Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption: Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption

Hank was no breeder or fancier, wasn’t out to acquire pedigrees or trophies. He’d rescued the two mares from a farm foreclosure. They’d been bony and riddled with parasites, about as sad eyed and desperate as the old man who was losing all he had and looking for somebody, anybody with a heart to take in the last of his stock. Hank had even offered to adopt the farmer, but his niece had shown up for that end of the rescue. Wormed, fed up, trimmed up and turned out on Dakota grass, the two mares had turned out to be pretty nice. Not the best of his rescues—he’d taken in a sweet-tempered colt that had gone to a couple looking for a friend for their autistic child—but they would make good saddle horses if he ever found the time to work with them.

Three hundred miles northeast of the Hilltop Lodge, Hank checked in at home and took care of his personal business. The next day he drove nearly the same distance due south to the Double D. Not that he was in a killing hurry to start his “vacation”—a vacation for Hank would have meant stringing together a few nights in what he loosely termed his own bed—but he had promises to keep and curiosity to satisfy. He cared a lot about his friend, Zach Beaudry. He’d heard a lot about the Double D. He’d thought a lot about Sally Drexler. He had a bad feeling about her neighbor. It all added up to a sense of purpose, and Hank Night Horse was a man of purpose.

He called ahead to make sure he knew where he was going once he ran out of map markings. The two-story farmhouse was off the state highway at the end of about three miles of sparsely graveled road. He found Sally waiting for him on the sprawling covered porch. She came down the steps to greet him.

“Hey, Phoebe.”

Okay, so she greeted his dog first. Unlike Hank, Phoebe was not above making a slobbering fool of herself.

“You just missed the honeymooners,” Sally told him, her eyes unmistakably alight for him.

“You got time for TV?” He wasn’t above grinning.

“I’ve always got time for a comedian.” She took a hands-on-hips stance and gave his pickup with its custom long-box cap an appreciative once-over. The sleek, slide-in cargo box was outfitted for his business and his gypsy lifestyle. “You must have done just about what the newlyweds did. Grabbed your gear and run. Of course, they had a plane to catch. Are you hungry? Tired? Ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”

“I’ll do anything that doesn’t involve sitting.”

She raised her brow. “Interested in reclining?”

“If I do that, I’m liable to be out for a while.”

“Then let’s walk and talk before we eat, drink and be merry.” She gave a come-on gesture. “I’ll show you around.”

Her walk wasn’t quite as smooth as her talk. He’d noticed it before, but it was so subtle, he’d dismissed it as another of her quirks. Sally wasn’t your standard model female in any way, shape or form. She was special. Easy to follow, hard to figure, no doubt heavy on the upkeep.

Hardly the best fit for Hank Night Horse. He was an ordinary man who talked with a straight tongue and tried to walk a straight line. He understood most people—once you figured out what they wanted, for better or worse they were generally predictable—but Sally was like a horse he’d ridden for an elderly neighbor when he was a kid. Four out of five days the beautiful Arabian was smart, spirited, smooth-gaited, a dream to ride. But on the fifth day she’d likely take off with him and run like ahellcat until they hit some kind of a wall. She was four-fifths dream and one-fifth damned, but she was special. And four days out of five, she sure was fun to play with.

He wasn’t sure about the hitch in Sally’s gait. It was slight and oddly sporadic. An old injury wouldn’t seem to explain it, and maybe there was no explanation. Maybe it was just Sally.

They entered the machine shed through a side door, which was propped open for ventilation. Hoolie looked up from a workbench and then slid off the stool before he remembered he wasn’t going anywhere without his crutch.

He grinned anyway and reached for Hank’s handshake. “Did you bring all the tools of your trades? My saddle horse could use corrective shoes, and I’ll pay you to take this damn mummy boot off my hoof.”

“Like I told you before, you take that off too soon, you’ll pay dearly. Your horse is a different story. My pickup is a blacksmith shop on wheels. Phoebe!” The dog was headed for the door.

“Does she get along with other dogs?” Sally asked.

“Sure does. She’s around dogs all the time.”

A warning growl sounded outside the door.

“Well, that makes one of them,” Hoolie said ominously as a black-and-white shepherd slunk across the threshold, teeth bared.

“Baby!”

