The Comeback Cowboy. Cathy Mcdavid
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good at spotting what a person’s doing wrong. Me included.”
She knitted her brows in confusion. “I didn’t notice you doing anything wrong.”
“Maybe not exactly. But the exercise helped me understand some things about myself. Things that need fixing.”
“Not many competitors at your level would admit to that. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I’m usually thickheaded. A good suggestion could be driving a Mack truck straight at me, and I’d ignore it.”
“I’ll remember that next time.”
He moved closer. “I just wanted was to thank you for the help.”
“You’re welcome.” She worried that he was going to take her hand again. Relief flooded her when he didn’t. One intimate encounter was more than she could handle. “Have a productive remainder of your day, Mr. Boudeau.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to pick your brain sometime when you have a minute.”
She debated refusing his request. In the end, she decided to grant it. He was a paying guest, after all, and part of the fees they charged entitled students to “pick her brain,” as he said.
“I’m heading over to check on one of our expectant mares. You can come with me if you like.”
His dark eyes, arresting to begin with, lit up. “I would.”
“I’m not keeping you from anything important, am I?”
He fell step in beside her. “Only the horde of adoring female fans waiting for me in the lobby.”
She momentarily faltered. “If you have to go…”
“I’m kidding.” He flashed her his heart-stopping grin.
It appeared she was just as gullible as him.
He surprised her during their walk with the questions he asked, which were detailed and thought provoking. Did tie-down straps really help horses stop faster, or hinder them? How did she feel about the new Professional Cowboy Association regulations, and did they affect her teaching methods? What kind of personal fitness regime, if any, did she recommend for her students?
More than once, Adele found herself examining the techniques of roping from a different and enlightening perspective.
“Here’s where Pop and I keep our private stock,” she told Ty when they entered the smallest of the ranch’s three barns. At the end of the aisle, they came to a double-wide stall separated from the other horses by twenty feet and a six-foot wall.
“And this is Crackers,” Adele said by way of introduction.
Upon seeing her, the heavily pregnant mare nickered softly and lumbered over from the corner where she’d been standing, to hang her shaggy head over the stall door.
Adele stroked the animal’s neck. “She was my first barrel-racing horse. Gosh, was that really fourteen years ago?”
“Did you compete professionally?” Ty asked. He stood beside her, his elbow propped on the stall door.
“A little in college.”
“Any good?”
“All right.”
“Why’d you quit?”
She absently combed her fingers through Crackers’s mane. “I came here after graduation to help Pop with the ranch. He’d turned seventy, and his arthritis was getting bad. He needed help, and I needed a job.” She didn’t mention her grandmother’s death. “I’ve always loved Seven Cedars, and spent a lot of time here when I was growing up.”
“Did your parents rodeo?”
“My dad. Though he never did all that well, and moved to Texas years ago. My mom traveled the rodeo circuit considerably longer than Dad, but not to compete.”
Adele didn’t elaborate. Despite Ty’s friendliness, she wasn’t ready to confess that her mother had taken up with whatever cowboy would have her, dropping Adele off with her grandparents if her father wouldn’t have her. As her mother aged and her looks faded, those cowboys went from being competitors to bullfighters to stock handlers. In between men, she’d find a small place to rent for herself and Adele, but only until another man came along. For a young girl feeling unloved and unwanted, Seven Cedars became a haven in an otherwise turbulent childhood.
“So, Pop taught you to rope.”
“He was a man ahead of his time. In those days, women didn’t rope. Period.” She opened the stall door and went in to give Crackers a closer inspection.
“She looks close,” Ty observed.
“Soon.” The foal had dropped considerably in the last week, but otherwise, Crackers showed no signs of delivering. “She’s due this week.”
“Her first?”
“Second. Up until a few years ago, we used her steadily for beginner students. When her stamina began to fade, we decided to breed her.” Adele patted Crackers’s rump, then left the stall and shut the door behind her. “She’s got good lines, and she’s a good mama.”
“And she’s your first horse.”
“Pop bought her for me when I was a freshman in high school. There were always plenty of horses to ride wherever I lived, but she was the first one that was truly mine.” Latching the stall door, she met Ty’s gaze. “Cook will be serving dinner soon, and I need to get back to my office first.”
“Will I see you in the dining hall?”
“Absolutely.”
Adele made a point of sharing dinner each evening with the students, often moving from one table to another. That way, she got to know them on a more personal level. Breakfast and lunch, however, were hit-or-miss and often consumed on the run.
At the entrance to the barn, she and Ty separated, each heading to their own vehicle. Hers was parked closer, and she hesitated before climbing in, stilled by the sight of Ty striding to his truck.
It had been a very long time since Adele had met a man who gave her that uncomfortable yet deliciously thrilling feeling every time she got within ten feet of him.
She silently warned herself to proceed with caution. Ty Boudeau had all the makings of a heartbreaker, and as much as she might want to get to know him on a more “personal level,” she was far better off keeping her distance.
Men who spent inordinate amounts of time on the road didn’t make good husbands. It was one of the many lessons her parents’ failed marriage and her mother’s endless stream of lovers had taught Adele.
Chapter Three
Ty drove through the small town of Markton, the closest community to Cowboy College. It could hardly be described as a metropolis, but he liked its grassroots country charm, its one stoplight at the intersection of Main Street and Brown, and the way everybody waved at everybody else.
Markton was a far cry from Santa Fe, where he’d grown up. He couldn’t say lived because once he’d left home to rodeo full-time, he traveled six to nine months a year. When he needed to crash for a while, he stayed at his older sister’s place. His fifth-wheel trailer parked behind the barn was, sad to say, the closest thing he had to a permanent residence.
He drove along Main Street at the posted speed of thirty-five, enjoying his free afternoon and taking in the various sights. The Spotted Horse Saloon. The feed store. Bush’s General Store. The elementary school. The barbershop and its counterpart, Goldie’s Locks and Nail Salon.
He’d often thought he might like to settle down in a town like Markton, and as he drove through it—end to end in less than five minutes—he contemplated where to stop first.
The feed store,