Cowboy in My Pocket (26 page)

Tag thought her fingers were shaking, but he couldn’t tell, not in the faint glow of candlelight. He felt tight as a coiled spring, so he took a deep breath to release some of the tension. “Can you ride?” he asked Mark.

“Not as well as you, I’m sure, but I did spend a few weeks over at Columbine Camp this spring. I learned a lot more about horses than I expected.”

“Will Twigg’s a good teacher,” Tag acknowledged. He’d much prefer a day alone with Michelle, but right now he needed the help. If Gramma Lenore had her way, Coop was definitely out of the question, and most of his crew would have their hands full up packing and loading the gear from the roundup, which left the Double Eagle more shorthanded than usual.

The ranch came first, his convoluted love life, if there even was one, would have to stay way down on Tag’s list of priorities. “We’ll leave at sunrise. I’ll have fresh mounts for both of you in front of the barn.” He chanced a quick glance at Michelle, then quickly turned and left the kitchen. The look of pain in her eyes was almost his undoing.

TAG UNSADDLED Nitro and dried him off before brushing the big stallion down. The horse shifted uneasily beneath his touch, obviously favoring his left rear leg. Tag leaned over and propped Nitro’s foot against the front of his thigh to check the shoe. A nail had come loose and the iron shoe was damaged.

Tag carefully pried the rest of the nails out of the animal’s hoof and removed the shoe. One more thing to worry about in the morning. The storm still raged overhead, but according to the satellite readings he’d checked on the computer earlier, it should blow itself out by first light. Hopefully he or Coop would have a chance to get Nitro reshod in the next day or two, but until then the horse was out of commission.

Tag patted the big stallion on the rump, then sat on a bale of hay outside the stall and wolfed down his supper. Even his taste buds were too exhausted to care what he ate.

Tag looked up just as Coop led his little sorrel cow pony into the barn. Water dribbled from the brim of the older man’s hat and his clothes appeared to be soaked clean through in spite of the heavy oilcloth slicker.

In the muted glow from the emergency lamps in the barn, Coop looked twice his age, his skin gray-tinged and the lines around his mouth deeply etched. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.

“Thanks for your help,” Tag said. He set his plate aside and took the reins from Coop. The poor old guy looked beat half to death, what with the past couple of hours of work that would have exhausted a younger man. Tag and Coop and a couple of the boys had pulled more than a dozen head of cattle out of flooded low spots near the creek. Hard to believe that lazy little stream could stretch sixty feet across and a good six feet deep at the middle after just one good storm.

Now Coop looked as if he were ready to fold. The two ranch hands were grabbing a quick bite of Gramma Lenore’s dinner at the bunkhouse, then heading back out for a second shift. Tag knew Coop expected to go out again in the morning, but if he were a bettin’ man, he wouldn’t bet Coop could make it to bed on his own, much less back on his horse in less than eight hours.

Thank goodness Michelle and her damned editor had agreed to help. Now, if he could figure out how to convince Coop to take a day off. “Why don’t you get some grub,” he said. “I’ll take care of the ponies. It’s been a pretty long day.”

“You’re darned right it’s been a long day.” Gramma Lenore stepped into the barn and shoved the yellow slicker back off her hair. “You’ve had this old man long enough, Taggart Martin. It’s my turn.”

Coop stared at Lenore, his mouth open in surprise and a twinkle in his eye that certainly hadn’t been there a moment earlier. He snapped his jaws shut. “So you say, eh, old woman?”

“So I say. You’re soaking wet, you haven’t eaten all day and you look exhausted. Now get your scrawny butt over to your room so I can get some of my good chicken dinner into you before you keel over. Then you’re gonna take a long, hot bath and soak some of the aches and pains out of that beat-up old carcass of yours.”

Tag would’ve said he was too tired and too miserable to grin, but right now he couldn’t help himself. As far as Coop and his grandmother were concerned, they were the only folks in the barn. He felt like a voyeur, watching the two people who’d been like parents to him, knowing their cantankerous arguing was just their brand of foreplay, a prelude to a fine night together.

He hoped they’d have lots of nights together. Coop had been absolutely miserable company over the past few hours, frettin’ over how to make things right with Lenore.

