The Trouble With Cowboys Page 2

  Annie proceeded with caution toward her afternoon caffeine fix. “I thought Sierra was working tonight.”

  Tina glanced away and caught her lip between her teeth.

  “What happened?”

  Brown eyes met hers. “She didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Annie. I kept her as long as I could, but she didn’t show up again last Friday, and Monday she brought Ryder with her—some trouble with the sitter. Now don’t get me wrong, he’s a little darlin’, but . . . well, he’s a four-year-old boy. . .” She finished with a wince.

  Annie’s stomach dropped to her dusty cowboy boots. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “I hated to do it in this economy, honey, and I tried to warn her, but it didn’t help. I mean, your sister’s a hard worker, and she was super for business—when she was here. ”

  Cowboys had lined up for their coffees on Sierra’s shift.

  “It’s okay.”

  “And she took some great photos for me . . .” Tina gestured at her new board menu with the close-ups of their most popular drinks. “She’s just got a lot on her plate with college and a little boy.”

  She filled a to-go cup with French roast and passed it across the granite counter with a lid. “On the house today.”

  Annie protested but gave up when Tina insisted. They made small talk for a few minutes while Annie sipped her coffee. Tina peppered her with questions about her new Arabian mare.

  “We got our issues of Montana Living today.” She gestured toward the stand of magazines. “I always read your column first. It’s your fault I went out and bought a horse for Rachel, you know.”

  Annie’s grandfather, a veterinarian, had started “Ask Avery” in the biweekly magazine. When he’d passed, they’d offered the column to Annie, changing the focus to horse training. It made her proud to carry on his legacy. Maybe the magazine was free, but it was offered in every store in Montana and read by residents and tourists alike.

  “You won’t regret buying the horse. If you have more questions, just give me a buzz.”

  Annie left the shop with a fresh cup of coffee and a massive headache. What will we do without Sierra’s income, God? And why didn’t she tell me she lost her job two days ago? What am I gonna do with that girl, Lord?

  She thought of Dylan’s request for help and wondered if she’d been too hasty in turning him down. No point crying over that spilt milk. She’d already given him the other trainer’s number.

  Annie turned toward her house rather than going to check on Mr. O’Neil’s new gelding as she’d planned.

  Outside her car window the sun shone brightly, casting shadows across the rocky peaks of the Gallatin Range, where snow still clung for dear life. Though spring hadn’t reached the higher elevations, it had wakened the valley, greening the grass and birthing colorful wildflowers alongside the rippling creeks. The sight lifted her spirits.

  When she pulled into the drive, she spotted Sierra’s rusty Buick by the barn. Pepper grazed in his pen, his long nose following her truck up the drive. She wanted to saddle up and head for the hills, let the cool spring wind whip her hair from her face, chase the worry from her mind.

  Instead she exited her truck and took the porch steps two at a time. Inside, the TV blared a cartoon. Ryder sprang from his spot on the floor. “Aunt Annie! You’re home!” He smothered her legs in an exuberant hug.

  “Hey, buddy.” She ruffled his soft, dark hair and fought the urge to pinch his chubby cheeks—an action he hated—when he gazed up at her with adoration.

  “Where’s your mommy?”

  The blender roared to life in the next room.

  “Never mind.”

  After Annie removed her boots, Ryder tugged her hand. “Watch Batman with me.” He pleaded with his wide green eyes.

  “Not right now. Aunt Annie isn’t finished for the day.”

  Ryder plopped onto a pillow, the sulk fading from his baby face as he became reabsorbed in the cartoon.

  In the kitchen her sister shut off the blender, lifted the lid, and dipped her finger into the jar.

  “I just stopped by the Mocha Moose.”

  Sierra turned, wide-eyed. The dab of chocolate something on her finger fell to the linoleum floor.

  “You’re home early.” Sierra grabbed a paper towel and wiped up the drip.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you got fired?”

  Her little sister swiped her long auburn curls from her face with the back of her hand. “I tried.”

  “When?”

  “You’ve been gone a lot . . .”

