His Favorite Cowgirl. Leigh Duncan
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of good. Like the Tompkinses’ cows, his wife had moved on to greener pastures soon after Noelle was born. He’d convinced himself, or let his ex convince him—even now he wasn’t sure which—that a good father sent his child to fancy summer camps, enrolled her in expensive private schools, gave her all the latest toys and gadgets. But the long hours Hank had spent at work meant he was a stranger to his own child. He stifled a laugh at the irony of his current situation. He’d lost the business that had earned him the big house and all the trappings of success, leaving him no choice but to build a relationship with the girl he barely knew.
At the entrance to the Bar X, Ty dismounted. Hinges in need of a good greasing squealed a sharp protest as he pushed open the gate. Hank moved the cattle through, and then held up while Ty swung the gate closed behind him. Before he latched it, the two-way radio Ty wore at his side squawked.
“Yeah,” he said into the mouthpiece. A beat passed. “He did what?” Ty’s voice rose. He tugged Ranger to one side as he reached for the chain securing the gate. “I’ll be right there,” he said at last.
Hank left the dogs to mind the cows while he turned to his friend. Beneath his Stetson, the man’s face had lost its color. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know how he managed to get up there, but Jimmy fell outta the hayloft. Sarah says he’s okay—just had the wind knocked out of him—but she wants me to come home.”
“Go. I got this.” Hank swept his hat from his head and made a shooing motion. “I’ll stop by the house when I get back. Let you know how it went with Ol’ Man Tompkins.”
Ty swung into his saddle. “Never a dull moment when there’s kids around.”
“I understand,” Hank said, though he knew he probably didn’t. He expected he would soon enough. He urged the cows down a weed-choked lane while Ty headed back the way they had come.
Thirty minutes later, Hank called out as he herded the Brahmans into the Tompkinses’ front yard. He held his breath, hoping the crotchety old coot who owned the place wouldn’t shoot him on sight. He had no desire to become the latest casualty of the long-standing feud between the two ranches. A move that wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility if the stories he’d heard at his daddy’s knee were to be believed. For longer than anyone could remember, the Tompkins and Parker families had been at each other’s throats. Legend had it the trouble began when the first owner of the Bar X had tried to dam the Kissimmee River. The move had all but shut off the Circle P’s water supply, and the Judds had stood firmly beside their employers. Only once had there been a chance for a truce, but that hope had died more than twelve years before.
Cautiously, Hank swept the area for signs of life. Except for a cat slinking around the open door to the bunkhouse, nothing moved. Hank took a closer look, frowning at tools littering the ground beside a tractor. Paint peeled from the siding of the once pristine farmhouse. A broken front step, hay spilling from the loft—there were signs of neglect everywhere he looked. He dismounted and headed for the bunkhouse, hoping to find someone to take over the job of tending Tompkinses’ cattle. But a line of empty cots stood before him when he stepped into a room that reeked of mold and mildew. He backed out, closing the door behind him.
With no ranch hands around, Hank crossed to a holding pen. He whistled, and the dogs herded the cows inside. He spotted the empty water trough, and was on his way to find a hose, when a horse trotted out from the darkened barn. The saddle on the silver gelding’s back sent an uncomfortable shimmy through Hank’s chest.
“Mr. Tompkins?” He raised his voice to a shout. “Anybody here?”
The horse wandered over and nudged his shoulder. Hank gathered the reins, which left faint trails in the dust.
“Hey there, buddy. Where’d you come from? Where’s your rider?” He ran a hand down the horse’s neck and across its withers. Relieved when he didn’t find any sign of injury, Hank patted the long jaw. He frowned at the horse’s rapid heartbeat, a sure sign of an animal in distress. “You thirsty?” he asked. Opening the gate to a pen where a mare had been turned out, he led the gelding inside. “I’ll be back to get that saddle off you in a minute,” he said. The horse snorted and trotted to the water trough.
At the entrance to the barn, the odor of stalls left too long without a good mucking stung Hank’s nose. His breath grew shallow. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he spotted pitchforks and shovels in a haphazard stack. His lips thinned. Ty would have his hide if any of the men on the Circle P left equipment lying about, but it didn’t look as if Tompkins cared.
Hank fanned the still air. Continuing to call out, he moved down the center aisle while he peered into each of the stalls. Dust motes danced in the air, but nothing else so much as twitched in answer to his shouts. He’d nearly given up on finding whoever had saddled the horse when a shaft of late afternoon sun broke through a hole in the roof. The light fell on a man’s boot.
“Damn.” Hank tugged his phone from his pocket, dialing before he took the first step. “We need an ambulance at the barn on the Bar X Ranch. Looks like Tompkins took a bad spill.”
Slipping the phone into his pocket, he hustled into the stall. “Mr. Tompkins?”
No response. He tried again. “O—” He stopped himself. The neighbor had been “Ol’ Man Tompkins” for as long as they’d known each other, but surely he’d heard the man’s Christian name. He searched his memory, eventually coming up with the right one. “Paul. Paul Tompkins. Wake up, buddy.”
Praying the old guy wasn’t dead, Hank knelt down. Rheumy blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling overhead, but the man’s leathery cheeks were warm to the touch. He pressed his fingers against Tompkins’s scrawny neck and found a pulse. A weak one, but there nonetheless. Looking for signs of obvious injuries, he studied the still figure lying on a thin layer of straw. The man’s right leg bent at an unnatural angle, and Hank sucked in air. Broken.
“Don’t try to move, Paul,” he cautioned when the rancher moaned. “Help’s on the way.”
Spit dribbled from the side of Paul’s mouth. His jaw worked. “Gaa-yee.”
“What’s that?” Hank leaned closer.
“Gaa-yee.”
The slurred word sparked an image of a teenage girl with a coltish figure. “Kelly?” Hank asked.
The old man’s blink told Hank he was on the right track. “Don’t worry,” he said, mustering his most reassuring tone. “You just lie still. I’ll make sure someone gets in touch with her.”
He would do it himself, but he’d long since deleted the number of the woman who had broken his heart. Twelve years later, he wondered if even her grandfather’s fall would be enough to bring Kelly Tompkins home again.
* * *
FUELED BY A combination of truck-stop coffee and fear, Kelly Tompkins rounded the corner by the elevators. Nurses in turquoise scrubs and doctors in white coats filled the hall with entirely too much laughter for seven in the morning. Kelly waited until the group disappeared into the hospital cafeteria. Her empty stomach growled, but she headed in the opposite direction. There would be plenty of time to eat, comb her hair or wash up...after. Following the signs for patient rooms, she plunged through a set of swinging doors and stepped into the wing where the receptionist said she’d find her grandfather.
If he’s lasted through the night.
The heels of her boots sent sharp echoes bouncing off the bare green walls. An aide in a uniform the color of cotton candy pushed an empty wheelchair past the nurses’ station. At the far end of the hall, cafeteria workers grabbed breakfast trays from a tall cart. A strong antiseptic odor mingled with the scent of powdered eggs and burned coffee. Kelly pinched her nose, shutting out the acrid smells.
One hundred ten...one hundred fourteen...one hundred twenty. The door to room one twenty-two was closed, and she froze, suddenly uncertain if she dared go inside despite all it had taken to get there. What