Cowboy on the Run Read online

  More important, he was a determinedly unmarried Montana man.

  And at the moment, thanks to them, he was a Montana man on the run.

  Rance couldn't remember the last time he had slept in his truck.

  Well, actually, if he thought about it very long, he probably could. In the days when he'd been rodeoing, sleeping in his truck was normal. There was no point in renting a place to live; he would never have been there.

  But way back then he'd been younger and a damn sight more limber. He woke up this morning with a crick in his neck, a pain in his back and an ache in the arm he'd broken back in Pendleton eleven and a half years before.

  But, he noted, pleased as he looked around, there wasn't a single tour bus in sight. No female had written a sexy come-on in lipstick on his windshield. And his pager wasn't beeping with a dozen more messages from contenders determined to be the "woman of his dreams"—only because when he'd left last night he'd made up his mind to leave his pager and cell phone at home.

  The only thing he could see in any direction was forest and the remnants of the winter's snowfall in patches here and there on the ground. The only thing he could hear was the drip of melting snow and the call of birds in the trees. He wasn't sure exactly where he was. Somewhere in southern Montana, somewhere deep in the mountains.

  Somewhere wonderful, a long way from home.

  He sat up and cranked down the window and took a long lungful of cool spring mountain air. It was cool and sharp and refreshing. It made him feel better than he had in months.

  His arm still ached and his back and neck were still stiff, but he didn't care. The arm would throb now and then wherever he was. His neck and back would improve once he got moving around. But just knowing that there were no tour buses around the next bend and that, at any given moment, no eligible women were going to jump out at him from behind the nearest lodgepole pine, made him breathe easier and more expansively than he had in months.

  He opened the door and climbed out, wincing as he turned to push the door shut with his aching arm. But as he did so, he realized that the ache in it was more from all the roping and wrestling calves that he'd done yesterday during the branding than from the night in the truck. Oddly, that improved his frame of mind further.

  It was as if the reality of the tour bus and the women had less impact here—as if he'd been right to come.

  As he stood there looking around, he remembered something that Taggart Jones, one of his rodeo buddies, once said. Taggart had always been the guy Rance had looked to for inspiration. A single dad who'd brought his small daughter down the road with him during most of his rodeo career, he'd always managed to keep his priorities straight and get the job done at the same time.

  "Whenever the pressure gets to me," Taggart had explained once, "I take a step back. Or a step up," he amended, "if I'm home."

  Rance, mystified, had shaken his head. "Huh?"

  "When I'm on the back of a bull," Taggart explained, "it's like that is the only thing that matters. The world shrinks down that far. It isn't true, but it feels like it is—so other times I step back. I go for a drive. A ride. If I'm home, I climb a mountain."

  "A mountain?"

  Taggart nodded. "I get a new perspective when I do. I see what's important more clearly. And believe me, the biggest, rankest bull around looks pretty damn small from up there."

  Rance wondered if a tour bus would, too.

  God knew he needed a different perspective. A new focus. A sense of direction.

  He started to climb.

  He wasn't sure how long he walked up the narrow path toward the summit. Long enough to regret wearing cowboy boots, certainly. Long enough to wish he'd brought Spider, his black gelding, and a bottle of water along. Long enough for some of his cares to recede as he made his way upward through the pine forest toward the rough snow-pack that led to the peak. Long enough for his thoughts to roam, for his attention to wander.

  He didn't notice the skunk.

  One minute he had nothing more to worry about than plenty of success, far too many women and how best to avoid the matrimonial mousetrap—and the next he was worrying about where his next breath would come from.

  "Argh! Damn it!"

  Rance put a hand over his face, gagging and stumbling backward away from his black-and-white nemesis. But it was too late. Duty done, the skunk lowered its tail and, with a backward sniff, waddled off up the mountain.

  So much for a new perspective.

  Rance had started stumbling back toward his truck, when suddenly he heard a crashing through the trees behind him, and a saddled but riderless horse came into view.

