A COWBOY'S GIFT Read online

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

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  Chapter 1

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  D. A. "Gus" Holt had never stayed still for more than five minutes in his entire life.

  From the moment the doc had smacked his bottom in the hospital thirty-one years ago, Gus had been a goer, a doer—a hell-bent-for-mischief little boy who'd grown up into a hard-driving, hard-riding, hard-living, bronc-ridin' cowpoke.

  The road didn't exist that Gus hadn't been down. The bronc didn't buck that he hadn't rode—or at the very least tried.

  Gus was known for his try—that almost mystical blend of cowboy guts and will—which, when combined with God-given bullheadedness and Gus's occasional determined stupidity, had over the years helped him accomplish almost any damn thing he chose.

  It had kept him competing in spite of three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder the first year he'd had a chance to go to Vegas for the National Finals. It had brought him out of the hospital with his ankle in a cast to win in the short-go two years ago at Cheyenne. It had helped him drive eleven-hundred miles in way less time than the highway patrol would have approved of to make his ride on Ground Zero, the best bucking horse of the year, in Pendleton a year ago September.

  It had kept him going for a dozen years.

  But it wasn't helping now—because for the first time in thirty-one years, Gus didn't have a goal.

  He was drifting, lost, a ship without a rudder, a compass with no sense of north.

  For the first time ever, Gus didn't know what he wanted or where he was headed. Worse, he didn't even know how it had happened.

  He only knew he didn't have the desire anymore.

  And he didn't even have an excuse.

  Lots of rodeo cowboys lost their careers to injury. They woke up in a hospital with a doctor telling them they'd better find another line of work. Others hung up their spurs when they finished first. They won their gold buckle and, satisfied, they bowed out.

  Gus had had his share of injuries and docs telling him he'd be better off doing something else. But he'd never agreed with them, and he'd always fought to come back. He'd won his share of gold buckles, including the big one that everyone wanted. Three years ago he'd been the PRCA bronc-riding champion of the world. But even after he'd won it, he'd kept right on competing because he still had the drive, he still had the fire and the desire.

  And now he didn't.

  Just like that.

  Well, no, maybe not just like that.

  It didn't—bang!—vanish the way a tire popped. Nope. This was more like a slow leak. And, if he was honest, it had been going on for a while, sneaking inside his life, settling in and taking hold before he really realized it was there.

  He began to see it in little things. All those miles he drove had seemed longer this year. The satisfaction of an eighty-eight-point ride didn't feel as good.

  He didn't bounce up when he was down the way he used to. He creaked a little more when he got up in the morning, and it took him longer to work the kinks out.

  He might have felt more juiced if he'd been going to the Finals this year. Then he'd have had a goal at least.

  But for the first time in eight years, he wasn't going. Breaking his wrist in Dodge City this August had pretty much ended the possibility of that.

  He'd vowed to come back for a couple of rides at the end of the season. It was the standard, acceptable thing to say. And the day money might have been worth it if he'd won.

  But his wrist didn't feel real strong come mid-October, and the doc told him he'd be crazy to risk it.

  Being told he was crazy had never stopped Gus before.

  This time it did.

  And when Noah Tanner and Taggart Jones invited him to teach some classes at their bronc-riding school in Elmer, he'd skipped Minot and the Cow Palace and had gone to Elmer instead.

  That's when he realized something was seriously screwy. When a hell-raiser like him thought teaching school—even bronc-riding school—was preferable to giving his all in the rodeo arena, something wasn't adding up.

  He wasn't complaining exactly. He wasn't unhappy.

  He was just wondering where he was going with his life, what the point was.

  Deep stuff for a guy who pretty much wrote the book on being shallow.

  He'd come to Taggart's, figuring he'd get it all sorted out and take off again in a week or so. But he hadn't.

  He'd been here close to a month now, teaching three- and four-day clinics and helping with the ranch work the rest of the time. And he was no nearer understanding himself or what he wanted than he had been four weeks before.

  He felt like he was standing still, waiting for something to happen.

