Real Cowboys

Kate massaged her arms.

Straightening, he made no attempt to camouflage his desire. “I have looked at you, Kate,” he said, running a finger over her puffy lips. “Am looking. Get used to the fact. I like what I see.”

With that he sauntered off, and she was left to deal with cleaning the kitchen when she was all thumbs, trying to reconcile herself to the fact that she’d fallen under the spell of a cowboy.

It wouldn’t work.

Why not? the nagging voice in her head wanted to know.

Because she’d promised never to love a cowboy again.

Dear Reader,

This story came about after I chanced to meet a man in Tucson. He wore knee-high boots, a flat-crowned hat and an interesting bolo tie. I asked if he was a vaquero, because there’s a ranch down south that hires Argentinian cowboys. He said no, that he was a buckaroo from southern Idaho, in town for a mustang auction.

I’m sure he saw how interested I was, so he went on to explain more about ION country—where Idaho, Oregon and Nevada meet. He said it was one of the few places left where ranchers still run cattle on leased land and buckaroos live three-fourths of the year with those cattle. He said I should visit when they had their Rope and Ride, because it wasn’t a run-of-the-mill rodeo. Prizes were handmade items the buckaroos use in daily life. He did lament that theirs was a dying way of ranching, because they had to fend off people who’d petitioned the state government to take the land for recreational use. And that group had banded with strict preservationists. He said the mining companies had gone, and it was only a matter of time until ranchers would be forced out, too.

That’s really all it takes for the writer in me to be intrigued enough to visit the place and weave a story. Ben Trueblood and Kate Steele are the fictional couple I elected to put in this very real corner of the world. I hope the ranchers win their battle. In my book, that would be Ben. I hope you want him to win, too.

Roz Denny Fox

P.S. I like hearing from readers—P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731 or e-mail rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

Real Cowboys

Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Roz made her first sale to Harlequin Romance in 1989 and sold six Harlequin Romance titles, writing as Roz Denny. After transferring to the Harlequin Superromance line, she began writing as Roz Denny Fox. In addition to the many stories she’s written for Harlequin Superromance, she’s also written two Harlequin American Romance books and two Signature books. Her novel for Harlequin’s new series, Everlasting Love, will be coming out in August 2007.

Roz has been a RITA® Award finalist and has placed in a number of other contests; her books have also appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. She’s happy to have received her twenty-five-book pin with Harlequin, and would one day love to get the pin for fifty books.

Roz currently resides in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, Denny. They have two daughters.

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER ONE

Needed ASAP Certified K-8 Teacher

Near Owyhee, Idaho, One-room school

Grades 1-8 Approximately 20 pupils

Benefits include a two-bedroom cabin

Fax résumé to Marge Goetz,

School Board President 208 555-8809

Will do a telephone interview

KATE STEELE SMOOTHED the creased job circular and reread the ad for the umpteenth time. The promise of housing was a bonus. She checked her cover letter one last time before stealthily rolling her wheelchair into her father-in-law’s ranch office and firing it off on the fax. Impatiently, she waited for confirmation of receipt. When it slid into the tray, she folded it with the other papers and tucked them behind her in case she ran into her mother-in-law in the hall.

Kate’s watch said 9:00 a.m., which meant the Steeles’ Fort Worth ranch had been in full swing for three hours. It would be eight in Idaho. Kate hoped Marge Goetz worked eight to five.

A preliminary search on her laptop hadn’t found any mention of the town of Owyhee, but a county by the same name bordered Idaho, Oregon and Nevada. Agriculture was listed as the county’s main industry since the mines had played out. Farm country sounded wonderful. Kate had been born and raised in Kansas. At least it would get Danny away from his grandparents’ ranch, which perpetuated his obsession with calf roping and rodeos.

Rolling along the hall, Kate told herself not to pin her hopes on this job. Why would Marge Goetz have to look as far as Texas to find a teacher? The hiring committee probably wouldn’t be keen on the fact she was a widowed mom with an almost eleven-year-old son. Plus she hadn’t taught in a while. She wondered if that was why she’d lost out on five positions in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. It was late in the year to find a teaching job, but that didn’t stop Kate from crossing her fingers.