Coop took Lenore’s arm and guided her toward the back door of the barn that led to his private quarters at the far end of the bunkhouse. “Now, this here hot bath you’re talkin’ about . . .” Coop glanced back over his shoulder, grinned and winked at Tag.

Tag waved. “I’ve got you covered tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t get up early on my account.”

Coop positively beamed. Then he turned his attention back to the woman at his side. “Is this bath one I’ll be takin’ by myself, or is some sweet young thing gonna crawl in that big tub and wash my back for me?”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with a sweet young thing! Anybody besides me crawls in a tub with you, old man, and . . .”

Their voices disappeared as the door shut quietly behind them. Tag looked down at his muddy boots and thought of the big tub up at the line shack, of the scrubbing and loving he and Michelle had managed to share over the past two weeks.

He wondered what she was doing right now, if she thought of him at all, if she’d worried about him, out checking on his ranch in the storm.

His ranch. He did like the sound of that, even more knowing his grandmother had intended all along that it go to him.

Then he remembered Mark Connor. No reason for Michelle to worry about Tag, not when she had her fancy New York editor here to keep her company.

Until bedtime. Gramma Lenore had found Connor an extra bed in the bunkhouse. Unless, of course, Michelle invited him to stay with her. Tag hadn’t even thought of that. Maybe he should have.

Coop’s pony snorted and nickered. “Okay, little guy. I’ll get you dried off, too.” Tag put Michelle and Mark Connor out of his mind, grabbed the brush and an extra towel and went to work on the horses. At least with them he knew exactly where he stood.

MICHELLE WAS applying a bit of gloss to keep her lips from chapping when Mark knocked on the door. She knew it was Mark, recognized his knock just as she had known Tag’s hesitant step last night when, much later than she, he’d headed down the hall to his bedroom. She knew the exact moment he paused outside her door, felt the indecision filling his mind, and anticipated his quiet step as he’d continued on to his own room.

She had huddled there in the big, lonely bed and thought of following him, knocking on his door and joining him in the old double bed of his childhood room.

“Michelle? Are you ready to go? It’s getting late.”

“Coming, Mark.” She had to stop thinking of Tag like that. She grabbed a coat and her ratty-looking Stetson, jammed the hat down on her head and swung the door open.

She hardly recognized Mark. He stood there, leaning against the wall opposite her door, one jeans-clad knee bent, his worn cowboy boot resting against the baseboard behind him, thumbs tucked loosely in his front pockets. His jeans were faded and fit like a glove, the boots less worn but definitely not brand-new. His shirt was a pale blue chambray, the same color as his eyes. He wore a red kerchief tied around his throat.

“My goodness,” she said, accompanying her words with a low whistle. “Whatever happened to my fancy-pants New York editor? You almost look like a real wrangler.” Michelle shut the door behind her and stood in front of Mark, both hands resting on her hips. “There’s a side of you I guess I haven’t seen,” she said.

“What do ya mean, I almost look like a real wrangler. I am a real wrangler. Can’t you tell?” He adjusted his black Stetson just so. “If it looks like a cowboy, acts like a cowboy, et cetera, et cetera. I told you that trip to Columbine Camp made a big impression on me.” He laughed, shoved himself away from the wall and tucked her hand around his arm. “C’mon, sweetheart. We’ve got cows to wrangle.”

There was something to be said about the familiar, Michelle thought, especially when the familiar came packaged in faded blue jeans and a chambray shirt. She looked down at her hand, resting comfortably on Mark’s arm.

Something, but not nearly enough.

The sun was barely rising over the nearby hills, the air still carried a decided chill, and out in front of the barn Tag was saddling Chief. Bob the Dog crouched beside the gate, one ear pricked forward, his body in a state of readiness. He obviously had no intention of missing the fun.

Two other horses waited nearby, one a lanky dark red sorrel gelding, the other a compact buckskin mare. Tag glanced up as Michelle and Mark crossed the yard. Michelle tried to slip her arm free of Mark’s as unobtrusively as she could, but he suddenly tightened his grip.

She glared at him, he grinned back at her and carefully loosened his hold on her arm. “Good morning,” Michelle said, stepping quickly away from Mark. “I thought I’d be riding Daisy.”

She stroked the thick tan-colored neck on the buckskin and tangled her fingers in the black mane as she scratched along the horse’s neck. The animal snorted with pleasure.