  It was happening—just not to him.

  It had been a shock and a half to find out that his brother, J.D., was getting married the weekend after next. And to Lydia Cochrane, for crying out loud!

  Gus hadn't ever figured J.D. for the marrying type. Over the years J.D. had gone through girlfriends the way Taggart's best bull went through heifers, and he sure hadn't given any sign of settling on one—until all of a sudden Lydia nailed him down.

  Gus wondered what the hell a woman like Lydia—a smart, city-girl lawyer—saw in a stubborn son-of-a-buck like his big brother.

  After all, J.D. wasn't near as good-looking as Gus was. Didn't have near the charm, either, no matter what all those old girlfriends might say.

  No sir, J.D. was just damn lucky.

  And that was another thing going wrong with his head!

  Here he was thinking his brother was lucky 'cause he was getting married!

  For heaven's sake, if he'd thought marrying was so all-fired wonderful, Gus knew he could've been married by now himself.

  For a dozen years, as a matter of fact.

  If he'd wanted to be. If he hadn't come to his senses in time. If he hadn't told Mary it wouldn't work out because he wasn't ready to settle down like some old man. Well, actually, if he hadn't said he'd be better off dead than getting married in a week's time.

  He probably shouldn't have said that.

  Mary hadn't taken it real well.

  Cripes, what was he doing, thinking about Mary?

  He never thought about Mary.

  Well, almost never.

  There was no point. He hadn't seen his ex-fiancée in years. Last he'd heard she'd moved to Arizona, had intended to go to college down there. That had been a long time ago.

  Arizona? College?

  Mary?

  Go figure, Gus thought as he prowled around the bunkhouse on the Jones ranch. All he knew was he had way too much time on his hands if he was thinking about her.

  Sometimes, when he'd been down in Scottsdale or Tucson or Window Rock riding broncs, Mary had crossed his mind, and he'd find himself wondering if she might come and watch him ride—for old-time's sake.

  He actually remembered daydreaming once or twice—after a couple of the rodeos he'd won—that she would come looking for him, that she'd come right up and slide her arms around him and tuck her hands in his back pockets the way she used to and kiss him like he'd never been kissed before. Or since.

  It was not restful, thinking things like that.

  And there he was again, thinking about restful!

  Decidedly restless, Gus kept pacing. Since when had he ever cared about restful? Well, he hadn't. Still didn't.

  But that was what happened when you were stuck in the middle of nowhere for weeks on end with nothing to do. He should've gone into Elmer tonight with some of the cowboys who'd come for the bull-riding school.

  The Dew Drop wasn't exactly your Million-Dollar Cowboy Bar, but he could've shot some pool, drunk s
ome beer, maybe set his sights on a little gal who was as lonesome as he was.

  Was he lonesome?

  Was that what was wrong with him? Gus flung himself down on the narrow wood-frame bed and considered the possibility.

  He couldn't ever remember being lonesome in his life. Hell, he'd never been alone in his life! He'd always had his brother or his buddies or a whole bevy of women to keep him occupied. Lonesome?

  No, he wasn't lonesome. He was just … just…

  Hell! He bounced back up off the bed. All this soul-searching wasn't gettin' him anywhere! He needed noise! People! Action!

  It was only ten o'clock. Still early. The Dew Drop wouldn't start rocking for another hour.

  He yanked a clean shirt out of the closet, tugged it on, buttoned it up, tucked it in. Then he buffed his cuff against his gold belt buckle, shrugged into his sheepskin jacket and clapped his black winter Stetson on his head.

  He felt better already. Full of purpose.

  Whatever he found at the Dew Drop had to be better than this!

  * * *

  He found cigarettes and smoke and a little honky-tonk music. Half a dozen local cowpokes lounged at the bar. More were playing cards and shooting pool. Two of the bull riders from Taggart's were playing pool, too. Three others, ones who'd had to peel themselves off the arena dirt quick this afternoon, were drowning their aches and pains in bottles of beer. A couple of buckle bunnies were chatting them up. Another had her arm looped through bull rider, Steve Hammond's, arm. They were heading out as Gus came in.

