The Prodigal Cowboy

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“Not so far.” Bella looked at him quizzically. “Funny. I never thought of you as a cowboy.”

“How did you think of me?”

“It wasn’t easy. I had to deal with a certain mental block. But look at you now. You’ve got the boots, the Wrangler jeans, the hat.” She smiled. “That hat looks as though it could tell some campfire stories.”

He tapped her arm with his hat. “You’re keeping me in suspense here, woman. My ego ain’t what it used to be. But I’ll tell you what. After the rodeo, I’ll take you dancing.”

“Oh, that’s a real incentive. You know how long I’ve avoided dancing?” He cocked an eyebrow, and she nodded. “Yes. That long.”

“The wait is finally over, baby. Wolf Track is back.”

Dear Reader,

Throughout the time I’ve been working on my “Double D Wild Horse Sanctuary” series of books, I’ve been looking forward to creating Ethan Wolf Track’s story. I love a good bad boy, and that’s exactly who Ethan is. He’s been in touch with his brother, rodeo cowboy Trace Wolf Track, and he ran into his father, Logan, at the Double D. But his relationship with Logan has been strained in recent years. Sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, this hometown hero has become a man apart from family and friends.

But at least one of his old friends hasn’t forgotten him. Bella Primeaux was a smart, shy, high-school underclassman when she last saw Ethan, and she’s the first to admit she had a secret crush on him. But carrying a torch was never her style. Now that Ethan’s a free man and Bella an independent professional woman—a local celebrity as a TV news reporter—what could they possibly have in common?

South Dakota is one of my favorite settings. It’s where I met my husband. It’s a place where the sky is so big and powerful it takes your breath away. It’s a land so vast, so nearly natural, that freedom would seem to reign. But freedom can sometimes be an elusive dream, and without love the dream can feel hollow. A good bad boy is bound to keep his feelings to himself.

Until the right woman comes along.

Please visit me on Facebook and on Riding With The Top Down, my blog on Wordpress. Enjoy the ride!

All my best wishes,

Kathleen Eagle

About the Author

KATHLEEN EAGLE published her first book, a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award winner, with Mills & Boon® in 1984. Since then, she has published more than forty books, including historical and contemporary, series and single title, earning her nearly every award in the industry. Her books have consistently appeared on regional and national bestseller lists, including the USA TODAY list and the New York Times extended bestseller list.

Kathleen lives in Minnesota with her husband, who is Lakota Sioux. They have three grown children and three lively grandchildren.

The Prodigal Cowboy

Kathleen Eagle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For All My Relatives

Chapter One

“Looks like he ain’t coming.”

Bella Primeaux glanced up from the news report on her smartphone display. The cowboy claiming the next bar stool was half-shot and full-ugly. She didn’t know him, wasn’t interested in knowing him, and there was no point in sparing him more than a glance. She pressed her elbows against the bar and swiveled two inches to the right, turning a cold left shoulder.

“What’s that you’re drinkin’?”

Bella glanced right. Another one was moving in. She was book-ended by Crude and Rude. Experience told her that if they got no satisfaction, their type would go away.

“What does that look like to you, Loop?” the one on the right asked the one on the left. “Seven and seven?”

Loop? Bella swallowed the urge to laugh. She’d interviewed a rodeo cowboy named Rope who’d given a shout out to his brother Cash and his friend Spur. But Loop?

“Looks like tea.” Loop was perceptive.

“Is that some of that Long Island iced tea? You wanna try some, Loop?” Rude signaled the bartender. “Bring us three more of these.”

“Lemme try hers first,” Loop said as he reached for Bella’s glass from the left.

She slipped her phone into the woolen sack that hung over her shoulder on a braided cord. He could have her drink. She was leaving anyway.

“Is it whiskey and tea?” Loop sniffed, slurped and slammed the glass on the bar. “It’s just tea.”

“And it’s yours now, Loopy,” said a newcomer to the growing group.

