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Enormous, renegade cows were roaming around Clem’s ranch, trampling the land, hiding in crevasses, growing healthier, heavier and more territorial with each passing day. Clem had kicked herself a thousand times for not dong better research before buying the cows. Not that it mattered. She was stuck with them now. She’d had five freelance outfits look at the cows. Each and every one had refused to take on the job of rounding them up. Finally she begged the last outfit for a name. There had to be someone who could help her.
The cowboys exchanged glances. One shrugged and another kicked at the dust. Then a third said, “Ma’am, just take your losses and get a real job.”
Clem could have laughed at the irony. This was the only job she was qualified for. She glared at them. “Tell me who can help me.”
The tall one eventually said, “Can’t vouch for him. He and his partners did some jail time. Even if you could find him, he won’t help.”
“Why not?” Clem’s voice was curt.
“Retired.”
“Give me his name,” she’d begged. She wasn’t going to let an itty-bitty complication like retirement get in her way.
With a sigh, the cowboy told her. “Dexter Scott. Trust me, ma’am. You’d be better off if you didn’t find him.”
He was probably right, but Clem had two choices—work with Dexter Scott or lose her family’s ranch.
Dear Reader,
When starting this book, I was plagued by doubts. After all, what would a suburban girl like me know about cowboys and feral cows? However, as I searched the deeper recesses of my mind, I realized that during the late seventies while I was swallowing ten to fifteen Harlequin novels a week, I was also drinking generous doses of good old-fashioned Westerns.
It was not the guns or the intrigues that drew me to those rough-and-tumble books of the West, but the lonely, isolated men who were so often reluctant heroes. In my mind, I always added a heroine for the hero, the one person who could unlock the gates to a cowboy’s heart and soul.
Dexter Scott is a man with many gates, some locked, some not. But they all serve the same purpose—self-protection. When Clementine Wells manages to get through every gate he has, Dexter realizes that love eliminates the need for gates.
Please join my recalcitrant hero and determined heroine as they discover that independence is not a good reason to miss out on love. And that sometimes, there’s greater independence in a loving relationship and only pressing loneliness without it.
Sincerely,
Susan Floyd
P.S. I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at: P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635 or via e-mail on my author’s page at www.superauthors.com.
I want to express my deep appreciation
to the entire Menefee family.
Colleen and Jerry, your generosity made this book
what it is. Scott and Chu’an (and little Kate, in utero)
thank you for the evening of feral cow viewing
and my first taste of venison jerky.
Jacob, may your Shuckabur live on always.
And special thanks to Anne and Jack Newins,
facilitators extraordinaire (even though I couldn’t
make the hero Ishmael).
This book is dedicated to my mother,
June Ishimatsu Kimoto
who in the last year has proven to be one of
the most courageous women I know. Thank you, Mom.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PROLOGUE
Los Banos, California, late January
CLEMENTINE WELLS STOPPED her horse, Archie, on a steep slope and stared straight ahead, trying to peer through the brush that covered most of the pastureland on her family’s 16,000-acre ranch. She thought she was mistaken, that she was seeing some kind of mirage.
She had known that she’d been duped, known that the man who’d sold her all the calves at a greatly reduced price saw inexperience tattooed across her forehead. She’d felt like a monster, branding those little calves with just nubbins of horns on their heads. Nothing big enough to even trim. Some of them had looked as if they’d been snatched from their mothers a mite too soon. She’d worried all through November she’d been sold runts that would be devoured by the cougars or would die in the cold. So she’d spent much of her time watching them, riding up to check on their progress and their growth. When her parents had come for Christmas, her father’d been impressed. He’d clasped his big hand on her shoulder and squeezed, telling her she’d done a good job, and she’d basked in the glow of his praise.
