The Bull Rider's Valentine. Cathy McDavid
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around the barrels. He’d gone weak as a pup when, after completing the run, she reined her horse to a stop and climbed off safely.
Then, the unthinkable happened. While she stood watching the remaining competitors and chatting with friends, a runaway horse appeared from out of nowhere and nearly ran her over, causing her to trip and fall.
They’d seen the on-site medic and thought she was fine. But a few hours later, he’d rushed Ronnie to the hospital where she lost the baby.
“I did everything I could to support her,” Nate said, using a trip to the table for dirty dishes to gain control of his emotions.
“I have no doubt.” Frankie finished loading the dishwasher. Closing the door, she leaned her hip against the counter. “She did say your mother was...harsh when expressing her opinion.”
His parents had arrived at the hospital the next morning just before Ronnie was to be released. His mother had been thrilled about the baby and couldn’t wait for the arrival of her first grandchild. But rather than comfort Ronnie, she’d made callous remarks about Ronnie not being ready for motherhood and selfishly putting her needs ahead of those of her child. Nate had walked in a short time later to find Ronnie sobbing.
“My mom did treat Ronnie badly,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t excuse her shutting me out or leaving without a word.”
“Ronnie needed to work things out on her own. She’s been like that since our mom died.”
“Except we both know she hasn’t worked things out.” And, to be honest, neither had Nate. “She’s angry at me for showing up without calling ahead.”
“Is that the real reason you came here? To get an answer for why she broke up with you?”
“I came to check on Samantha.”
“And for closure.”
“I’m over Ronnie,” he insisted.
Frankie pushed off the counter. “Okay. If that’s what you say.”
She didn’t believe him. Then again, she was hardly the only one.
Together they made quick work of the remaining dishes, both of them giving the subject of Ronnie a rest.
When they were done, Nate asked, “Are any ranches in the area hiring? Short-term, if possible. And with weekends off. This weekend, anyway. I’m going to the rodeo with Sam and Ronnie.”
“I don’t know of any. Spence would have a better idea. Though, you could always head into town and stop by the Poco Dinero Bar and Grill. Ranch hands regularly hang out there. Buy one of them a beer and get them talking.”
It was a good idea. “Thanks for the tip,” Nate said. “And for letting me park my truck and trailer. I promise not to get in the way.”
“No problem.”
“Dinner was great.” He checked the time on his phone and grabbed his cowboy hat from where it hung on the back of the chair. “I can see myself out.”
“Breakfast is at six.”
“I’ve got food in the camper.” If a couple cans of pork and beans and a box of granola bars counted as food.
“Come on, Nate. You can meet Spence.”
“We’ll see.”
She didn’t insist, and he headed out the front door to where he’d parked his truck. A drive down the main street quickly brought him to his destination, easy to find from the glowing neon signs in the window and busy parking lot.
What Frankie had predicted was true. Even on a Tuesday, the Poco Dinero boasted a fair-size crowd. Though the small stage—home to whatever band played on the weekend—was empty, a middle-aged couple shuffled across the dance floor, their steps in time to music coming from the jukebox. Small posters on each wall announced the soon to be completed recreational rodeo arena and a website for interested parties to check out the details.
Regulars sat at the polished mahogany bar, swigging their beer or whiskey, exchanging stories and occasionally checking the score of the basketball game playing on the wall-mounted TV. A second couple snuggled in the booth. A group of four men occupied a table and loudly bickered about politics and its effect on the price of cattle.
No one paid Nate much attention until he claimed the only empty stool at the bar.
His neighbor, an elderly gentleman with graying whiskers, turned and offered a friendly greeting. “A bit nippy out there.”
Nate unbuttoned his jacket and slung it over the bar stool before sitting. “You can say that again.”
The bartender, a small, whip-thin gal with the telltale signs of a hard life spent serving drinks either at this bar or one just like it, sidled over to take his order. Fifteen seconds later, a longneck beer was placed before him and money exchanged.
Noticing the older man’s gaze returning to the basketball game, Nate said, “Suns might actually win this one.”
“If their defense doesn’t fall apart in the last five minutes.”
He wore the clothes of a ranch hand but, from his age, Nate figured him to be retired. That didn’t discount him as a source of information. In fact, he might know more than most.
“What brings you to Mustang Valley?” the man asked, lifting a glass tumbler to his lips. His hand visibly shook.
Nate was immediately reminded of his late brother, Allan, though this man almost certainly didn’t suffer from cystic fibrosis. And his brother’s hands had shaken only near the end and when he was especially fatigued. Yet, there was an undeniable similarity. Nate would bet money this man suffered from some health issue.
“A favor for a family friend,” he answered. “But at the moment, I’m looking for work. Have you heard if any of the ranches in the area are hiring? I’m a pretty good cow wrangler. I’m also a decent handyman and have worked construction off and on.”
“Check out The Small Change,” the man offered. “Northeast of town. Ask for the owner, Theo McGraw. He might have an opening for a wrangler or a handyman.”
“Appreciate it.”
By then, the bartender sidled over. “Either of you boys ready for another round?”
Nate shook his head. “I’m good for now.”
The older man raised his glass, the melting ice cubes tinkling from his shaking hand. “When you have a second, Bess.”
“Coming right up, Theo.”
Nate turned and stared at him. “Theo? As in Theo McGraw?”
“This here’s the owner of The Small Change,” Bess said. “Biggest cattle ranch in the valley.”
“I do believe I’ve just been played.” Nate tipped his bottle of beer at Theo, who grinned in return.
“The invitation to drop by still stands.”
The bartender returned with Theo’s drink. As if it were an afterthought, she paused to study Nate. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.” He was often recognized by people familiar with rodeo. These days, he didn’t supply his name in case someone asked what the hell had happened to his career. He didn’t like admitting it had suffered a slow, painful death.
“Give me a second.” She wagged a finger at him and squinted her eyes.
He attempted to distract her. “I’ve been here before. But it was years ago.”
“Well, I’ll be!” The woman beamed as recognition dawned. “You’re Nate Truett.”
Her announcement also got the attention of several people sitting at the bar, including Theo McGraw.
“The Nate Truett?” he asked.