Sally bolted for the door, but she fell flat on her face before she got there. Tripped over her own feet like one of the TV comedians she’d claimed she always had time for. She was doing a shaky push-up on the concrete by the time Hank got to her. She tried to wave him off, her attention fixed on the dogs.

Hoolie came on strong once he had his crutch in place. “Here, you dogs, you want a piece o’ me?”

The clamor settled into a war of whines, both bitches determined to get in the last whimper as Hoolie and his crutch prevailed.

Hank found himself down on one knee beside a woman who was on her way up. “You okay?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.” She laughed as she braced her hand on his shoulder. “Totally wasn’t ready for that. Scared me.”

“They’re okay,” Hoolie called out. “Phoebe wants to play. Baby wants to lay down a few rules first.”

“I’ll give ‘em some rules,” Hank grumbled, discomfited by the loss of his dignity and his own confusion as to where it had gone.

Sally laughed again. “What are you, the Dog Whisperer?”

“I’m the alpha.” He signaled Phoebe to stay put while the shepherd took a fallback position. “You got any other dogs around here?” he asked Sally.

“Baby’s an only dog.”

“That’s her problem. We’ll fix it, though. We’ll teach her some manners. Won’t we, Phoeb?” Hank patted the dog’s silky head. “Scared you, huh?”

“It sure startled me.” Sally twisted her arm for a look at her skinned elbow. “I didn’t want to lose you over a dogfight. You’ve probably noticed I can be kind of a klutz sometimes. Two left feet.” She gave a perfunctory smile. “Except when I dance.”

“You stick to dancing and leave us to referee the dogs.”

“Only if you’ll dance with me, Henry.” She was giving him that too cute look. “Do you know that song? You’re supposed to say, Okay, Baby.”

Hank shook his head. “Nobody calls me Henry.”

“That’s your real name, isn’t it?” She flashed a smile at Hoolie. “Henry’s a fine name.”

“Nobody calls me Henry.”

“Ah, the soft underbelly. Our guardian is ticklish, Hoolie.”

“I know the feeling,” Hoolie said.

“I can handle a dogfight, but that name is a deal breaker.”

“Duly noted.” Sally slid a glance at Hoolie, who chuckled.

“Okay, now aren’t you supposed to have some wild horses around here somewhere?”

“That’s the rumor. But first, the tour.” She gave an after-you gesture. “Please follow the silk thread.”

Hank raised his brow and responded in kind. He knew her game. She was like his patients on the rodeo circuit—too stubborn to say they were hurt, so you didn’t ask. You watched how they moved. If they’d let you.

“No go?” She grabbed his arm and coaxed him by her side. “All right, then, when you’re ready to put your road-weary butt in a saddle, I’ll show you horses, Henry. Hank.”

“You’re askin’ for it, woman.”

“For what?” She met his loaded look with acoy smile. “Oh, no. I’m just hackin’ on you. Make no mistake, when it comes to serious matters, I don’t fool around.” She glanced away. “Well, I do, but I don’t ask. Do you?”

What he didn’t do was answer foolish questions.

By the time he’d seen the outbuildings—shop, machine shed, barn, loafing shed, grain bins, bunk house—the suggestion of food held considerable appeal. He was impressed with what he’d seen so far. It was a nice layout, but the cattle operation was a shadow of what it had been in its heyday, two generations ago. According to Hank’s tour guide, the Double D ran a small herd of cattle, partly to satisfy state requirements to claim agricultural status and partly for income. But the ranch’s main enterprise was the wild-horse sanctuary, and it was decidedly nonprofit. An unusual concept for a third-generation rancher, but Sally Drexler was an unusual rancher. Hank looked forward to seeing the horses.

After his stomach stopped growling.

He hit the front steps heavily to cover the noise as he headed for the door behind Sally, but the twinkle in her eyes let him know she wasn’t deaf. Embarrassing. He didn’t like to give anything away unintentionally. Not even the fact that he hadn’t taken time to eat anything before he left home.

Beset by the aroma of juicy beef, his stomach spoke up again as he followed her in the house while Phoebe protested having the door shut in her face.

“She can come in, as long as she’s okay around cats,” Sally said. “Sounds like she’s hungry. We usually don’t eat supper around here until pretty late, but we never keep the critters waiting.”

“Something smells good.” He stood like a maypole while Sally circled around him. “Enough to eat.” He watched her let Phoebe in. “Right now.”