  Steve gave Gus a thumbs-up as they passed.

  "Don't do nothin' I wouldn't do," Gus said.

  Steve grinned. "No fear." Then he turned to the woman on his arm. "Not much ol' Gus wouldn't do."

  That was a fact. Gus grinned as the door banged shut behind him.

  "Hey, Gus!" One of the bull-rider pool players waved him over. "Wanta play doubles?"

  He snagged a beer, grabbed a pool cue and joined them. He tried to get interested. Gus did everything competitively, but it was hard to concentrate when everybody but him shot pool with one eye on the girls who came to watch.

  When a couple of the girls put their quarters on the table for the next game, he had hopes that it might get interesting, but it didn't. They didn't play well. They just batted their lashes and flirted, and his buddies flirted right back.

  Gus had done the same thing himself a thousand other times. It hadn't ever annoyed him before. It annoyed him tonight.

  He tried flirting, too, but he couldn't seem to get into it. His smiles felt forced. His teasing jokes sounded as flat to his ear as the beer tasted on his tongue.

  When one of the girls said, "Maybe you'd rather dance, sweetheart," he gave it a shot. But the music sounded flat, too.

  Maybe he was getting sick.

  But before he could decide if he was running a fever, one of the locals decided he didn't want Gus that close to his girl.

  "I ain't your girl, Tommy," the girl said.

  But Tommy had had enough alcohol to believe otherwise. "I said, take your hands offa' her." And he followed his words with his fist.

  Well, hell, Gus thought, his head snapping back with the force of the blow, this was more like it!

  He swung back, felt the solid crack of his fist against the local cowboy's jaw.

  "Git 'im, Gus!"

  "C'mon, Tom!"

  After that it was pretty much a free-for-all. Twenty minutes, one black eye and two loose teeth later, Gus was on his way back to the ranch. And even though he was pretty sure it was one of the bull riders, not Tommy, who had given him the shiner and the loose teeth, he didn't complain.

  Hell, no.

  A guy felt alive when he came out swinging.

  Leastways, Gus thought with a sigh, he always used to.

  * * *

  "Nice shiner." Taggart studied Gus's eye with interest when Gus showed up at the house for breakfast the next morning. "Didn't realize that bronc you were 'demonstrating' on yesterday nailed you."

  "Didn't," Gus muttered. He slid into the chair beside Becky, Taggart's daughter.

  "What happened?" she asked, her eyes wide with worry. Gus shrugged awkwardly. "Ran into a door," he mumbled. He shouldn't have come up for breakfast. He should've known better. But he hadn't given it much thought this morning, even though three or four of the guys had remarked on how good a time he must have had last night.

  In the old days Gus would've grinned and agreed with them. This morning he'd just shrugged on his way up to Taggart's house.

  He came every morning for breakfast. "It's part of the deal," Taggart had told him when he'd first arrived. "Home cookin' is part of your wages. You're welcome to eat with us anytime."

  At first Gus had come because Taggart's wife, Felicity, was a darn good cook, and home-cooked meals were pretty much a novelty in his life.

  So, it turned out, was being part of a family, hunting up lost-at-the-last-minute math books for Becky and cutting toast into skinny "firewood logs" for Willy and Abby, the three-year-old twins, and listening to all the chatter. He figured he'd get sick of it darn fast and make do with the coffee and doughnuts the other cowboys went after.

  But he'd been coming up to the house for breakfast all month as well as for dinner. He actually liked it.

  "You should've put ice on it right away." Felicity studied his eye as she set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. "We always have plenty. It's an occupational necessity in these parts."

  "Did you do it last night? You could have called. I would've brought you some ice," Becky said eagerly.

  Becky was all eagerness these days, and as devoted to Gus as Gus was to breakfast.

  He was still trying to come to terms with her as a teenager.