Her parents had left two days ago, and she’d ridden into the mountains today to check again. At first, her fears had seemed confirmed. The cows weren’t where they were supposed to be at this time of year. She’d trailed endless paths hoping that at least a few had survived the December storms that usually brought them in closer to the ranch. Now, as she spotted the cow she and her dogs had spent the past half hour tracking, she realized she’d been worried for nothing.
The cow had taken them on quite a trek, and, with a surge of triumph, Clem saw that it had led her to a shallow valley where there were others, the Wells family brand prominent on their rumps. Clem smiled with relief. These cows weren’t lost or dead. And the growth of these runts was very encouraging. It looked as if the joke was on the man who’d sold her the calves so cheaply. Why, if they continued to graze and grow at the rate they were, they’d be close to eight hundred pounds by April.
Elation ran through her and Clem allowed herself to smile. Her mother had been right. She was capable. Being taken care of first by her father and then her ex-husband hadn’t ruined her for life. She was able to stand on her own feet, admittedly with some help. But this was her herd, these were her cows. Finally, she’d done something in her thirty-two years of living that would actually pay off.
Archie whinnied and Clem looked around to see she wasn’t the only thing following the cow. Behind her was another one, wearing her brand, staring at her. Clem felt a little uneasy. Cows were prey animals. They wouldn’t venture so close. In fact, as a rule, they skittered away when something threatening approached.
This cow appeared neither threatened nor skittish. Instead, it shook its head before lowering it and pointing its horns at Clem.
Impossible. Clem thought with a laugh. Cows weren’t aggressive, though this one sure looked like—
The cow charged.
Archie stepped backward, and with her voice stuck in her throat and her heart pounding in her ears, Clementine Wells did what all good cowboys did in such a situation.
She ran.
She wheeled Archie out of the way and let him go, calling to her dogs at the same time. She could hear the sound of hooves pounding behind her, but was too afraid to look. Suddenly, Clem realized that for months she’d been worried about the wrong thing. Her cows were thriving in the Diablo mountain range. In the spring they’d be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. But cows only made money after they were rounded up and brought to market. At the best of times, with the gentlest of cows, roundups were hard. These cows were feral, getting them out of the mountains was going to be a nightmare.
CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere northeast of Barstow, California
KEEP OUT. Trespassers Will Be Shot.
Clementine Wells stared at the sign on the twenty-foot barbed-wire tension gate, and craned her neck, looking for any sign of a house, any sign of someone about to shoot her. This was where she’d find the one man who could help her? She was tempted to just turn around, drive the ten hours back home and call her father to tell him he was right. She had no business trying to be a rancher. It was mid-September, and she still hadn’t been able to round up her herd.
She climbed back into the truck, shoved it into reverse, then stopped, fighting the fatigue of driving. She could see her mother as she’d looked more than a year ago.
“You can do it, Clementine.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Clem had hedged. “It’s different running a ranch than working on it. I haven’t done this kind of physical labor since…since before I went to college.”
Before I married Nick went unsaid. Her mother hadn’t approved of the marriage, hadn’t approved of the fact that Clem had quit college in her junior year to follow Nick to San Jose, where they’d become wealthy overnight, riding the early dot.com wave. Until the divorce last year, Clem had not worked a full-time job in her entire adult life.
“Your father is a good man,” her mother had told her. “But he’s done too much for you. You need to know you can stand on your own two feet. Without us.”
“But the ranch?” Clem had never even envisioned herself taking over the ranch. “I’m not sure I’d even know where to start.”
“You’ve done every chore this ranch requires. You have a good mind. City people buy ranches all the time. Besides, if your father doesn’t take to retirement, we can come back, if you’re here.”
Claire Wells made it seem so simple.
Jim Wells, however, wasn’t as enthusiastic.
“The ranching business has changed, sweetheart,” her father had said as they rode out to watch the sunset. “I’m not sure you’re up to it. It’s not the world you knew growing up.”
Until that moment, Clem hadn’t thought she was up to it, either, but the doubt and concern in her father’s voice made her stop Archie.