She turned one of her bright-eyed smiles on him. “Right now?”

“Be glad to help you get it on.”

“Would you?”

“On the table.”

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” she told him over her shoulder as she led the way through foodless territory. “But let’s eat first.”

Willing as he was, he didn’t have to help much. He was a straight shooter, and she was a woman who loved to tease. She’d had supper simmering in a Crock-Pot, ready to dish up anytime. She put him to slicing bread and filling water glasses while she washed salad greens. Hoolie came in the back door all slicked down and washed up precisely at five-fifteen.

Pretty late, my ass.

Pretty tasty. Pretty entertaining. Pretty woman. Maybe he could get used to a little teasing.

“How much of the Double D can you reach on wheels?” Hank asked as he sipped his coffee. “You use ATVs?”

“Hell, no,” Hoolie said. “Too damn noisy. This is a ranch, not a playground.”

“I’m with you on that score.” And he’d told his brother as much last night when Greg had shown off a picture of the one he wanted. A kid’s toy, Hank had said.

“We can cover a lot of ground in a pickup, but there’s places we don’t go except on horseback.”

“We have some totally pristine grassland here,” Sally said. “Some of it is pretty remote.”

“I’ll stow my gear in the bunkhouse, and then maybe we could all take a little pickup ride,” Hank suggested. “Give me a feel for what’s out there while it’s still light.”

“We can do that.” Sally sounded hesitant. “But we have a room for you here in the house.”

“I’m fine with the bunkhouse.”

“We get kids out here sometimes helpin’ out. Volunteers come and go. You’ll be better off in the house.” Hoolie shrugged. “I snore.”

“We’re hoping to add on to the bunkhouse to give Hoolie more privacy.” Sally and Hoolie exchanged looks. “Definitely on the to-do list.”

“Definitely,” Hoolie said. “Sally’s used to having Annie around. And Zach, too, since he come along. We don’t want Sally rattlin’ around here alone at night.”

“She could get into trouble?” Hank set his cup down. “Hell, whatever works. I just figured…”

“It’s a big house,” Hoolie said. “And you’re a guest more than anything. I’m the hired man.”

Hank looked at Sally. He had something she wanted, and she’d decided it was hers for the taking. She’d try to tease it out of him, would she? He gave a suggestive smile. Game on, woman. Your house, my play.

“Do you snore?” he asked her.

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

Hoolie took Sally’s unspoken hint and begged off the after-supper tour. “I’ll let you take my pickup.” He offered Hank two keys and a metal Road Runner trinket on a key ring.

Ignoring the handoff, Hank nodded at Sally. “She’s giving the tour.”

“This thing he offers is a great honor,” Sally quipped, B-movie style. “To refuse would be an insult.”

“She’s a 1968 C10,” Hoolie boasted. “She’s a great little go-fer pickup. Short box with a six-pony engine. Overhauled her myself.”

“Classic,” Hank said appreciatively. “My dad had one when I was a kid. Got her used, ran her into the ground. He was on the road a lot.”

“Don’t know how many times the odometer’s turned over on this one, but she runs like a top. You gotta try ‘er out.”

“My pleasure.”

Watching Hank handle the big steering wheel and palm the knob on the gearshift was Sally’s pleasure. She’d stopped driving altogether after proving she really could hit the broad side of the barn. It was the first time she’d lost all feeling in her right leg, the one that gave her the most trouble. She’d been backing up to the barn with a load of mineral blocks when suddenly the leg was gone. Might as well have been lopped off at the hip. By the time she’d moved the dead weight by hand, her tailgate had smashed through the tack-room wall.

The damage to the barn had been easy to repair. Her pickup, like her pride, had become an early victim of her unpredictable body. But her independence had begun to erode that day, and with it went bits of confidence. Dealing with the disease wasn’t as difficult as plugging up holes in her spirit. During bad times she’d start springing holes right and left, and she could feel herself draining away. She’d learned to take advantage of the very thing that made MS so cruel—its capricious nature. When the symptoms ebbed, she dammed up all her leaks and charged ahead, full speed, total Sally. She took pleasure in the little things, like the way it felt to get up and walk whenever the spirit moved her, the feel of water lapping against bare skin, the smell of a summer night and the look of a man’s hands taking charge.

