Come Home, Cowboy. Cathy McDavid
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face. “Using a cell phone to track fence breaks. What would Grandpa think?”
“He’d probably have himself a good laugh.”
By Grandpa, Cole referred to their mother’s father. They knew hardly anyone on their father’s side of the family save Gabe, and him only since the death of their father.
How much their lives had changed in the past two months. Especially the past year, for Josh. First, he divorced his ex, followed by a lengthy and expensive custody battle over his two-year-old son and nine-month-old daughter. He was leaving soon to pick them up and bring them back to Dos Estrellas. He wasn’t returning to the circuit.
He was trading one career for another, that of pro rodeo cowboy for cattle rancher. Never had he thought he’d follow in his father’s footsteps or once again live at Dos Estrellas.
His gaze strayed to the ranch house and outbuildings, which appeared small from this distance. Smoke rising in a lazy curl from the chimney and a tractor driving across the open area lent the scene a charming, country feel.
Josh experienced a tug on his heartstrings. Odd. He wasn’t the sentimental sort, certainly not about this place.
“Do you remember living here at all?” he asked Cole.
“Barely.” Cole, too, stared at the ranch. “We shared a room. With bunk beds. I can remember being jealous because Mom let you have the top bunk.”
Josh remembered, too. It was the room Cara now occupied. He and Cole were staying in a guest suite that had been added to the main house about ten years ago. Once Josh returned with the kids, he’d occupy the apartment above the horse stable. It was Raquel’s idea, and Josh appreciated it. That way, Cole could keep the guest suite and the kids wouldn’t wake up the entire household with their crying.
“We had a pony,” Josh said.
“Thunder.” Cole smiled. The memory must not have haunted him like most of the others from when they lived with their father. “You tried to rope a cow from him.”
Josh also smiled. He’d been six at the time. “No trying about it. I did rope a cow.”
“And, if I recall correctly, you got jerked clean out of the saddle and dragged across the pasture.”
Josh chuckled. “After Dad rescued me and cleaned me up, he hollered at me for a full twenty minutes until my ears rang.”
“Figures.” Cole’s mood changed in an instant. “Parenting wasn’t his strong suit.”
“Actually, I think he was scared. It was a pretty foolhardy stunt. I was lucky to wind up with no more than a few cuts and bruises.” Josh didn’t often defend his father. Funny that he did now. Being a father himself had given him a new perspective.
“I guess.” Cole shrugged.
“It wasn’t all bad when we lived here.” Josh pocketed his phone and mounted Wanderer. Once in the saddle, he surveyed their surroundings. Beyond the ranch house lay the quaint community of Mustang Valley, with its equestrian trails and green belt park at its center. To the south, the striking McDowell Mountains shimmered tans, browns and gold in the midafternoon sun. “I could pick a worse spot to raise the kids.”
Cole sent Josh an arch look before hauling himself up into the saddle. “Are you ready for fatherhood?”
“I’ve been a father for almost three years.”
“Yeah, and you’ve spent maybe one of those years with the rug rats.”
Partially Josh’s fault, as a rodeo man was on the road a lot. But partially his ex-wife’s fault, too. Twice she’d taken off with the children for weeks at a stretch without telling Josh where they’d gone. Twice he’d hired a private investigator and tracked them down.
Her actions had gone a long way in convincing the judge that Josh deserved full custody, as well as her acute drug addiction. She’d recently completed a third stint in rehab and was moving into a halfway house for the foreseeable future. If she remained in the program and stayed sober for three straight months, Josh had agreed to supervised visitation.
For now, the children were staying with his former in-laws, having a last visit with them and Josh’s ex before he assumed custody. His former in-laws’ promise to watch his children carefully was the main reason he’d agreed to the stay. That, and his respect and affection for them. They loved their grandchildren and hated the mess their daughter’s addiction had made of everyone’s lives as much as Josh did.
“We’re done here.” He turned Wanderer’s head toward the ranch and pushed the horse into a jog. Thinking of his ex-wife soured his mood as much as thinking of their late father did Cole’s. “Let’s get back—” He almost said “home,” but stopped himself at the last second.
“Why the hurry?”
“I want to talk to Cara.”
“What about?”
They rode along the narrow trail. Josh had to speak over his shoulder to be heard.
“She had a small dead-broke gelding that would make a good horse for the kids.” He didn’t mention the black, deciding to keep that piece of news to himself.
“Look, I admit I know squat about kids, but aren’t they a little young to ride?”
“Nathan’s almost three.” True, baby Kimberly wasn’t walking yet, but she would at some point. “We were that age when Dad started us riding.”
It was probably the only thing their parents hadn’t argued about. Coming from a rodeo family, their mother had loved riding as much as their father and encouraged her sons from an early age. She hadn’t yelled at Josh after he’d hurt himself roping the cow. Instead, she’d gone out the next day and bought him his first real lariat.
“You sure you just don’t want to see Violet?” Cole flashed Josh a sly grin. “She’s due back from the grain supplier about this time.”
For some reason, Cole and Gabe believed Josh was interested in the livestock manager. Not that Violet wasn’t pretty, and Josh did like her. As a friend. Nothing more.
Nonetheless, he didn’t correct his brother. The same uncertainty that had him keeping his interest in the black mustang to himself also made him keep his fascination with Cara a secret. Cole might not appreciate Josh’s plan to get to know Cara better. Then again, Cara might not appreciate it, either.
No matter. He was determined. Josh hadn’t successfully competed at a championship level the past twelve years because he gave up quickly. Cara, he’d begun to suspect, was worth the effort.
* * *
USING THE POCKETKNIFE she always carried, Cara sliced through the twine binding a bale of hay. With practiced ease, she yanked the twine loose, then quickly wound it into a small ball, which she tossed into the bed of the pickup truck with all the rest.
Next she grabbed four flakes of hay and tossed them into the feeder. Dust and tiny particles swirled in the air, and she wiped her nose on her jacket sleeve, banishing the tickle. More flakes followed until the entire bale was gone and the feeder overflowing.
That done, she moved to the next one. Twenty bales for this trip. She alone had loaded them onto the flatbed trailer and driven the pickup and trailer across two miles of pastureland to the mustang sanctuary.
An old cattle barn sat at the center of the sanctuary. With the help of volunteers, Cara had converted the structure into a feeding station that, as it turned out, was seldom used. Then came the drought. With grass in short supply, Cara now made the trek three times a week, loading hay purchased with their donated money into the dozen metal feeders—a gift to the sanctuary from an elderly woman who retired last year and sold off her ranch.
Cara continued stuffing the feeders full of hay, looking at her audience every few minutes. Nearly half of the sanctuary’s two hundred mustangs surrounded the cattle barn,