“Not that I think you can’t do it,” Jim Wells had added, staring straight ahead.
“Mom thinks I can.” Clem hadn’t wanted her voice to sound so unsure. She’d realized at that moment, she wanted her father to think she could do it, too. “I can always call you for advice.”
Her father had been silent, then cleared his throat and said, “Your mother has always wanted you to be independent.”
“And now that I am?” She hadn’t felt independent. Ask her to arrange a dinner party for ten and she could do it. Ask her what she wanted to do with the rest of her life and she felt as uncertain as she had when she was nineteen.
“You know, honey, you can always come to Arizona with us, just until you figure out what you want to do with your life. The new house has an extra bedroom.”
Clem had swallowed. That would be even more humiliating. “If I ran the ranch for the next year or so, you could always come back if you find that retirement doesn’t agree with you.”
Her father started walking his horse again. “Honey, for the record, I don’t think there is such a thing as going back. It’s all about moving forward.”
It’s all about moving forward. Clementine got back out of the truck and studied the sign again, trying to make up her mind. She was the kind of person who obeyed signs. If a sign on a rest room door read Employees Only, she wouldn’t go through it, even if she’d just had a Big Gulp. She’d walk all the way around the mall to find a public rest room.
The man behind that fence was the only person who could protect her parents’ retirement. She’d spent a good portion of their money and her own, and now she didn’t think even her father could do anything that would solve this problem. It had grown—for lack of a better term—larger than even he could handle.
Ignoring the sign, she stuck out a tentative hand and rattled the gate. Yep. It was tight. She leaned over to the side to see what kind of latch it had. Just a rusty nail soldered to the chain. With gentle fingers, she tugged on the nail. It stuck. She tugged a little harder. Then it slid out and the gate sagged to the ground. She couldn’t even see the warning that trespassers would be shot anymore. She stepped over the gate and waited for a maniac to charge her with a shotgun. But nothing happened. There was just the stillness of the desert, the unending road in front of her.
Dexter Scott might be a recluse, but she didn’t believe he was a maniac. She’d done a lot of research on the man, searching for him ever since she’d heard his name. He’d been in jail for a couple of barroom fights, but there’d been nothing about him shooting defenseless women. She dragged the gate to the side of the road and, with a deep breath, got back in her truck and drove through.
It didn’t take her long to figure out how to put the gate back up. So with the rusty nail in place, Clem drove on, aware of the peaceful red desert that surrounded her. The way she figured it, if she came upon a gate she didn’t know how to unlatch, she’d take that as a sign and turn right around. But each gate, though different, was workable. As she drove past her fourth gate, she understood for the first time why the heroines in Alfred Hitchcock movies always looked in the closet.
Feeling bolder, Clementine inspected the last gate. This one was padlocked. She could justify opening gates that weren’t locked, but even if she had the skills to pick locks, she wasn’t sure she could ignore this sign. It’d be easy enough to turn around. No one had even detected her presence.
But she could see a tiny speck of a house maybe a mile in the distance. So close and yet so far. She leaned against the gate, solidly built out of steel slats, and considered her options. She could go home to the same problem that she hadn’t been able to solve or she could be brave and ask this man to help her. She put her foot in one slat. She looked around. This gate would be easy enough to scale. She could walk that mile to the house. If anything, being on foot would make her appear less threatening. With a deep breath, she buttoned up her jeans jacket and started to climb. If Dexter Scott asked, she’d say she ran out of gas. Maybe he’d give her a ride back to the truck and then she’d be able to make her request.
As she straddled the top of the fence, she stopped and listened. What was that sound? Hoofbeats? Panic overwhelmed her, as she swung her trailing leg over and tried to get her balance. No doubt about it, those were hoofbeats behind her—right behind her. She could hear a horse snort. She froze. She was in the middle of nowhere and she was going to be shot. He could bury her body anywhere and no one would ever find her.
