woman you ain’t interested in, or sex? I always assumed a man’s a man, even if he is a minister. But maybe I been wrong about that all these years.”
Mike chuckled. “You aren’t wrong.”