“Daisy’s too inexperienced to work her around the creeks when the water is so high,” Tag said. “Marcia’s got a lot of . . .”

“Marcia?” Michelle turned the horse’s big head around so they faced each other. “You named a horse Marcia?”

Tag deadpanned. “Old girlfriend,” he said. “She had hair about that color. Unfortunately, she was built a lot like the horse: flat chest, skinny legs, broad rump.”

“I don’t think I need any more details.” Michelle grinned. “What’s that one’s name, or should I even ask?”

“Red.”

“Named after . . . ?”

“He’s red.” Tag looked at her as if she didn’t have a clue, but Michelle caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, proof he was struggling not to give way to that fascinating lopsided smile of his. They held each other’s gaze a moment longer than necessary. Then Tag broke the contact.

“C’mon, cowboy,” he said, gesturing to Mark. “Let’s get your stirrups adjusted.”

Mark mounted the red gelding easily, settled into the saddle as if he knew exactly what he was doing, and slipped his feet into the stirrups so Tag could adjust the length. Mark straightened his legs out to check the fit and thanked Tag.

Michelle mounted Marcia. Tag had saddled the mare with the same saddle she’d used for the past two weeks, so no adjustments were necessary. Tag swung his leg over Chief and settled into the saddle, while Bob the Dog barked and ran in circles around the horses. Mark’s horse snorted and pranced, Michelle’s followed suit and they all whirled about and headed out the main road.

The three horses tossed their heads and fought the bits as Tag led Michelle and Mark across the long valley in the direction of the flooded pasture. “Let’s give these ponies their heads and burn out some oats.”

Tag leaned forward and Chief practically exploded. Within seconds they were galloping across the flat ground, the easy rhythm of well-trained horses a pleasure at the faster pace.

Michelle laughed aloud, her legs gripped the mare’s sides and she felt as much a part of the animal as the leather saddle securely fastened to Marcia’s back. Mark cut loose with an Indian yell. Tag turned his head to laugh at both of them.

By late afternoon, galloping was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Michelle took a long swallow of water out of her canteen and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, then realized she’d transferred the mud on her shirt to most of her forehead and across her mouth. Mark sat hunched over in the saddle, his shirt mud-covered and torn and a large bruise from close contact with a calf’s hard head marking his left cheek.

He’d probably have a black eye in the morning.

Even Tag looked exhausted, but the missing cattle were almost all accounted for and they’d finished the work before sundown.

Ramón trotted up on his big bay. “Señor Tag, we found the missing cow and calf, the big Hereford you asked about.”

Michelle knew this particular cow was a key to Tag’s new breeding stock. Her calf, a healthy bull, was one of the few that hadn’t been castrated during roundup.

Tag turned and grinned at Ramón. “Why is it I have a feeling this isn’t good news?” Ramón shook his head and laughed aloud.

“Because you’ve been in this business too long, señor. The pair found a high spot in the middle of the creek. Unfortunately, it’s soft earth and appears to be shrinking . . . other than that, they’re just fine.”

Tag audibly sighed. “You up for one more rescue?” he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, Tag turned Chief’s head toward the trail Ramón was taking.

“You know, the weekly meetings with marketing are beginning to sound more appealing every minute,” Mark said dryly. He took a swallow of water and screwed the lid back on the canteen. “Coming, Michelle?” he inquired, as if inviting her in to tea. Then, before she could answer, he turned his horse’s head and trotted after Ramón and Tag.

Bob the Dog cantered along on Marcia’s heels as the tiny parade of humans and beasts worked their way closer to a rugged section of river canyon. They toiled their way higher into the canyon, passing huge piles of brush and trees that had washed into the river and formed a series of temporary dams.

The steady roar of the flood-swollen stream intensified as they passed one area where the flood from yesterday’s storm had carved a deep fissure through the earth. Rather than the wide flowing stream farther out in the valley, this water surged and frothed through a narrow section of rocky cliffs.

Just above it, standing hoof-deep in the rapidly sinking muddy island, stood Tag’s favorite Hereford cow and her calf.

Her white face was spattered with mud and she rested awkwardly on three legs, as if her right front one had been injured. The calf seemed healthy enough, but the water was rising quickly and it was obvious he was exhausted from his long night on their deteriorating refuge.