  Instinctively he started toward it, to try to grab the loose reins. But one whiff of him and the horse turned and bolted away.

  "Hey!"

  But he wasn't going to catch it by shouting. Chances were he wasn't going to catch it at all. In fact, it was probably the smell of skunk that had spooked it in the first place.

  And its rider?

  "Oh, hell!"

  Somewhere up there, Rance realized, someone had been thrown. Someone could be hurt or unconscious. He started to run.

  He'd gone no more than a couple of hundred yards when he spotted a boy limping his way. The boy wore faded jeans, a jacket, cowboy boots and a baseball cap. All of him was dusty, as if he'd just been pummeled into the dirt. He cradled his left arm against his chest.

  Rance hurried on. "You all right?" he called.

  The boy caught a whiff of him and began backing away. "You seen my horse? I gotta catch my horse." He moved out of Rance's path, presumably to give him—and his smell—wide berth.

  "He went that way." Rance jerked his head. But when the boy started in that direction, Rance added, "You can't catch him on foot."

  "Got to." The boy kept on going. Then he stumbled over a root and almost fell.

  Rance went after him. "Wait up."

  But he didn't. He just kept going, still hugging his arm against his chest. If he hadn't stumbled again, and fallen this time, the kid might never have stopped.

  He was struggling to get up, his face white with pain, when Rance knelt beside him.

  "Hold still. Don't move."

  "I'm all right." Once more the kid tried to get up, and Rance, seeing that he was not going to be held down, set him on his feet with the least jolting possible. The movement clearly caused pain. The kid's face was tight-lipped and drawn.

  "You're not all right," Rance said. "You've got a broken arm."

  "Do not." The boy rubbed his arm, as if that would make it better. "I can't have a broken arm." There was just the smallest waver in his voice.

  "Be nice if you didn't," Rance agreed gently. "But I think the chances are slim. Come on. I'll take you home."

  The boy didn't move. "I gotta get the cattle."

  "You're not getting any cattle when you've got a broken arm."

  "Got to. It's my job. We all gotta do our share."

  Rance wondered if the kid had hit his head. Or was he quoting his old man? "No cattle," he said firmly. "No way. Now come on. Somebody else can get your cattle."

  "My job," the boy muttered. "I said I'd do it. Cripes, Ma will kill me."

  Ma? The old lady was the one who wore the pants in the family? Well, stranger things happened, Rance guessed. Carefully he brushed dirt and twigs off the kid's clothes. "Nobody's going to kill you. It wasn't your fault."

  "I shoulda hung on. I shoulda seen—"

  "You couldn't see. I didn't see," Rance said reasonably. "And I was right on top of him."

  The boy didn't look convinced. He just shook his head. "What're we gonna do?" he asked, but the question wasn't directed at Rance. In fact he thought the kid was talking to himself more than anyone else.

  "Somebody else'll get 'em," Rance told him.

  "Ain't nobody else." The boy sighed. "We got enough problems without this." Then he muttered again, "Ma'll kill me."

  "She ought to be glad you're alive."

  Why th
e hell was she sending a boy to do a man's job, anyway? The kid couldn't be more than ten—and a scrawny ten at that. You might send a ten-year-old to bring in cattle where the going was easy. But bringing them down out of these mountains was a job for an experienced hand.

  And Rance intended to tell the woman so when he saw her. "Come on," he said again. "Let's go."

  But the boy was heading off into the woods again. "I gotta catch Sunny."

  Rance rolled his eyes. "For crying out loud! Forget it. The damn horse is probably halfway to Helena by now!"

  The boy looked back at him, stricken. "He can't be! He isn't gone for good, is he?" There was a note of panic in his voice now.

  From what Rance had seen of the shaggy, sway-backed buckskin that had bolted past him, it wouldn't have been a big loss if he was. But he supposed the kid was attached to the animal.

  "No," he said placatingly. "I don't reckon he's gone for good. He'll probably just run off his spook, then head for home. Heck," he added in an attempt to cheer the kid up, "he'll likely get there before you do."