But she didn’t hear a “Halt, who goes there,” or anything else, just the panting of a horse. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, too chicken to stare down the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun. So this was how it ended. She decided that she wanted to die on the ground. Back still toward the rider, she jumped down.
When the rider didn’t speak, Clem held up her arms to show she was unarmed. She swallowed hard and blurted over her shoulder, “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I really need your help.”
No answer, just the agitated prancing of hooves.
“I’m harmless, really. Just let me explain.” Her mind was churning. Every fifteen minutes during her long drive it had occurred to her that there was no good reason in the world that this cowboy, this complete stranger would help her. But always, she’d gone forward.
With her breath held, Clementine willed her body into a slow rotation. At least she should see the face of the man who was going to shoot her, look in his eyes and appear brave. She backed up a step, bumping into the gate behind her.
Then she laughed, mostly with relief and a little hysteria.
“Well, well, well,” Clem said, addressing the beautiful brown horse. “Where did you come from?”
The she looked at the empty saddle on the horse’s back and asked, “And where is your rider?”
SPITTING DUST. The only thing Dexter Scott hated worse than spitting dust was walking, and thanks to his newest horse, he was doing just that. He searched for the gelding. Tall, ornery, milk-chocolate with a white star between his eyes. There was nothing fitting that description within sight. Dex slapped the seat of his jeans, ignoring the billow of fine, red desert dirt, then slowly tested his shoulder. Pain shot through his rotator cuff, but he continued to flex the joint. The stabbing subsided slightly, which meant it wasn’t dislocated again.
Thank God for that.
Spitting dust and walking was bad enough; another dislocation would turn the beautiful morning into a darn right ugly day. Now, where the hell was his hat? His eyes looked for it. And where the hell were Randy and Ryan? They said they’d be right behind him.
More than likely, they’d gone right back to their bunks. It was their off season. The Miller twins had just come off a torturous three-month chase that had taken its toll. Last night, as they sat in the living room of the old Victorian that Dexter’s Uncle Grubb had left him and his sister, Joanna, telling him stories about the job, Dexter couldn’t tell whether or not he missed the life. Ten years of chasing cows had been enough. Still, he’d had to fight down the twinges of envy as Randy and Ryan had embellished their exploits.
Five years ago, he’d have been right in the mix, they’d all been in the mix—Joanna, Randy, Ryan, Ben and Jody Thorton and their son, Mike. But nothing stayed the same. Nothing. Joanna was dead. Ben and Jody had gotten a divorce after Jody’d taken Mike and moved out. Ben had quit the life, just so he could have a shot at joint custody. Randy and Ryan had moved on to other jobs. And Dexter had just stayed put. The days after they’d buried Joanna had somehow slipped into months, months into years. He hadn’t realized what a hermit he’d become until Randy’s flamingo-pink truck had rattled down his deserted road, dust blowing behind the rear tires.
Dexter had spent most of the past three years building up a stable of horses, training them to track and hold wild cows. Part of his success had come from his ability to buy low and sell high. He spent a lot of time scouring the western states, looking for good stock considered “unsalvageable,” ruined by inexperience or plain abuse. To Dexter Scott, no horse was unsalvageable.
Take for example this new horse. He’d driven to Nevada to purchase him after getting a tip off the Internet. Even neglected and underweight, this horse had been magnificent—energetic, alive in ways Dexter would never be again. The horse held promise, perfect for a cowboy who needed a good work horse and who understood the symbiotic relationship between man and beast—if, of course, the horse ever learned to accept a rider for any length of time.
Dexter frowned as he swiveled his arm again, trying to keep it from stiffening up. New Horse, as Randy referred to him, had shown a lot of progress in the past two months. He’d gained weight, and his dull coat was starting to turn glossy. He’d actually nickered in greeting when Dex had arrived this morning, politely accepting the carrot chunk he’d offered. This had prompted Dexter to saddle him up. When the horse carried the saddle in circles around the corral, following Dexter wherever he went, Dexter took this as a good sign. The next step was to get on. And surprise of surprise, New Horse allowed that and even responded properly to the pressure applied to his ribs. Dexter was feeling pretty good about his student as a glorious dawn broke over the desert.