  “Working!”

  “I know, I know. I just . . . I knew you’d be upset.”

  Annie wondered where Sierra had been the last two nights while Ryder had been with Martha Barnes. No doubt at the Chuckwagon, chatting up every cowboy within a five-mile radius, while the sitter tab ran up.

  She sank into a chair at the kitchen table and ran her hands over her face. Deep breaths. Help me out here, Lord. I don’t want to lose it, but she just doesn’t get it.

  Sierra perched on the chair across from her. Her small frame and delicate features had always made Annie feel protective. She was young, only twenty after all, and she’d hardly had a chance to be a kid.

  “I’m really sorry.” Sierra looked at the table.

  “I know you are. It’s just—” Annie sighed. She’d already said it a million times. After Sierra lost her jobs at Pappy’s Market and Food ’n Fuel. She didn’t have the energy for another recital of the Responsibility Speech.

  “You’re passing your classes, aren’t you?”

  Sierra lifted her chin. “Of course.”

  If Annie could just keep her sister going the right direction for one more semester, they’d be home free. Or so she told herself.

  “Maybe I can apply at the bank? Or the clinic?”

  “You need weekend hours. And I know for a fact the bank isn’t hiring.”

  “That’s right. How goes it with you and John anyway? What is it, two dates now?” Sierra shrugged, a crooked grin tugging her lips. “Not that I’m changing the subject or anything.”

  “John’s fine.” Annie didn’t want to talk about John or the fact that his first kiss had been about as sizzling as a damp firecracker.

  “You could do better, sis.”

  “He’s very responsible, and he has a stable job.”

  “Boooorrr-ring.”

  Annie didn’t know why she bothered. Sierra was just like their mother had been, falling for every cowboy who passed by, every sweet line thrown her way. It was the reason for Annie’s promise— one that seemed more impossible to keep by the day.

  Her cell phone pealed, and Annie glanced at it. The magazine. She left the table and walked toward the patio door, glad for the interruption.

  “Hi, Midge. How’s life in Bozeman?”

  “Looking good, like summer almost. I’m so ready.”

  Beyond the patio door the sky spread like a blue blanket over Paradise Valley.

  “Me too. The sun feels great today. Hey, my compliments on the new edition. I loved the article on upcoming rodeos.”

  “Yes, that seems to be a popular one.”

  “I turned in my next column last night. Did you get it?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I did.”

  “Is there a problem?” The readers’ questions had centered on a horse that wouldn’t take a bit and another that disliked shots.

  “It was fine. It’s just—I’m afraid there have been some changes at the mag. We’re doing a little restructuring.”

  “Restructuring?” Oh, please, Lord, not my column. Not now.

  “I’m sorry, but I was instructed to tell you that ‘Ask Avery’ is being cut.”

  “Cut?”

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re only getting a trickle of questions these days. My boss doesn’t think the column is relevant anymore.”

  A chair squawked across the floor, and then Sierra was beside her, frowning.

  “Half the state owns
horses, Midge. How can you say it isn’t relevant?”

  “Back in the day we got dozens of queries a month. Even when you first took over, we received a lot. But now . . . seems everyone’s finding their own answers online with Google and Wikipedia and such. It’s a self-serve culture. I’m sorry, I realize it must feel like the end of an era, what with your grandfather starting the column.”

  “It is hard to hear.” She’d felt as if she were keeping a little piece of him alive. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Sierra was supposed to graduate with her journalism degree and take the reins, shifting the column to a topic that better suited her. Or that had been Annie’s plan.

  On top of that, there was the matter of money. First Sierra’s job, now her part-time income. What was next? Her own business?

  “I do have an offer for you, Annie. You’re a wonderful writer and you have great judgment and a big heart. The higher-ups recognize that—I made sure of it—and we want to offer you first chance at a new column.”

  “What kind of column?”

  “Well, my boss was talking to a friend who writes for a regional magazine in Wyoming. They started a column last year, and it’s taken off like wildfire. He wants to do something similar at Montana Living, and he was on the cusp of asking the Wyoming columnist to write it, but I convinced him to give you a try. I think you’d do a wonderful job, if you’re interested.”