  The kid really did look panic-stricken now. "He can't! If he comes home without me, Ma will die."

  Rance thought the boy's mother must be some piece of work. First she was going to kill the kid herself, then if she thought something had happened to him, she was going to die. She sounded worse than his own old man.

  But all he said was, "So you need to get home and prove you're not dead, right? Well, come on. If we hurry, your mom won't worry as long."

  The kid didn't hesitate now. Still clutching his arm against his chest, he followed Rance down the mountain toward the truck.

  Rance moved carefully, keeping his pace slow and picking the trail with an eye to keeping it as easy as possible. Every few feet he glanced back to see if the boy was doing all right. The kid's lower lip was caught between his teeth, and his upper lip had a thin line of perspiration attesting to his pain, but he never said a word as he followed Rance, uncomplaining.

  Stubborn and uncomplaining. And determined to do a man's job. Rance didn't know a lot about kids—he'd spent his adult life professing no interest in them lest his father get any more dynastic urges—but he was impressed with this one. He thought this one was tougher than the average bear.

  He glanced back over his shoulder once more. "What's your name?" he asked the boy.

  The kid didn't look up, just kept his eyes on his feet to make sure he didn't slip or fall. "Josh. Josh O'Connor."

  "I'm Rance Phillips." For an instant he held his breath for the inevitable wide-eyed, knowing look he got from men and women alike. But Josh O'Connor, bless his heart, didn't seem to read Prominence Magazine. At least Rance's name caused no sign of recognition.

  Rance grinned his relief. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Josh O'Connor. You just tell me where to go and we'll have you home in no time."

  Josh gave him directions, but he wouldn't ride in the cab. "Rather stay in back," he said. "You kinda stink," he added frankly when Rance opened the door for him.

  There was no arguing with that. "Fair enough." So he lifted the boy over the side into the back of his truck, ignoring Josh's protest that he could do it himself. "Of course you can," he said. "Just humor me."

  The ride to Josh's ranch took them several miles back down the highway, then onto a gravel road that cut to the right and began climbing back into the hills once more. It wasn't far as horses went. It took half an hour by truck.

  "Must be hard to get in and out of here in winter," Rance said when he got out to open the gate.

  "Sometimes we can't get out to go to school."

  "What a shame," Rance said drily.

  A flicker of a grin crossed Josh's face, the first one Rance had seen. But then the boy shrugged slightly, "Don't matter. Ma makes us study, anyhow."

  Josh's ma, Rance thought, must be one tough bird. He supposed she couldn't be all that old—forty probably or maybe fifty. But he had no doubt she'd be boot-faced and cranky—the flip side of the female coin from the eager air-headed bimbos who had plagued his life the past few months.

  He wondered idly if he could charm her. What good was it, after all, to be one of the world's most eligible bachelors if he couldn't sweet-talk one crabby old witch?

  It wasn't as if he was interested in enticing her into his bed. He only wanted to disarm her a little bit … make her lighten up a little, go easier on the kid.

  He did feel somewhat responsible for Josh's predicament. If he'd been paying attention, he might have avoided the skunk; then the horse might not have spooked; the kid might not have fallen or broken his arm; and his old lady wouldn't be about to kill him—or die herself.

  He couldn't fix the broken arm. But maybe he could make life a little easier for the boy. All that world-class charm he was supposed to possess ought to be good for something.

  Once they were inside the gate, the road narrowed to a rutted track. As the truck bumped along, every so often Rance caught sight of Josh's white face in the rearview mirror. "Hang in there," he called.

  Tight-lipped, Josh nodded his head.

  Fortunately they only went another half mile before the road curved and dipped into a small shallow valley where a snug story and a half ranch house sat. Across the yard from it there was a tree house, which made Rance think that at least someone knew that boys shouldn't have to work all day every day. Beyond the tree house was a barn and beyond that, a corral.

  In the corral Rance could see three horses watching with interest as two boys even smaller than Josh were trying to put up some new fence rails. Well, maybe not all day, every day—but clearly most of the day. And obviously Josh wasn't the only one she put to tasks beyond him.