Phoebe was sitting pretty in the pickup box behind the back window, her blond ears flapping in the breeze. They plied the fence line at a leisurely pace, following tire tracks worn in the sod. Sally pointed out the “geriatric bachelor band” grazing in a shallow draw. They were too old for the adoption program, and some of them had spent years in holding facilities—essentially feedlot conditions—before finding a home at the Double D. Heads bobbed, ears perked at the sound of the engine, and they moved as one, like a school of fish.

“They have no use for us, especially this time of year,” she said with a smile. “Which means we’re doing something right.” She nodded for a swing to the west, punched the glove-compartment button and felt around for the binoculars. “From the top of that hill we might get a look at some of the two-year-olds. There are some beauties in that bunch. Do you like Spanish Mustangs?”

He swung the big steering wheel. “I don’t see too many.”

“They don’t come shoe shopping?”

“I work mostly rodeos, so I see a lot of quarter horses.” The engine growled as he downshifted for the hill. “I did shoe a couple of mustangs at an endurance ride last fall. They had real pretty feet.”

“We need to interest more people in adopting these horses. The BLM had an auction out in Wyoming last month and sold less than half the number they projected. If they don’t find any more takers and we can’t make room for them, some of them will end up…” She glimpsed movement below the hill and to the right, but she had to turn her head to see what it was. Her right eye was going out on her again. Damn. “Look!” She pushed the binoculars against his arm. “Stop! Hurry, before they get away.”

“Look, stop, hurry?” He complied, chuckling. “How about hurry, stop, look? Or—”

“Shh!” She tapped him with the binoculars again, and he took them and focused. “How many? Can you tell?”

“Eight. Nine.”

“See any you like?”

“Nice red roan. Three buckskins. Aw, man, would you look at that bay.”

He offered her a turn with the binoculars, but she shook them off. “I can’t use those things. But I know which one you mean. He looks just like his daddy. Fabulous Spanish Sulphur Mustang stallion we call Don Quixote.” She nodded as he put the binoculars up to his face again. Stop, take a look, really see. “Give that boy another year, and you’d have yourself an endurance racer, a cutting horse, whatever your pleasure.”

“You won’t have any trouble finding him a good home.” He glanced at her. “If you’re having trouble with numbers, show me what’s left after the next auction.”

“We can usually place a few more with special programs. Police units, military, youth programs, even prisons.”

“After all’s said and done, show me what’s left. Never met a horse I didn’t like.” He handed her the binoculars. “I’d sure like to see that bay up close.”

“You will. They’re getting cut this week.”

“All of them?”

“Only the ones with balls. If you like the bay when you see him up close, he could be spared.” She smiled at him as she snapped the glove compartment shut. “Which puts his balls in your court.”

“Damn.” He chuckled as he lifted his hand to the key in the ignition.

“He’d make a wonderful stud.” She stayed his hand with hers and slid to the middle of the bench seat. “This is my favorite time of day. Between sunset and dusk. Late meadowlarks, early crickets.”

He said nothing. The enigmatic look in his eyes wasn’t what she expected. Maybe she’d misread his signals. Maybe her receptors were on the blink. Life’s ultimate joke. Just when she was getting the go light on all major systems except her troublesome right eye, which wasn’t a major system at the moment.

She would not take this lying down.

Who was she kidding? She’d take him any way she could get him, but in a small pickup, lying down wasn’t gonna happen.

Alternatives?

“Did you ever go parking in your father’s C10?” she asked.

“He was dead and the pickup was gone by the time I started meetin’ up with girls after sunset.”

“Where did you meet them?”

“Down by the river. You’re fifteen and you get a chance to be with a girl, you’re not lookin’ to take the high ground.”

“Fifteen?”

“Late bloomer.” He moved the seat back as far as it would go and put his arm around her. “I like this time of day, too, Sally.”

He leaned over her slowly, fingers in her hair, thumb grazing her cheek, lips moistened and parted just enough to make hers quiver on the cusp of his kiss. He made her feel dear and delicate, and she was having none of it. She slipped her arm around his neck and answered his sweet approach with her spicy reception. She was no weak-kneed quiverer. She could match him slam for bam and thank you, man. She didn’t need coddling, and she told him as much with a heat-seeking kiss.