  She sure didn't look like the little kid he remembered. She reached his chin now and had this amazing long straight brown hair. Before Taggart had married Felicity, he'd always kept it chopped short because, he said, it was a whole lot easier to take care of.

  Now it was long and thick and reminded Gus of Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders' hair. There was a terrifying thought. Even more terrifying was realizing that even though Becky didn't have the shape of a Cowboys cheerleader yet, there were definite signs of curves in a shape he remembered as fence-post straight when she'd been a little girl.

  The realization made him feel awkward. And old.

  Now he glanced sideways at her sitting next to him at the table and said gruffly, "I ain't such an old man that I couldn't have hobbled up here and got some ice if I'd needed it. My eye's fine. I can still see through it. I can see you got oatmeal on your chin."

  Hastily Becky wiped at her face. She looked flustered. The tips of her ears turned red.

  "I was just kiddin'," he said after a moment, not wanting to have made her uncomfortable.

  "Oh!" Becky brightened at once, then flashed him a thousand-watt smile. "That's okay, then." She dug into her oatmeal eating again. Her elbow bumped his. "Oops."

  "You don't want to go to J.D.'s wedding with a black eye," Felicity decided.

  Gus didn't want to go to J.D.'s wedding at all. Weddings had never been his thing. He'd shied away from them completely since … since he'd ducked out on his own.

  "I'll get some ice." Becky shoved back her chair so quickly it tipped over. She scrambled to right it. "Sorry," she said again. Now her cheeks were red, too.

  Gus wondered when she'd developed this inability to walk through a room without knocking over furniture. He'd thought that was the province of teenage boys.

  Sighing, Becky finished wrapping the ice in a plastic bag and a dish towel. "Here." She poked it at Gus's eye. He reached for it. Their hands collided. The ice fell into his lap.

  "Ohmigod! I'm sorry! I—"

  Gus grabbed for the bag as the ice scattered everywhere. "It's okay. No sweat."

  But Becky, her face now scarlet, dropped to her knees to begin picking it up. Willy and Abby plunged beneath the table to help.

&nb
sp; "Let them do it," Taggart said, dragging Becky to her feet. "We gotta go."

  Becky stumbled up, looking and not quite looking at Gus. "I didn't mean… Well, I … I hope your eye's better, Gus."

  He flashed her a grin. "Don't worry about me. No damage really. See you later."

  Becky swallowed and flashed him another thousand-watt smile. "Yeah. Right. That'd be great."

  Taggart hauled her out the door.

  "Beck's going through just a little bit of an awkward phase," Felicity said.

  Gus blinked. "Is she?"

  Well, she wasn't the only one.

  * * *

  His lack of intensity bothered him.

  He puzzled over it all day long. All the time he was talking about muscle memory and focus to a bunch of green, bronc-rider wannabes, he tried to figure out why they had so much drive and he didn't.

  Where had it gone?

  Did it just evaporate? Was that normal?

  He asked Noah Tanner while they were eating chili at lunch. "Did you just sorta lose it one day?" After all, Noah had once been bronc-riding champion of the world, too.

  "Lose it?" Noah frowned.

  "Wantin' to ride. It matterin' if you rode. I know you had the accident and it changed things…" Everyone in rodeo remembered the car wreck right after Noah and Taggart both won gold buckles at the NFR. They'd retired a few months later. "But before that … did you ever feel … I don't know … like there was somethin' missing?"

  Noah shook his bead. "Nope."

  But Taggart said, "Yeah," and Gus looked at him hopefully. "Becky," Taggart said. "I was busy runnin' around, and she wasn't there."

  "Maybe you've got a kid somewhere," Noah said cheerfully. "Like I did."

  His daughter, Susannah, had been a big surprise to Noah when, seven years after the fact, he'd found out he was a dad.

  "God, I hope not!" Gus felt as if he'd been punched.

  But it was sure something to think about. He started wondering—and worrying. There had been women since Mary. He couldn't deny it. But he'd been careful—always—to be sure that both he and the lady in question were protected. He wasn't worried about them.

  But what if Mary had—