Bella turned to her left, and her glance traveled quickly over the glass in the one called Loopy’s grubby hand, past the full-ugly face to a faintly familiar one that loomed in the shadows above Loopy’s cowboy hat. Familiar, fine looking, and frankly unsettling. It had been years since she’d seen the man, but he wore the years as well as his own straw cowboy hat. Surprising, considering where he’d spent the last couple of those years. His hat was battered, and his jeans and T-shirt had seen better days, but he made them look camera ready. She’d lost what little touch she’d had with high school friends, and Ethan Wolf Track was no exception, but she’d never quite shaken her interest in what he was up to. Generally it was no good.

But his smile was as disarming as ever.

“Sorry I’m late, Bella.”

Loopy peeked over his shoulder and then turned back to Bella with a whole new brand of interest in his glazed eyes. “Why didn’t you just say you were with Ethan Wolf Track? Hell, man, we were just—”

“Long Island iced tea all around. Loopy’s buying.” Ethan’s hand appeared on Loopy’s shoulder. “Right, man?”

“It’s just tea. There’s no whiskey,” Loop said.

“Long Island iced tea isn’t made with whiskey or tea.” Ethan jiggled his hand rest. “You been living under a rock, Loopy?”

“Same as you.”

“Nah, look at the difference.” Ethan laid his hand on the bar beside Loopy’s. “You need to get yourself some sun, boy.”

Bella glanced between the two faces. The “boy” couldn’t have been any younger than the man, but he didn’t take exception. Ethan was still the man. The memory of a younger but no less commanding Ethan letting the boys know who was boss flashed through her mind.

“Iced tea for two,” the bartender announced, landing the glasses on the bar with a thunk. “As for the other two, you want another beer? It’s the same price as tea.”

“No beer for these horses, Willie,” Ethan said as he claimed both glasses. “Tricky, ain’t it, Loopy? Pullin’ the wagon and riding it, too?”

“You got your parole officer, I got mine. Far as I’m concerned, beer don’t count,” Loopy grumbled. “And it’s Toby. That’s a Toby Keith song, ‘Beer For My Horses.’”

“Not without Willie,” Ethan said as he glanced at Bella and gave a nod toward a corner booth. “Not on my wagon.”

Bella was off the bar stool, but she wasn’t looking for a booth, and the man and his boys could do what they pleased with their wagon. She wouldn’t be vying for a parking spot at the Hitching Post. She’d already crossed the place off her list of possible sites for her report on Rapid City’s hottest singles’ hangouts.

“Would you rather go someplace else?” Ethan asked her quietly.

She looked up, taken by the change in his tone. He was speaking for her benefit alone, and he sounded sincere, even hopeful. Tension drained from her shoulders as she shook her head. “We can catch up right here.”

As she neared the high-backed booth, she saw a big book lying open on the far side of the table beside a cup half-filled with black coffee. She slid into the near side, her back to the room.

“Looks like he ain’t comin’,” she drawled as she checked her watch.

“Maybe he’s still working on his story.” He set his glass on the table and dropped his hand over the book, which he closed, swept off the table and deposited on the seat beside him in one quick motion. His eyes danced. “Better be a good one, huh?”

She shrugged, subtly acknowledging that he was playing along. “You were here all along. All I saw was the hat.”

“It serves many purposes.” He pulled down on the brim, shadowing all but the generous lips and their slight smile.

“I’m surprised you remember me.”

“I watch TV.”

“So … you don’t actually remember me.”

“Really took me back when I saw you sitting on that bar stool. You sat in front of me in—what class was it? English?”

“History.”

“History. Don’t remember any names or dates, but I never forget a woman’s back. You have a small—” he hooked his hand over his shoulder and touched a spot near the base of his neck “—beauty mark right here.”

“Beauty mark?” She laughed. “It’s called a mole.”

“Not in my book.”

“Which book is that?” She wondered about the one he was sharing his seat with.

“History. My favorite class. Liked it so much, I took it twice.” He dropped his hand to the seat as he leaned back, grinning. She imagined him patting that book as though he wanted to keep a pet quiet. “You were there the second time around.”

“No wonder you had all the answers. You’d already heard the questions.”