  “I am. Tell me about it.” Maybe it was a full-length column on horse training.

  “We want to start a lovelorn column.”

  “A—lovelorn column?”

  Sierra’s brows shot up.

  “I know it’s completely different from what you’re used to, but writing advice columns is more about voice and common sense, and you have both in abundance. The submission process is the same, and so is the pay. We’d call it ‘Ask Annie.’ There would be a three-month probation, since this is a new venture, but I have no doubt you’ll pass with flying colors. And if all goes well, there’ll be a raise down the line.”

  “Advice to the lovelorn.” Annie was the last person on earth qualified to write such a column.

  Sierra was smiling, nodding until her auburn curls bounced.

  “As I said, it’s been extremely popular in Wyoming. Specific relationship help is hard to find online, and women love reading about relationship issues. You have a way of being direct without being rude, and most importantly, you’re decisive. The best advice columnists are black-and-white. I think your style would be a nice fit.”

  Annie had an idea that grew roots in two seconds flat. It was brilliant. “Maybe you’d consider a different direction, Midge. My sister, Sierra, is nearly finished with journalism school—I’ve mentioned her before. Would you consider letting her give the column a try?”

  Sierra shook her head.

  Annie continued anyway. “I could send you some samples of her work. She’s a terrific writer.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie. I’m sure she is, but I barely convinced my boss to give you a try.”

  “I see.” Annie still hoped Midge might hire Sierra once she had her degree. She hadn’t worked so hard for nothing.

  “Are you not interested?”

  It wasn’t as if she could afford to turn it down. Besides, with the redheaded bobblehead next to her, all momentum was pointing toward yes.

  “Annie?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll do it. Thanks for the opportunity, Midge.” A niggle of worry flared in her stomach.

  “Super! I’ll let my boss know, and I’ll send the first batch of questions as soon as I get them.”

  “Terrific. I appreciate the opportunity.”

  Sierra was clapping silently, her eyes twinkling like Ryder’s on Christmas morning as Annie closed her phone.

  “This is going to be so fun!”

  “A real riot.”

  “Oh, stop it. I’ll help you.”

  Annie didn’t point out that Sierra had been in love a grand total of one time, or that her Prince Charming had left her high and dry with a baby.

  Ryder appeared in the doorway. “Is my shake ready, Mommy?”

  “Oh! I forgot about it, puddin’.” Sierra dashed to the blender and began scraping the shake into a plastic cup.

  “I have to get back to work. I’ll try to be home for supper.”

  “I’ll cook tonight,” Sierra called, and Annie knew she was trying to make up for getting fired.

  “Sounds good.”

  Outside Annie turned the key in her truck. The niggle of worry had spread through her body, leaving her limbs weak and shaky. Midge might have all the confidence in the world in her ability to write this column, but that was only because Midge didn’t know the truth: Annie Wilkerson had never even once been in love.

  Dear Concerned,

  A horse can become stressed when losing his sight, but that doesn’t mean he won’t adapt.

  3

  You look tired,” Dylan said over the loud hum of the propane heater. With the help of his neighbors, he’d vaccinated and branded all his calves in one afternoon.

  Wade shut down the heater, ushering in blessed silence. “That’s what happens when you’re working on four hours’ sleep.”

  “Don’t tell me the Code-meister was up all night again.”

  “This teething business is for the birds. Maybe Cody needs to spend a night with his Uncle Dylan tonight.”

  Dylan smiled. “Think this is a good time to remind you I’m only your kids’ honorary uncle. Maddy, however, is welcome anytime she’d like.”

  Wade pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Wouldn’t want to interfere with your swinging-singles lifestyle.”

  “Is that a little jealousy I hear, pal? Married life getting you down?”

  “Not a chance. I feel sorry for you, coming home to bologna sandwiches and a lonely bed.”

  Wade was joking, but his words hit the mark.