By four o’clock that afternoon, Marge Goetz had called and offered Kate the job. Once Kate hung up, she pinched herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

But the thrill didn’t last long. At supper, Kate had to break the news to Royce and Melanie Steele…and Danny.

Melanie, Kate’s mother-in-law, almost dropped the bowl of green beans she was passing to her husband. “Idaho? Kate…dear…you can’t be serious. I said I would ask Rich North, principal at Tumbleweed, if he’d let you sub. It’s just I’ve been busy lately.”

“I appreciate that, but I really wanted a permanent job.”

“Nonsense, you’re not ready to be in a classroom full days.”

“Dr. Pearsall thinks I am.” Kate glanced at her son to reassure him. Danny had tended to worry about her since the car accident. “I’m fine,” she insisted.

Melanie set the beans down and rushed from the room. Royce, a taciturn rancher, followed his wife. Kate wondered sometimes if he’d be happier if she just stayed in her wheelchair in the background. He’d disapproved when she’d ordered a pickup with hand controls and an automatic lift to load and unload her wheelchair. Royce said Colton’s life-insurance settlement should go toward Danny’s future. Kate didn’t point out to her father-in-law that if she hadn’t culled money from her meager food budget to pay the premiums, her rodeo-chasing husband wouldn’t have had life insurance.

And the Steeles’ plan for Danny’s future was that he’d one day be a champion calf roper, like his father.

Danny was silent after his grandparents left the table, even though Kate tried to get him to talk to her. She regretted not telling Danny her plans first—the fact that she hadn’t was just one more indication that she needed to be on her own with her son. Much later, when she went in to say good-night, Kate found him sitting at the window. He had one arm draped around Goldie, his golden retriever. The other held a worn lasso that had been his dad’s.

“Hey, guy, you should be in bed.”

“I don’t want to move.” He pinned her with serious hazel eyes. “I heard Mimi tell Pawpaw that this move will use all our money. She said we’ll go off and forget them…and Daddy.”

“Danny, honey, they want us—well, you—to fill an empty hole your daddy left in their lives. That’s too big a burden for you. It’s just…time…we all move on.”

“But, Mimi says if we stay in Fort Worth, by this winter I can enter the Little Britches Rodeo and win it like Dad did at my age.”

Tensing, Kate didn’t respond. During her recovery she’d watched from her bedroom window as Danny had devoted long hours to roping fence posts. That rodeo dream was the main reason she needed to get him away from the ranch. She patted Goldie, gently removed the rope from Danny’s hand and motioned for him to go to bed. “I’m looking forward to getting back into the classroom, you know. This will be a grand adventure, you’ll see.”

KATE BRAKED THE TRUCK and a thin layer of dust settled on her windshield. For three days she’d endured Danny’s sulks and Goldie’s hot breath on her neck while she’d pulled a wobbly horse trailer through a dusty landscape dotted with juniper and brittle natural grass. Now she’d run out of dirt road.

In a clearing, a weathered gray cabin sat tucked beneath scraggly pines. Beside it stood an ancient corral and adjoining stall that leaned in the same direction as the wind-bent pines. Off to the right of the house, down a steep slope, sat a small, unpainted shed. Kate yanked on the hand brake, hoping against hope that she wasn’t looking at a primitive outhouse.

Stirring for the first time in hours, Danny unbuckled his seat belt and scooted forward. He clutched his dog and his beloved lasso. “Why are we stopping?”

“Uh, I think this is it.”

“What?”

“Our new home, silly boy.”

“Pawpaw’s bulls live in a nicer place,” he announced.

Kate ruffled his hair. “Yes, but everyone knows he babies his bulls.” It was a weak attempt at levity. And a knot tightened in her chest. Marge Goetz had said she and her husband owned a sugar-beet farm. But the high plateau Kate had seen thus far couldn’t have been classed as farmland.

“Maybe you took a wrong turn, Mom.”

Kate rechecked her map and shook her head. She felt Goldie snuffle her ponytail and reached back to rub the dog’s soft nose. “This is it. See the red flag on the porch rail? Mrs. Goetz said our landlord would tie one on a pine where we should turn and another on our cabin.”