The catch in his breath pleased her. The new-found need in his kiss thrilled her. She answered in kind, kissing him like there was no time like the present. Because there wasn’t. Deep, caring kisses like his were rare. She drew a breath full of the salty taste and sexy scent of him and grazed his chest with her breasts. They drew taut within her clothing. She pushed her fingers through his hair, curled them and rubbed it against the center of her palm. She would fill her senses with him while she could, because she could. She slipped her free hand between them, found his belly, hard and flat as his belt buckle. She took the measure of both.

He nuzzled the side of her neck and groaned. “I’m not fifteen anymore,” he whispered. “I can wait.”

“Why would you? I’m not a girl.”

He raised his head and smiled at her. “In this light you could be. Young and scared. A little confused, maybe.”

She frowned. “But since I’m none of those things…”

“I don’t know that.” He caressed her face with the backs of his fingers. “Who said you could call all the shots?”

“Is there something wrong with me?” She swallowed hard. “I mean, something you don’t like?”

“Uh-uh. Everything looks just right.”

“Looks can deceive.” She dragged her fingers from his belt to his zipper. “But this feels right.”

“You don’t wanna believe that guy.” He moved his hips just enough to let her know that there was nothing wrong with him, either. “No matter what the question, he’s only got one answer.”

“He’s honest,” she whispered. “Stands up for what he believes in.”

He kissed her again, so fully and thoroughly that the taste of his lips and the darting of his tongue, the strength of his arms and the sharp intake of his breath satisfied all her wishes. She had feeling in every part of her body. She didn’t want it to go away, not one tingle, not one spark, and she reached around him and held him the way he held her. Maybe more so. Maybe harder and stronger and more desirous of him than he could possibly be of her, but she was honest. Her embrace was true to what she felt, and feeling was everything.

“Easy,” he whispered, and she realized she had sounded some sort of alarm, made some desperate little noise. “You okay?”

She nodded. Laughed a little. God, she was such a woman. She was the one who was scaring him.

“Look at Phoebe,” he said, and she turned toward the back window and laughed with him even though she couldn’t really see anything. Her right eye had gone dark and her left was looking at the top of the seat. “I’m not hurtin’ her, Phoeb. I swear.”

The dog barked.

“Tell her,” he whispered.

“I’m okay, Phoebe.”

The dog jumped out of the box and up on the passenger’s side door.

“Don’t—”

Too late. Sally had already opened the door, and the dog was in her lap.

“Cut it out, Phoeb. I didn’t break her. Down!”

Phoebe sat on the floor and laid her head on Sally’s thigh.

Sally stroked her silky head. “The physician’s assistant’s assistant. We girls look after each other, don’t we, Phoebe?”

“You can tell she’s never been parking.”

“It can be almost as much fun as skinny-dipping.” Sally smiled into the big, round eyes looking up at her from her lap.

“And almost as risky,” Hank said. But he still had his arm around her shoulders, and she loved the way it felt.

“I won’t hurt him either, Phoebe. I swear.”

* * *

Hoolie came out of the bunkhouse to meet them as soon as they parked his truck.

“You had a call from your favorite neighbor,” he told Sally. “Claims a loose horse caused him to run into the ditch. I drove all the way up to his place and back, didn’t see nothin'. No horse, no fence down, nothin'. Did you see anything?”

“We saw horses.” Hank tossed Hoolie his keys. “Nice ride.”

“They’re right where they’re supposed to be,” Sally said.

“Except the high one Damn Tootin’ rode in on. He said he reported the incident to the sheriff. You know what he’s tryin’ to do, don’t you?”

“Drive me to commit murder?”

“Build some kind of a case. You know how he loves to sue people.”

“Good. We’ll kick his ass in court. That might be more fun than murder.”

“Maybe he’s trying to wear you down.” Hoolie planted his hands on his indeterminate hips. “Keep you dancin’ till you drop.”

Sally sighed. “The trouble is he’s got friends in high places.”

“So do you,” Hoolie said. “Maybe not so much around here, but there’s high places all over the country, and they’re full of horse lovers.”

“Good point.” Sally glanced at Hank. “The trouble is, sometimes those high places are too far off. All politics is local.”

“A politician is your friend until he gets a better offer.”

“The trouble is we don’t have any more to offer.”

“I didn’t say more. I said better.” Hoolie folded his arms. “Don’t dance for him. You can put your energy to better use. Not to mention your considerable imagination.”