But once out of the safety of the corral, with miles of dry foothills around him, New Horse got a big fat F in deportment. Dex spat out some gravel-like chunks and then ran his tongue over his teeth, hoping that wasn’t actually a filling or worse, part of a tooth. He hated dental work more than he hated walking. His jaw ached, but he supposed that was because New Horse had just sent him tumbling head over ass.
Damn. The desert was still. Dex found himself a rock and sat on it as his tongue continued its exploration around his teeth, carefully probing for any sharp, stabbing pain. So far, his teeth were the only intact parts of his body. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. It’d been broken more times than he could remember. His ribs had been cracked an equal number of times, his leg broken in two places twice. Fractured bones were part of the job description. But this was the first tumble he’d taken since before Joanna’s accid—since before he’d retired.
Dexter shook off the onslaught of feelings that he hadn’t invited and didn’t want to stay. He thought instead of the Miller brothers, who were a party in and of themselves. They radiated fun and irreverence—Randy, the elder brother by four and a half minutes, especially.
Randy’s heart was as big as his voice. Dexter still could hear Ryan’s laughter last night as he defended himself from Randy’s mock attacks with his malletlike fists. How long had it been since they’d all laughed like that? Afterward Randy had brought out his sketches. He suffered—although he would never use that word—from a rare form of color blindness, causing him to see the world in shades of gray. It was that very disability that made him so effective when chasing cows, because he looked for movement and shape, not color.
The color blindness also enabled him to produce the most compelling western art Dexter had ever seen. Randy could bench-press three hundred pounds, but then sketch in pen and ink the most delicate, heartrending portraits of cowboy life. Even though his artwork supported his lifestyle, Randy considered himself a dabbler, not an artist.
The sketches had made Dexter miss the life. They made him think there was much more to living than this desert. He stared in the direction of the main house. It was a heck of a long walk back. Up the small brown hills that obscured his vision of the ranch and down through the pass. Not a bit of water to be found. He flexed his shoulders, trying to ignore the pain that stabbed at his collarbone.
He gazed down at the brown dust on his boots, the heels worn down as were his spurs. They’d been silver at one time, but now had the dull look of well-used stainless steel. Suddenly, familiar hoofbeats made him perk up. New Horse had come to his senses and returned! Dex watched the distant cloud of dust advance. He knew that the horse had it in him. With training New Horse would become one of his best—
Who the hell was riding him?
The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Dex watched the horse that threw him not an hour ago approach, the legs of his rider dangling on either sides. The brown horse remained steady in his trot, his mane glittering in the sunlight, unperturbed by the flapping stirrups.
Dexter swallowed hard.
This rider rode well, the skill apparent as New Horse slid down some crumbling red slate. How many times had he seen Joanna ride and skid only to recover and laugh at what she called a “cheap thrill”? The rider held herself in the same way, had the same tilt of the head. Impossible. He’d watched Randy pull Joanna’s lifeless body out from under her horse. He’d touched her ice-cold hand.
The rider slowed so they wouldn’t spray Dexter with dust and gravel. Dexter squinted up, from his rock unwilling to look into the face of the rider, unwilling to take the chance that it might be Joanna.
“Hey” was the best greeting he could muster.
“Lost your hat?” the rider asked, her voice clear and feminine.
“I THINK THIS IS YOURS.” Clementine Wells offered the cowboy the sweat-stained gray hat she’d picked up along the trail. When she’d seen the empty saddle, she’d known there was either an angry or a dead cowboy out there somewhere. It was okay if he was angry, but it would do her no good if the man she’d spent more than a month searching for had managed to kill himself before he could help her.