Finally Kate cracked open her door. “It’s getting late. We’d better see what’s what, Danny. Today’s Labor Day and school starts tomorrow. We need to unpack. I’ve got no idea when it gets dark here.” She waved a hand toward the horse trailer. “Unload Flame, feed him, then use the hand cart to haul boxed bedding inside. I’ll start with making beds.” Kate hadn’t wanted to bring the horse. But two of Colton’s animals had had to be put down at the scene of their car wreck. Flame was left and Royce had given him to Danny. Against her better judgment, Kate had phoned Marge Goetz and found out the cabin did have accommodations for a horse.

“I’ve gotta unload all our stuff by myself?”

“Yes. Well, you and me, sport.”

“Can’t the guy who owns this place come help us tote boxes?”

“Danny, I’m sure he’s a busy farmer.”

“Well, I’m just a kid.”

Kate turned to her son. “We can do this, Danny.” She hit the button for the lift that would lower her electric wheelchair to a level where she could slide from the truck seat and drop into the chair as she’d practiced repeatedly. She’d been without the use of her legs since the terrible accident on the Oklahoma turnpike that had killed her husband. Kate had been poked and prodded by a dozen doctors, none able to pinpoint a physical reason for her paralysis. No one had used the word psychosomatic, but Kate knew that’s what some of them thought. Kindly Dr. Pearsall said he was confident that one day something would click and Kate would get up and walk. He’d given her exercises so her muscles would be ready if and when the time came. Like right.

After two years, even Kate had begun to doubt Dr. Pearsall’s optimism. And her in-laws had long ago relegated her to invalid status.

Her chair bumped hard against the packed dirt. She unlocked the overhead clamp. Flashing Danny a confident smile, she slid from the pickup.

Seeing his mother meant business, he crawled a bit more reluctantly from the backseat. “What if your chair won’t go up that hill?”

“It’s a gradual incline. Marge Goetz said the cabin owner would leave a door key under a clay flower pot on the porch. You can unlock the door.” Kate didn’t want him hanging back, maybe seeing her struggle. She had to do this. Returning to Fort Worth simply wasn’t an option.

“Hey,” he called moments later. “It’s not so bad inside. It’s got new wood floors and cabinets and it smells like Mr. Duffy’s workshop.”

Her chair crested the slope, and Kate breathed easier. Otis Duffy, Royce’s handyman, made furniture in his spare time, and Danny loved helping him.

“Oops, I see my first obstacle. Steps. But speaking of Mr. Duffy, he nailed together a couple of ramps in case I might need them. Will you bring one from the pickup? Leave the other. It’s possible I’ll need it at school.”

Danny left and returned lugging the ramp. “My old school had concrete ramps for kids who couldn’t climb stairs.”

“Your school had twelve hundred students for six grades. This school has only fourteen students in eight grades and they all arrive at school in a single van.”

“Are they dorky? That’s who rode vans to Tumbleweed.”

“Daniel Royce Steele, I’m ashamed of you. I don’t want to ever hear you call special-needs kids dorky again.”

Danny’s lower lip jutted. He buried a hand in Goldie’s yellow fur. “I had more than fourteen kids in my calf-roping class. Do any kids here rodeo? I didn’t see any cows.”

Kate hadn’t asked Marge that question, although in talking about the area, Marge had called it the land of the last buckaroo. Buckaroo was another word for cowboy, and Kate hoped that meant the cowboys were all gone. “Danny, it costs a lot for rodeo gear and things like entry fees.”

“Pawpaw and Mimi will give us money.”

She straightened from securing the makeshift ramp to the porch. “No. From now on we make do with what I earn. You’ll get a weekly allowance for helping me with household chores. I expect you to save part, and the rest will buy feed and pay vet bills if you want to keep Flame.”

“Not keep him? Flame’s the best roping horse in all of Texas.”

“We aren’t in Texas anymore, Daniel,” Kate said, aware she sounded a bit like Dorothy in The Wizard Of Oz. “From here on we live in a place called Owyhee, Idaho.”

“Idaho stinks.” Danny kicked the porch step.

Recognizing a look she’d often seen Colton wear if things didn’t go his way only convinced Kate all the more that leaving Texas had been a good idea.

MARGE GOETZ PASSED A MUG of steaming black coffee to the neighbor who stood on her front porch talking to her husband, Ray. “Before you two get so deep into hashing over today’s Bureau of Land Management meeting, tell me, Ben, did our new teacher get moved into your cabin?”