“I didn’t hear anything the first time.” He leaned closer, getting into the reminiscence. “We did a project together. Remember?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it. You still owe me.”

“I do?”

“I bought all the materials. Actually, I did all the work. You were going to come to my house the night before it was due, but you never showed up.”

“Forgot about that part.” He arched an eyebrow and cast a pointed glance at her watch. “How do you keep getting mixed up with guys like that?”

“I’m not meeting anyone,” she confessed.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” He pulled a dramatic grimace as he glanced past her.

She shrugged. “Checking the place out.”

“For what? This ain’t no singles’ bar, woman. This is a hole in the wall.”

“Maybe I’m not single. Maybe I’m here doing my job.” She gave herself a second to rein in her rising tone. “And maybe I didn’t need to be rescued.”

“In the old days, you wouldn’t’ve said maybe. Once you got to talkin’, you were as sure and self-determined as any girl I ever met.” He gave her the no-bull eye. “I don’t know about the rest, but you’re not married.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m single.”

“I think it does.” He took a drink of his tea, then looked at her again. “So how much do I owe you for labor and materials?”

“Since it was a required class, I think you owe me your diploma.”

“I showed up for the report. I had all the facts and figures. Hell, we got an A, didn’t we? Can’t do any better than that.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to come up with something else. You sure don’t need my diploma.”

“And you sure have a better memory than you first let on.” She gave a tight smile. “I guess we can call it even. Being Ethan Wolf Track’s history project partner raised my lowly underclass social status a notch.”

“What were you, a sophomore?”

She shook her head.

“Freshman?”

She smiled and nodded.

“How did you get into that class as a freshman, for God’s sake?”

“I took a test. Actually, I took several. They had a hard time coming up with a schedule for me.” She lifted one shoulder. He had his muscles, she had her brain. “And you were a senior and the captain of everything.”

“You were smart. It didn’t take a test to figure that out. You were goin’ places.” He glanced around the room. “Better places than this.”

“I go where the story is. Or where we think it might be.” She tested out a coy look as she sipped her tea. “Stay tuned.”

“Do me a favor. Give me a heads-up if this place is gonna be raided. I try to stay out of trouble these days.”

“By doing what?”

“I guess you could say I’m a cowboy.”

“Like your brother?”

“Not a rodeo cowboy like Trace. A working cowboy. A ranch hand. I work for the Square One Ranch.”

She had no idea where that was, but he seemed to think the name of the place spoke for itself, so she made her usual mental note. Find out. It could lead to something.

“So you’re one of a dying breed,” she said. “I did a story on a guy who calls himself a cowboy for hire. He says he has more work than he can handle. Do you ride a horse or an ATV?”

“What’s an ATV?”

“All terrain …” She caught the smile in his eyes. “You know, vehicle.”

“Those kid toys? Couldn’t call myself a cowboy if I rode one of those things. Hell, I was raised by Logan Wolf Track.”

“He trains horses, doesn’t he?”

“He does, and so do I. I’m training a mustang right now. Entered up in a contest.” He winked at her. “Gonna win it, too.”

Déjà vu on the Wolf Track wink. She’d been on the receiving end of one or two of those babies years back, and the experience had given her the same tummy tickle that was not going to get a smile out of her now.

“You’re talking about the competition they’re running at the new Wild Horse Sanctuary near Sinte?”

“The wild horse program is pretty new, but the Double D Ranch has been there forever,” he reminded her. “I hired on for a couple of summers when I was a kid, back when old man Drexler was running it. Now it’s his daughters.”

“I know. I’ve been reading up on the place.” She took a breath, a moment’s pause. They’d been playing a circuitous game, and she’d just landed at the foot of a ladder. One person’s connections could be another person’s rungs. They could be fragile, but as a journalist, she was weightless. Most sources had no idea she’d gotten anything from them.

But Ethan Wolf Track wasn’t most sources. Sure, he’d been a source of adolescent anxiety and disappointment, but hadn’t that been his job back then? It was up to the captain of everything to teach the princess of nothing not to expect too much. Bella had always been a quick study.