  Dylan grinned anyway, shaking an image of Annie Wilkerson from his head. “Well, we can’t all have an Abigail. She still taking classes?”

  After years as an investigative reporter, Wade’s wife had gone back to school for a teaching degree. Dylan couldn’t imagine anyone more suited for the job.

  “She just got out for the summer. Good thing, since she’s not getting any more sleep than me.”

  They put away the tools and horses, working mostly in silence. Braveheart snorted and tossed his head.

  Wade stopped by the stall. “He’s no better?”

  Dylan hung the saddle in the tack room and approached the stall where Braveheart stamped restlessly. “Don’t know what to do with him. Had a horse trainer from Sweet Grass out several times this week, but he’s getting nowhere.”

  “Never thought I’d see Braveheart go bronc-y like this.”

  “He’s afraid—can’t say I blame him. Just wish I knew how to help. Any ideas?”

  Wade shoved his hands into his pockets. “Maybe if he weren’t cooped up. Tried letting him out?”

  “I’m half afraid to, the way he spooks.” Dylan put out his hand, and Braveheart settled a bit, nickering softly. “Maybe you’re right. Nothing else is working.”

  He fetched a halter and lead and put them on the horse. “Better stand back,” he said, opening the gate.

  Braveheart snorted and tossed his head but followed Dylan’s lead through the barn. “That’s right, buddy. Let’s get you some fresh air.”

  At the threshold Braveheart stumbled and reared. Dylan tried to soothe him, but the horse darted sideways, squealing. His body barreled into Dylan and a hoof clipped Dylan’s knee.

  He hit the dirt hard, the breath leaving his body. Braveheart tore off for the field.

  Wade jogged toward Dylan. “You all right?”

  Dylan sucked in a breath, then accepted the hand up, dusting off the dirt. “Fine.” He frowned at his horse, now bouncing around the field, the lead swinging. “Getting him back in will be a challenge.”

  “Guess it wasn’t
such a bright idea.”

  “Maybe he’ll settle soon. Just hope he doesn’t hurt himself.” He was glad the horse was well away from the fence. Poor thing might just slam into it.

  “Need to get Annie Wilkerson over here,” Wade said. “Bet she could help him.”

  “I already asked her at the Chuckwagon last week.”

  “And here I thought you were only putting the moves on her.”

  “Yeah, that too.” For all the good it had done him. He’d had plenty of company that night, but he couldn’t deny his attention had been on the table for two in the corner instead of on his dancing partners.

  “She can’t do it,” Dylan said. “Too busy.”

  Wade tossed him a wry grin. “Time for some of that famous Taylor charm, then.”

  Dylan pressed his lips together. “Already tried. That’s about the time she gave me the other trainer’s number.”

  Wade laughed. “Immune to the Taylor charm. Love it. Maybe she discovered a vaccine. Maybe she’ll inoculate all the other gals in town.”

  “You’re a real hoot.” Maybe he should ask her again. That Roy was getting nowhere with Braveheart, and neither was he.

  “You know, one more woman isn’t going to scratch that itch of yours. One of these days, you’re gonna have to deal with what’s really stuck in your craw.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Wade stuffed his hands in his pockets again. “You’re running just as scared as Braveheart, and you know it.”

  Dylan clamped his jaw. Mighty brave of his friend to broach that subject. Brave or stupid. “My itches are getting scratched just fine, thanks very much.” He reached for a change of topic. “Anyway, I thought you liked Annie.”

  “She’s a sweet gal. But she’s seeing John Oakley, isn’t she?”

  “That’s just because she hasn’t had a taste of me yet,” Dylan said. He could hardly forget that the one time he had touched her she’d responded as if he’d jabbed her with a branding iron.

  “If Oakley’s the type she goes for, you’re dead in the water. ’Sides, best I could tell, she wasn’t looking so receptive at the Chuckwagon.”

  “Yeah, well, I know how to handle a woman who plays hard to get.”

  “Trouble is, pal”—Wade tossed him a sideways grin—“don’t think she’s playing.”