No Ordinary Cowboy. Mary Sullivan
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The vibration of the herd’s frenetic motion rumbled through the truck. Leaning forward, Amy peered through the dust, trying to spot more children. Each one reflected that same joyous expression.
With her hands pressing hard on her thighs, Amy forced herself to calm down.
She turned to Hank to apologize, but the words froze on her tongue. He was resting his forearms on the steering wheel, his body straining forward. His eyes followed every bit of the action.
He wants to be out there in the thick of it all.
“Do you ever do this with the kids?” she asked.
He fell back against the seat and straightened his hat on his head.
“Yeah. We take turns going on the overnight trips. I’ll do the next batch of kids who come to the ranch. Just the older ones.”
He pinned her with a piercing look. “When you first got here this morning, I thought you didn’t like the kids.”
She didn’t answer. How could she ever make him understand how deeply her fears ran? How hard it was for her to care for people she might lose?
“Now I’m thinking maybe you’re afraid of them,” he continued. “Or afraid for them.”
The man saw too much. He leaned against his door and studied her. The cab of the truck became a cocoon, enveloping Amy in a potent blend of fright, compassion and a desire to confess.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. “My father died when I was fourteen. In front of me. Heart attack. I couldn’t save him.”
She stared out the window and swallowed hard. “It left me terrified of bad things happening to people.” She’d never discussed this phobia with anyone before.
“All right,” Hank said. “I can understand that.”
She had no doubt that he could.
The cowboy with the excited boy on his lap rode up to the truck, on Amy’s side. He leaned down from his horse and pressed his hand into Amy’s.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Matt.” He had a smile that could dazzle, and he knew it.
“I’m Amy,” she said.
Hank said, “Matt,” and his dry tone had Matt looking at him then laughing, as if he knew a secret about Hank.
Matt said, “This here’s Davey.”
Amy smiled at the boy. They smelled like hay and horses and a touch of manure. Matt’s horse whinnied, clearly wanting to get back to work, but Matt held him steady.
“You here for the day?” Matt asked.
“No,” Amy said. “I’m here for the rest of the week. At the Sheltering Arms.”
“Well, then, I’ll be seeing you in a couple of days.” He doffed his hat and nodded. “How ’bout we get to know each other better then?”
He turned his horse and rode away.
Matt wasn’t her type at all, but she gave him points for trying.
Putting the truck into gear, Hank headed in a direction Amy guessed would take them to the Sheltering Arms.
The practical accountant in her broke the silence. “You know you’re just asking for a lawsuit if one of those kids gets hurt.”
“They won’t.”
“What if one of them does? Any of those children could get sick again. Are you qualified to deal with that?”
“Uh-huh. We all have first-aid training.”
“I think it should go further than that. Some of those children must still be taking medications. I would almost want to see a nurse living at the ranch.”
“There is a full-time nurse at the ranch,” Hank said, a sly glimmer of humor in his eyes.
“Who?”
“Hannah.” Hank grinned.
“The housekeeper?” Amy spluttered.
“Yup. She offered to train when I decided to bring children to the ranch fifteen years ago.”
Okay, that surprised her. Hannah probably already had a heavy load to carry running that house, yet she cared enough to become a nurse.
Amy had to stop underestimating these people.
“You got to understand what’s important here.” He pulled his gaze away from the field in front of them. “The kids are what’s important, and giving them the fullest experience here they can possibly have.”
He faced forward again. “Because they deserve it after all they’ve lived through.”
With those words, a heaviness hung in the air between them.
“Why did you turn the ranch into a place for cancer survivors?” she asked.
“I—” Hank’s face was suddenly neutral, as unresponsive as Amy had seen it.
She held her breath.
“I had a son. He died of leukemia when he was two.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Dear God, his son. His son. “So sorry.”
He whispered one word, little more than a sigh, but she was pretty sure it was “Jamie.”
She hitched a breath. Knowing his name made the child too real to her.
Swallowing her cowardice, she asked, “Do you want to talk about him?” And prayed that he wouldn’t.
He shook his head.
Her relief stunned her. She couldn’t imagine his pain, didn’t know what to say. She remained silent for the rest of the ride home.
As they neared the house, she stole a glimpse at him. His jaw was hard, his mouth thin. Then he saw the children on the veranda. The sight smoothed the worry lines from his brow, softened his full lips, turned up the corners of his mouth.
When they parked, the younger children ran across the lawn to greet him. Four of them crowded his door.
“Hey, back up, hooligans,” Hank said, back to his cheerful self, as if the children gave him a deeper perspective on life. It was clear they set everything into place in Hank’s world.
Amy stared at him, amazed by the change.
“How’s a cowboy supposed ta get out of his truck?” he asked, using the fake cowboy accent she’d noticed he put on for the kids.
When Amy stepped out on the passenger side, the solemn young girl stood waiting for her, her eyes big. She placed her hand into one of Amy’s and held on.
As though Amy’s fingers had a mind of their own, they curled around the tiny hand. Amy stared down at her and swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay put. Such honest trust, given so freely.
As they walked around the front of the pickup, Amy wondered what on earth the child saw in her that made her want to get close. Amy had so little to offer others these days.
She wanted to tell the girl not to depend on her, that Amy didn’t get close to people.
She looked away, unable to withstand the child’s intense gaze. And yet she still held her hand.
Hank lifted a small girl and threw her above his head into the air. Amy gasped, but Hank caught the giggling child on the way down.
“Do me, Hank. Do me,” begged a young boy with skin the color of coffee with cream. Hank tossed the boy into the air and his biceps bulged against the plaid cotton of his shirtsleeves.
He threw every child into the air who asked for it, as many times as they asked. Even when the underarms of his shirt showed big damp circles and a sheen of sweat coated