Still, he owed her.

“I think it’s wonderful, the way the Drexlers have worked out a deal with the Tribe to set aside some of that remote reservation land for more sanctuary.”

The Tribe being her people and Ethan’s adoptive father’s people. Logan Wolf Track was a Lakota Sioux Tribal councilman. Ethan looked Indian, too, but she’d never asked him about his background. Everyone knew that his mother had left Logan to raise her two boys, whom he’d legally adopted—just up and left and never came back—but nobody asked too many questions. It wasn’t their way. Ethan and his older brother, Trace, were Wolf Tracks.

“Are you working on a news story?” he asked.

“I’ve been digging around.” She folded her hands around her glass and studied the two shrinking chunks of ice. “There’s definitely a story there—one that goes back a ways—but I’m looking for the details on my own. It’s not the kind of assignment I’m likely to get from KOZY-TV.”

“Why not? They don’t like mustangs?”

“They’re fine with mustangs. They don’t like digging around.”

“Isn’t that how you come up with news? Dirt sells.”

“But sleeping dogs don’t bite, and the suits at the station—such as they are here in good ol’ Rapid City, South Dakota, you know, not exactly coat and tie—they don’t want to get their business-casual clothes torn.” She ignored his quizzical look. “Let’s just say they don’t pay me to dig.” She smiled. “But it’s fun, isn’t it? You dig?”

He chuckled. “Postholes, yeah.”

“When you were hiring out as a kid, did you ever work for Dan Tutan?” The change in his eyes—quizzical to cold—was barely discernible, but it was there. “You know, the Drexlers’ neighbor.”

Oh, yeah. He knew.

But he shook his head. Interesting.

“There’s a story there,” she said with a smile. “Big-time rivalry. Maybe some political back-scratching going on that could affect Indian Country. And that’s where I come in. Like I said, strictly on my own.” Was he ready for the kicker? Timing the kicker was Bella’s journalistic specialty. “Tutan wants the leases that went to the Double D for the sanctuary, and he’s got a friend in D.C.—Senator Perry Garth.”

He stared at her. Or through her.

Perfect timing.

“South Dakota’s beloved Senator Garth. Tutan and Garth go way back. And Garth is on the Indian Affairs Committee, as well as the Subcommittee on Public Lands and Forests.”

“Politics.” He shook his head. “You just cruised past my point of interest. My story’s in the training competition. My interest is in the horses.” He drank half of what was left in his glass in one deep pull.

“I just thought … because Logan is on the Tribal Council …”

“That’s his story.” He set the glass down and smiled as he slid to the end of the booth. “You wanna talk politics, you’re followin’ the wrong Wolf Track.” He glanced toward the bar and its deserted stools. Remote control in hand, the bearded bartender was surfing channels on the screen above the Bud Light sign. “Looks like your fans have moved on.”

“I doubt that pair watches much news. They know you, though.”

“Yeah. You need a name to drop in low places, you’re welcome to use mine.” He gave her his signature wink again. Damn if it didn’t give her the same deep-down shiver. “You decide to do a story on wild horses, look me up.”

And damn if he didn’t walk out first, taking the book she hadn’t been able to identify.

Ethan sat behind the steering wheel of his pickup, parked in the shadows across the street from what had once been the Hitching Post. The neon had given up the ghost on the letter H, so it was now the itching Post. The sign had called out to him the first time he’d seen it. He’d finally had his freedom back—most of it, anyway—and it had some weight to it. He was itching to do something different with his life, but damned if he knew what. So he’d answered the blinking call of the itching Post. He’d claimed a bar stool, wet his whistle after a long dry spell and gotten himself wasted. Stupid drunk.

The next morning he’d looked at himself in the mirror and scratched his face. He’d scratched his neck, his shoulder, dug all his fingers into his hair, looked in the mirror again and nearly busted a gut laughing.

The sign said itching post, you idiot. Not scratching post.