“Danged if I know.” Ben Trueblood blew on his hot coffee and shifted his gaze to the hills where the cabin sat. His land butted up next to the farm where Ray and Marge raised sugar beets and onions. “Last week I tied red flags like you asked and left the box of folders. Chad Keevler finished the kitchen and new bathroom that the board approved. Out of curiosity, why wouldn’t she get here? You said she sounded reliable.” He declined to sit in the empty chair Ray offered and braced a knee-high boot on one rung instead.

Hearty, sandy-haired Ray dusted off his work jeans before dropping into another chair. “Marge is fussing because I had to take her SUV to town for engine work, leaving her without wheels. The board hired the Steele woman on Marge’s recommendation. Since Sikes’s reserve unit was called to active duty and left our kids teacherless midterm last year, I think she feels…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marge cut in. “Responsible. I feel responsible. Can you blame me? We found Ms. Steele so late, the Martins already sent their twins to board with Sue’s sister in Elko. The district superintendent says if we dip under twelve kids, the county will suspend our funding. By my calculations, we’re at an even dozen.”

“Counting the teacher’s kid? Did I dream you said she’s a widow with a school-aged son?” Trueblood gestured with his mug.

“That’s right. Her boy’s ten, the same age as Jeff, our youngest.” Marge still sounded worried.

Ray patted her on the butt. “Hon, you’re determined to fret.”

“If homeschooling our boys had fallen to you after the army took Sikes, you’d fret, too. Not a family in the valley is anxious to go on tryin’ to teach their kids at home. How much of the curriculum did you teach Clover?” she asked Ben, looking over at the elfin eight-year-old girl with long, black hair who was chasing butterflies through a cow pasture. Every now and then the child stopped to pet one of the massive, white-faced Herefords.

“Now, Marge. Sikes got called up when I was bogged down with the first lawsuit brought by that conservation group who wants the BLM to revoke all grazing leases on public lands. I had to turn Clover’s homeschooling packet over to Bobbalou.”

Marge scoffed. “What can Lou Bobolink teach a girl?” She used the given name of Ben’s old friend and longtime camp cook.

Ben grinned. “How to make beef stew and sourdough biscuits? Hell, Marge, after the recreational ATVers jumped into the land squabble, I had no choice. Vida got sick and couldn’t keep house for a while, or she might’ve helped with lessons. Although, Clover likes trailing the herd.”

“Because you let her do as she pleases. You have, Ben Trueblood, from the day she turned up a crying bundle in your barn.”

The sharp, sometimes brittle obsidian eyes jerked up at Marge’s harsh accusation, but almost as quickly the lean lines of Ben’s bronze face softened. “Look at her. She’s happy. And a damned sight brighter than some folks give her credit for. Clover’s got a way with animals like nobody I’ve ever run across. One day she’ll make a great veterinarian.”

“Not without education and discipline,” Marge said.

Ray cleared his throat. “Don’t rag on Ben, hon. Everybody knows Clover’s way better off with him than those teens from the Shoshone or Paiute reservation who dumped her at his place.”

“Leave it,” Ben said, cutting Ray off. Ben had been born on one of those reservations. No one had to tell him about the harsh existence faced by those two kids he’d caught sight of running from his property that icy night.

“Marge, I’d like to devote more time to Clover. But I figure the best thing I can do for her is fight like hell to hang on to a ranch Bobbalou and I started carving out of this unforgiving land when I was fourteen. I’ve never blamed Clover’s mother, whoever she is. I broke free of the bad crap that perpetuates itself on reservations. Percy and me, we had Lou, and he knew to leave the res and buy his own land. It’s not as easy for kids today, what with our land being gobbled up or fought over.”

“This land is sucking us all dry,” Marge said.

Draining his mug, Ben set it on the porch rail. “Bud Martin, Percy Lightfoot, me and a scant few others are damned lucky to keep ranching the way it’s meant to be done. Letting cows roam free in the tradition brought here a hundred years ago.”

Ray tipped back in his chair. “It’s a hard life for men. Nigh on impossible for women and kids to survive that way, Ben.”

“Which is why you don’t see me trying to find a wife.”