  "Child labor," Rance muttered under his breath, visions of the old woman in the shoe floating around his head.

  Where the heck was her husband?

  Had she run him off?

  The sight of Rance's truck brought the boys working on the corral to their feet.

  "Ma!" one of them yelled.

  "Mom!" hollered the other one. "Somebody's comin'!"

  There was a movement on the far side of the clothesline, and from behind a line of flapping shirts, a woman came into view.

  She was slender and tall, with long, honey-colored hair pulled back from her face. She came toward him as he drove the truck into the yard. And he could see at once that she wasn't at all the boot-faced, humorless hag he'd imagined.

  She looked bright and smiling and young. Beautiful, in fact. Very much like a woman he wouldn't mind getting to know.

  Very much, in fact, like a woman he once had known. Then she looked at him, and her eyes widened, too. Her smile wavered.

  Rance's smile vanished. He brought the truck to a stop, then swallowed hard and stared, disbelieving. "Ellie?"

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Because it was Ellie. No doubt about it.

  Ellie Pascoe in the flesh.

  At least she'd been Ellie Pascoe when Rance had met her in his English class at Montana State all those years ago.

  She'd been the only thing he'd noticed. Her sparkling green eyes, scattering of freckles and long thick braid of honey-colored hair had made Ellie Pascoe the only attraction strong enough to distract him from thoughts of his recently shattered rodeo career.

  She was older now. There was obvious maturity in her body, in her face. But in essence she was the same. Nothing had changed much, Rance decided. Except her name.

  Now she was Ellie O'Connor.

  His jaw tightened at the thought.

  Of course, she'd talked to him about marriage that year. She'd been in love with him. It hadn't been a secret. And in his way Rance had loved her.

  But to him marriage meant perpetuating "the dynasty." It meant giving in to all those things his father wanted him to do—go to law school, find a wife, have a family.

  "I'm not gettin' married," he'd told Ellie more than once. He didn't see why it mattered. They had a good thing without talking ab
out the M word, didn't they?

  Apparently not good enough for Ellie.

  She must have wanted the ring and the Mrs. in front of her name worse than he'd thought, because when he'd come back to school the next autumn, eager to tell her about his summer working for a horse breeder in Ireland, Ellie wasn't there.

  At first he thought she'd just moved out of the dorms and into an apartment in town. But he hadn't been able to find her. Then classes had begun, and still she wasn't there. That was when he'd realized she might not have saved enough money to return to school. He knew she'd been working two jobs.

  Though he had no money beyond what he'd saved from the pittance the breeder had paid him that summer—and he certainly would never have asked his father for money—he would have helped her however he could.

  When he finally ran into her friend Leah, he demanded, "What's with Ellie? When's she coming back?"

  He remembered how Leah had looked at him, then shaken her head. "Ellie's not coming back."

  "Why not? Is money that tight? I can help. I—"

  "It's not money." Leah hesitated for a split second, then said flatly, "Ellie got married."

  The news was almost as unexpected as the sudden end of his rodeo career. Rance knew he must have stood staring at Leah, jaw hanging open, for at least a minute. Then, feeling like a fool for displaying his feelings so openly, he'd snapped his mouth shut, muttered something about "if that was the way she wanted it" and stalked away.

  He hadn't asked who Ellie had married. He hadn't wanted to know. Later he heard she'd wed a guy she'd grown up with. But at the time it was enough to know how little she'd cared about him!

  Obviously she'd wanted marriage more than she'd wanted love—his love, anyway! Well, fine, she could have it.

  If she didn't care about him, he wouldn't care about her. He wouldn't even think about her.

  And he hadn't—except rarely—until now.

  Now.

  Now he looked at this older version of Ellie again. She was looking at him as if she'd seen a ghost. Her face was as white as the boy's in his truck.

  And that was when he realized that the boy he'd given the ride to, the boy whose horse had been spooked—was Ellie's son!