Her Montana Cowboy. Valerie Hansen
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her.
Was that why she’d met Ryan Travers? Was she supposed to minister to him? Or was she simply so enamored of this particular man that she was inventing reasons to hang around him? If her former, elderly minister, Pastor Peters, was still around, she could ask him without embarrassment. The new clergyman, Ethan Johnson, was another matter. Not that she didn’t trust him to keep the few confidences she’d already shared. She was simply shy about baring her most intimate thoughts to a person she hardly knew.
Nevertheless, Julie reasoned, there was plenty of scripture that explained how to approach a skeptic. And since Ryan Travers sounded disillusioned more than unbelieving, she already had a foundation upon which she could build.
Assured, she hurried to join her father and the local dignitaries, who were about to unearth the time capsule. Guesses about what it contained had been floating around town for months. It would be interesting to see how many of them were right. Plus, her dad had invited the press, not to mention a TV crew from Bozeman that was doing a live remote broadcast of the unearthing of the capsule before moving on to cover the rodeo action. This was the biggest party Jasper Gulch had ever hosted, and it promised to make the news all across Montana.
The old bandstand had been repaired and repainted so many times its floor rippled and the stairs leading up to the main stage had depressions worn in the center of each step. Overcome with nostalgia, Julie envisioned a community orchestra playing a waltz and finely dressed couples from just after the turn of the twentieth century dancing on the grass where groups of people now milled around in anticipation.
Julie joined her family in a row of folding chairs onstage. Everybody was there. Her mother, Nadine, was straightening Jackson Shaw’s string tie. All three of her brothers, Cord, Austin and Adam, were grouped together, chatting privately while waiting for the speeches to begin.
Faith waved gaily and patted an empty chair. “Over here. I saved you a seat.”
Trying to appear unruffled, Julie fought to catch her breath. “Thanks. I was afraid I’d be late.”
“Oh? Where were you? As if I didn’t know.”
Warmth crept up her neck. Julie knew her cheeks had to be flaming. “I was eating.”
“I saw. How did you manage to displace the barrel racer? She was with the rest of the riders, the way your new friend was supposed to be.”
“I guess Ryan is more of a loner,” Julie said with what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug.
“Didn’t look that alone to me. You two were sure having a long conversation. So spill. What did you learn about him?”
“Um, not a lot. He’s been riding professionally since he was a teenager and specializes in the three rough-stock events.”
“Where does he come from and where does he live when he’s not traveling? Who’s his family? Are his parents living? What’s his ranking so far this year?”
Julie’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t ask.”
“Then what in the world did you find to talk about?”
“Sheep, mostly.”
Faith rolled her eyes. “Well, you can probably cross that cowboy off your list. I can’t imagine anybody being as enamored of fleeces as you are.”
“He seemed interested.”
Cocking her head to gesture without drawing undue attention, Faith indicated a portly, well-dressed businessman mounting the steps to join the people already assembled on the bandstand. “Wilbur acts that way, too, when he’s trying to impress you.”
“That’s only because he gave up on you. I thought Dad was going to explode when you turned the guy down flat.”
“I do have my moments of lucidity.” Faith giggled. “Poor guy. I know he tries.”
“Who? Dad or Wilbur?” Julie gave the banker the once-over. He had pudgy cheeks to match his expanding girth and so little hair that he’d combed it in a style that made it stick to his forehead as if he thought bystanders would be fooled into thinking he had more hair.
“Definitely poor Wilbur,” Faith said.
“I know. He reminds me of that English teacher we used to have in high school. The one with the nervous tic.”
Faith chuckled. “I remember. And you’re right. Mr. Thompson does kind of resemble him.”
“You do realize, don’t you, that if I keep turning down Wilbur’s social invitations, Dad may decide he’s the right man for you after all? You are older.”
“Perish the thought. I suppose he’ll make a great husband for somebody, but he’s not my type.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Julie brightened. “Hey, maybe you should reconsider. Wilbur might build you a music room if you married him.”
“I’d rather play on a city sidewalk and let people throw coins into my violin case than marry somebody for money. As far as I’m concerned, my music is my life.”
“A violin won’t keep your feet warm in the winter,” Julie teased.
“I suppose you think I should get an Australian shepherd like yours.”
“It beats accepting a man our father has picked out for us. Besides, you could do worse. Cowboy Dan is a great dog.”
Faith was smiling and shaking her head. “You always were a sucker for animals, Julie. You’ve brought home critters ever since you were little. It’s no wonder you like to hang out with sheep and sheepdogs.”
“They accept me just as I am,” Julie countered. “And they never, ever try to guilt me into dating and marriage. What’s not to love about that?”
All Faith said was “Amen, sister,” leaving Julie smiling behind her hand and hoping their father didn’t notice her lack of decorum as he began his speech.
* * *
Ryan chose to meander around the fairgrounds, getting his bearings and greeting old friends from prior rodeos before heading for the bandstand. The mayor’s oratory was not high on his bucket list, nor was he willing to stand around wasting time when he could be sizing up the livestock on which he made his living.
Only one thing drew him to the bandstand. Julie had told him she’d be there, making a command performance, and he wanted to see her again.
Why?
Good question, he asked himself and answered. She wasn’t like most of the women he met in his travels. Matter of fact, she was so different, so open and honest, she’d made quite an impression on his jaded attitude about buckle bunnies. That term for the female groupies who frequented rodeos made him smile. He always kept his clothing pure Western and shunned the ornate silver and gold buckles he’d accumulated as prizes, rather than wear them as badges of honor. Every ride was another chance to prove himself to the judges and the fans. It wasn’t necessary to brag about his prowess by donning an enormous gaudy oval emblem at his waist.
“Besides,” Ryan said aloud, “broncs and bulls don’t know the difference or care how many events I’ve won. They just want to buck me off.”
Which was why he should be back at the stock pens taking another look at the caliber of animals he’d draw from later today. And he’d go soon, he promised himself.
Right now, the focus of the crowd seemed to be shifting. People onstage were getting to their feet, and it looked as if Julie was about to accompany the mayor and his delegation to wherever their ancestors had buried the time capsule.
As Ryan observed the area, he noted a black-and-white poster displayed on an easel. It was a fuzzy blowup of an old, damaged sepia photograph. Five men in dark suits, cowboy boots and bowler hats were leaning on shovels and grinning at the camera. Behind them was the same bandstand that still stood, but the nearby trees were a lot smaller. He judged the wooden box in