“You need one,” Marge said. “For your own sake and to provide a bit of softness for Clover.”

“Now, Marge,” her husband said. “It takes a hard man to raise four thousand cows, bulls and steers, alongside a thousand mixed mustangs and quarter horses without irrigation, especially now that grazing lands are getting scarcer and scarcer thanks to the likes of damned tree huggers and ATVers.”

“That brings us back to the point I’m trying to make, Ben,” Marge persisted. “Clover needs more. More than blue jeans, boys’ shirts and chaps and being turned loose to learn from your crew, who don’t know anything but living on the range eleven months a year. She’s never gonna be a hard man, Ben Trueblood. That’s the God’s honest truth you need to deal with.” Marge snatched up his empty cup and the one her husband had set down and stomped into the house, slamming the screen door.

“Phew,” Ray muttered. Climbing to his feet, he said, “Let’s go have a look at the beet harvester I picked up at auction last week.” As the men left the porch to mosey toward the barn, Ray said, “I hope you don’t hold hard feelings against her for butting into your business. The dwindling number of wives left in Owyhee are counting on this new teacher. Winnie Lightfoot said if we lose the school it’ll be like losing a chunk of civilization. She’s right. Successful, thirty-seven-year-old bachelor ranchers like you, Ben, are anomalies. It’s families that bring in businesses to sustain a ranch community. We can’t afford to lose another church, grocery, hardware or feed store.”

Ben glanced at Ray in bemusement. “Marge isn’t the only one on a soap box, I see.” He sighed. “Hell, Ray, it takes time to socialize—time I spend trying to prevent our public lands from breaking up. The committee needs to say what’s more important, keeping a million acres from being overrun by environmentalists and all-terrain fanatics, or me hunting up a woman who may or may not civilize me.”

Ray flushed crimson to the roots of his sandy hair. “Enough on that subject. I can’t imagine you with a missus anyway.”

“Why not?” The comment rocked Ben back. He didn’t want a wife, but he didn’t think he was so objectionable. “I own a home. Granted, I’m rarely there. But it stays decent thanks to Vida. I don’t drink or gamble. I cuss a little,” he confessed, tugging an earlobe.

“You have to want a wife. Finding someone to fit your lifestyle won’t be easy. Might be, if you didn’t run a straight-up buckaroo outfit, or if Owyhee had an excess of single women…which it don’t. Or if we didn’t depend on you to represent us in this land fight and organize our Rope and Rides so we’ll have funds in our town coffers to pay a sheriff and hang on to a clinic, such as it is. It’s a cinch taxes don’t cover our needs.”

His friend stopped Ray from droning on. “I get the message. It’s best all around if we keep this new teacher happy. We’ll build the town up by showing we’re prosperous enough to warrant a school, and other revenue will follow.”

“So, does this mean you’ll swing past your old line shack and see if Ms. Steele arrived?”

“Aw, dang it! You led me right into that.”

“Yep.”

“Why can’t Marge take your pickup now that you’re home?”

“She would, except her quilting club meets here in a half hour. I’m not asking you to sweet talk the woman, Ben. Marge hasn’t heard a word since the teacher left Texas. We’ve gotta be sure she arrived so kids can start school tomorrow.”

“It’ll be dark soon. Who’s to say if I blunder in there after dark that a Texas woman won’t shoot first and ask questions later?”

“I’d give a dollar to see that.” Ray grinned, pumping Ben’s hand as they prepared to part. “Letting a little lady blow your ass off would seriously tarnish your image, Ben.”

“You saying it couldn’t happen?”

“I s’pose it could. The old Western books I’ve read set in Texas generally have feisty females who don’t take guff off cowboys. Max Brand’s books.”

Ben hesitated fractionally before waving to summon Clover. “Is that how Marge describes the teacher? A feisty, no-guff type?”

“Marge only chatted with her by phone. Saw a fax of her credentials. They’re so good, some on the board wondered what’s wrong with her. I mean, why was she hunting a teaching job so late in the year? Daryl White was sure she ran afoul of the law. He ran a background check. Nothing came up. Guess if you don’t want to stop there we can wait to see what Bill Hyder says after he drives the van tomorrow. He’s this month’s driver volunteer.”