If he’d learned one thing from spending two years behind bars, it was that the word freedom pretty much summed up everything a man had to lose. Freedom was living. Two years without it and you had a foot in the grave. Deadwood. Reviving that foot meant getting a leg up somehow. He hadn’t been quite ready for South Dakota. He still had some growing up to do.

He’d gone to Colorado—as good a place as any that wasn’t South Dakota—and taken up his parole officer’s suggestion that he continue on the path he’d taken with the Wild Horse Inmate Program. Ethan had answered correctly—yeah, I like that idea—but mentally he’d added that the prison program couldn’t claim credit for anything except maybe backing him into the right corner, the one that gave him a clear view of where he’d come from and where he might go. He’d spent most of his life within earshot of a horse barn, which might have been why he’d taken horses for granted, along with every other promising path he could have taken instead of the one that had cut off his slack.

Before the horses—before Logan Wolf Track—his life was hazy. He’d been Trace’s little brother. They’d had a mother, but she was part of the haze. Even after she’d married Logan, her part of the family equation was hazy. Muddy, more like. He remembered the sound of her voice and the way she’d drawn out certain words so that South Dakotans looked at each other and shrugged. An accent, they’d called it, but to him it was the sound that settled an unsettled mind. Mom’s here. He couldn’t picture her face, but he still felt an odd sense of relief when he heard her voice, even though it was only in his head. He was up to his neck in hot water, hot muddy water, shrouded in early-morning haze, but he wasn’t alone. He could hear her. She hadn’t gone away.

And neither had that stupid kid. God, how he hated that quivering, shivering little boy who still clung to the soft tissue of his innards. He was pitiful, that kid. He had to get tough or get dead, that kid, and he’d damn sure better not show his face. Keeping that kid quiet had been a full-time job. Ethan needed all the help he could get, and he’d assigned roles. Whether they knew it or not, every person, place or thing within spitting distance had a part to play, and he’d taken it all for granted.

Including the friendship he might have had with the woman who’d just stepped into the spotlight under the itching Post sign. Of course he remembered her. Straight-A student with a straight body and a straightforward approach. She would go places and do things, and she wasn’t letting anyone get in her way. Not that his charm was lost on her, or that he wouldn’t pass up the chance to use that to his advantage, but there was an air of dignity about her that gave her some protection from guys like him.

But not from guys who had no use for dignity.

Tom “Loopy” Lupien and his forgettable sidekick were back in play, following Bella out the door. Two colorless figures casting long shadows across the dimly lit sidewalk. He’d thought they were gone. Must have been hiding out in the can.

“Hey, did the Wolf make tracks?” one of them called after her.

“You need a ride?” the other asked. In this light it was hard to tell one from the other, but it didn’t matter. Any friend of Loopy’s had been scraped from the mold underneath the empty barrel.

A remote-control lock chirped, headlights flashed, car door opened and shut, engine roared. Bella was safe. Ethan smiled to himself. No-nonsense Bella.

No sooner had she turned onto the street when another engine fired up. An old Ford pickup—even older than Ethan’s rattletrap Chevy—emerged from the lot behind the building and followed her car.

Damn. Loopy wouldn’t be able to bring any prey down himself. He was a scavenger. The other one must’ve been driving. Between the two of them, they could do some damage.

Ethan joined the parade. When they reached a one-way residential street, Bella parked her little white Honda on the curb near the front entrance to a modest two-story apartment building. Ethan peeled away from Loopy’s tailgate, pulled over to the opposite curb, and watched Loopy and his pal roll past Bella’s parked car. They’d taken the hint. Ethan chuckled. My job here is done.

Bella hopped out of her car, slammed the door and turned toward Ethan’s pickup, gripping some kind of bag made out of blanket material with a string handle—was it a purse, or a grocery sack?—under her arm.

“Hey! I carry a .38 Smith & Wesson, and I know how to use it!” she shouted across the street. “So whatever you’re thinking, think again.”

Her face was hidden in the shadows, but her hands were steady, her shoulders squared and her long black hair shone blue-white under the streetlight. He didn’t know who she thought she was talking to, but she wasn’t bluffing.