Her Montana Cowboy. Valerie Hansen
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the stirrups of the barrel-racing horse he’d borrowed from Bobbi Jo’s string and scanned the onlookers for a bright blue shirt. There was no sign of the young woman.
The horse instantly reacted to his change of balance, prancing as if getting ready to race into an arena and compete.
By the time Ryan got the fractious horse under control, the riders had crossed Massey Street and were on their way out of town to the fairgrounds.
What shocked him most was his clear disappointment over losing sight of the mayor’s daughter. Try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that they would meet again.
Matter of fact, he assured himself, he would see that they did, one way or another.
* * *
Children on bikes decorated with red, white and blue crepe-paper streamers followed the main part of the parade, taking care to dodge the droppings the horses had left behind. Julie had recruited members of the local 4-H club to follow and clean the street. That was one of the jobs she’d volunteered for years back when she was a member, and she saw no reason to abandon a tradition that helped build character.
That notion made her smile. It was her membership in 4-H and, later, Future Farmers, which had eventually led to her current career, and she was truly grateful. Raising sheep for wool was not only lucrative, it was rewarding in emotional ways. Seeing those tiny lambs struggling to their feet for the first time was akin to watching a sunrise on a summer day. Those woolly babies were a new beginning, new life, always bringing waves of joy as well as making her feel connected to the land, to nature, in a very basic way.
The rumble of an ATV approaching behind her caused Julie to step aside. It stopped next to her and the driver tipped his battered Western hat. “Howdy, Miss Julie. Like my new camo-painted Mule?”
Seeing ninety-six-year-old Rusty Zidek traveling via anything other than a horse or his dented antique Jeep struck her funny, but she managed to keep from giggling. “Hi, Rusty. I know that thing is called a Mule but it’s still a surprise to see a veteran cowhand like you behind the wheel.”
“Compliments of your daddy.” The grizzled old man’s grin crinkled his leathery skin, lifted the corners of his bushy gray mustache and exposed one gold tooth among his others. “He made me traffic manager and gave me these wheels. Pretty spiffy, huh?”
“Absolutely. We’ll need your help a lot with all the visitors in town. Parking at the fairgrounds is bound to be a nightmare.”
“Not with me in charge, it ain’t. I got me a bunch of retired yahoos with nothin’ better to do and put ’em to work directin’ traffic.”
Julie chuckled. “Good for you.”
“How’s about a ride? Or did you bring your truck?”
“No. I hitched into town with Dad so I wouldn’t add to all the extra traffic.” She stepped in and settled on the bench seat next to the bony nonagenarian. “Much obliged.”
“No problem, ma’am. Where to?”
“The picnic grounds, I guess.”
Julie was sorely tempted to ask him to drop her near the encampment where some of the rodeo participants had grouped their trailers, but quickly thought better of it. Competition was scheduled to last for three weekends. There was no hurry finding out who anybody was.
She huffed, then glanced at Rusty, hoping he hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t just anybody she wanted to learn more about. It was that cowboy who had smiled and winked at her during the parade.
And the first thing she’d need to learn, she reminded herself, was whether or not he was with someone, namely the gorgeous cowgirl in the pink Stetson. If he was spoken for, Julie figured she might as well go home and card wool or rake the barn. There was no way she could hope to compete with a blonde, shapely woman who looked as if she were Miss Rodeo America, or recently had been.
Man, that was a depressing thought, she countered, disgusted for having entertained it. Either she believed her life was in God’s hands or she didn’t. It was that simple. And that complicated. The hardest part of trusting her faith completely was making sure she stayed out of the Lord’s way instead of trying to figure out His plans and help them along.
Pastor Ethan Johnson was one of the few people in whom she had confided a tiny bit of frustration with her personal life because she could tell he understood. He should. New in town, he was basically in the same boat: single, eligible and determined not to be pushed into anything by well-meaning do-gooders.
Julie’s biggest problem was with her father. He wanted all his kids married and having families, as if that would help him hang on to the spirit of Jasper Gulch that was their heritage.
She had nothing against tradition. She simply wasn’t positive her dad was right about some of the notions he insisted on espousing, such as leaving the old bridge the way it was instead of improving it. For a man who had been so instrumental in putting together this six-month-long commemoration of their history, he certainly was close minded about other things.
Yeah, like who I should marry, she added with a heavy sigh. If she “accidentally” ended up in the company of Wilbur Thompson, one more time she was going to scream. Oh, Wilbur was nice enough. He was just not the man for her, no matter how successful he was or how much money he’d invested in the town via his position as bank president. No man in a three-piece suit belonged on a sheep ranch. Period.
“And I don’t belong in some fancy town house, either,” Julie muttered. She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Rusty chuckled.
“What makes you say that?”
She shrugged. “I was just thinking about Dad. I’m only twenty-four, but he acts like I’m already over the hill and keeps pushing me to marry some rich guy. If I gave in, I’d probably end up living in town and trying to be somebody I’m not. Just picturing it gives me the shivers.”
“I can sure understand that, Miss Julie. You and me, we’re a lot alike.” He laughed raucously. “If I was fifty years younger I’d propose to you myself!”
Julie joined his amusement and patted the back of his weathered, gnarled hand as it rested on the steering wheel. “Rusty, if I were fifty years older, I’d accept.”
She nearly busted up laughing when he waggled his bushy gray eyebrows at her and said, “In that case, I’d be forty-six and you’d be seventy-four. I’m afraid you’d be way too old for me.”
Chapter Two
Ryan joined Bobbi Jo at her horse trailer, took the time to properly store her saddle and bridle, then fed and watered the horses for her before following his nose and sauntering over to the picnic grounds.
Someone had covered a bunch of long wooden tables with white paper to serve as disposable tablecloths. Centerpieces displaying tiny flags, red and blue flowers and ribbons sat on each, while a bank of serving tables held enough food for the entire town, and then some.
The aroma of barbecued burgers and hot dogs mingled with that of baked beans, making his mouth water. Cold potato salad and coleslaw finished the main course, while several men were busy in a separate area slicing watermelon and offering it to the revelers filing past the dessert table.
Not one to hang out with only rodeo contestants the way most of his friends did, he freely mingled, chatting amiably as he filled a foam plate. Because he was concentrating on the food, Ryan failed to notice who happened to be dishing up coleslaw.
When his server’s hand stopped in midmotion, he looked up—and into the widest, bluest eyes he’d seen since he’d noticed the same young woman watching the parade.
He grinned at her. “Yes.”
“Um, yes what?” she asked, remaining immobile.
“Yes, I’d like some slaw and yes, I’d also like to know your name.”
She