Iron Cowboy (4 page)

Harley beamed. “I'd be happy to!” He climbed down gracefully out of the saddle and held the reins, waiting for Sara. “Are you going to adopt one of the puppies?”

She blinked. “Well, I hadn't thought about that. I have a cat, you know, and he really doesn't like dogs much. I think one tried to eat him when he was younger. He's got scars everywhere and even dogs barking on television upsets him.”

He frowned. “But you came to see the puppies…?”

She showed him her drawing pad. “I came to sketch the puppies,” she corrected, “for the children's book I'm writing.”

“Someday she's going to be famous, and we can all say we knew her back when,” Lisa teased. “I'll have coffee ready when you're done, Sara. I made a pound cake, too.”

“Thanks,” Sara called after her.

Lisa waved as she took the baby back into the house.

Harley tied his horse to the corral fence and walked into the dim confines of the barn with Sara. In a stall filled with fresh hay were five puppies and Bob the Collie. She was nursing the babies. In the stall beside hers was Puppy Dog, Lisa's dog, no longer a puppy. He looked exactly like Tom Walker's dog, Moose.

“A girl dog named Bob,” Sara mused.

“Boss said if Johnny Cash could have a boy named ‘Sue,' he could have a girl dog named Bob.”

“She's so pretty,” Sara said. “And the puppies are just precious!”

“Three males, two females,” he said. “Tom's got first choice, since they're Moose's grandkids.” He shook his head. “He's taking Moose's loss hard. He loved that old dog, even though he was a disaster in the house.”

“Moose saved Tom's daughter from a rattler,” Sara reminded him. “He was a real hero.”

“You want a chair?” he asked.

“This old stool will do fine. Thanks anyway.” She pulled up the rickety stool, opened her pad and took her pencils out of her hip pocket.

“Will it make you nervous if I watch?”

She grinned up at him. “Of course not.”

He lolled against the stall wall and folded his arms, concentrating on the way her hand flew over the page, the pencil quickly bringing the puppies to life on the off-white sheet. “You're really good,” he said, surprised.

“Only thing I was ever good at in school,” she murmured while she drew. She was also noting the pattern of colors on the pups and shading her drawing to match. Then she wrote down the colors, so she wouldn't forget them when she started doing the illustrations for her book in pastels.

“I can fix anything mechanical,” he said, “but I can't draw a straight line.”

“We all have our talents, Harley,” she said. “It wouldn't do for all of us to be good at the same thing.”

“No, it wouldn't, I guess.”

She sketched some more in a personable silence.

“I wanted to ask you in the bookstore, but we got interrupted,” he began. “There's going to be a concert at the high school this Saturday. They're hosting a performance by the San Antonio Symphony Orchestra. I wondered if, well, if you'd like to go. With me,” he added.

She looked up, her soft eyes smiling. “Well, yes, I would,” she said. “I'd thought about it, because they're doing Debussy, and he's my favorite composer. But I didn't have the nerve to go by myself.”

He chuckled, encouraged. “Then it's a date. We could leave earlier and have supper at the Chinese place. If you like Chinese?”

“I love it. Thanks.”

“Then I'll pick you up about five on Saturday. Okay?”

She smiled at him. He was really nice. “Okay.”

He glanced out of the barn at his horse, which was getting restless. “I'd better get back out to the pasture. We're dipping cattle and the vet's checking them over. I'll see you Saturday.”

“Thanks, Harley.”

“Thank
you.
”

She watched him walk away. He was good-looking, local and pleasant to be around. What a difference from that complaining, bad-tempered rancher who hadn't even sympathized with her when she'd almost drowned delivering his stupid books!

Now why had she thought about Jared Cameron? She forced herself to concentrate on the puppies.

Harley picked her up at five on Saturday in his aged, but clean, red pickup truck. He was wearing a suit, and he looked pretty good. Sara wore a simple black dress with her mother's pearls and scuffed black high-heeled shoes that she hoped wouldn't be noticed. She draped a lacy black mantilla around her shoulders.

“You look very nice,” Harley said. “I figure there will be people there in jeans and shorts, but I always feel you should dress up to go to a fancy concert.”

“So do I,” she agreed. “At least it isn't raining,” she added.

“I wish it would,” he replied. “That nice shower we got last Saturday is long gone, and the crops are suffering. We're still in drought conditions.”

“Don't mention that shower,” she muttered. “I was out in it, sliding all over Jeff Bridges Road in my VW, bogged up to my knees in mud, just to deliver Jared Cameron's books!”

He glanced at her. “Why didn't he go to the store and get them himself?”

“He's very busy.”

He burst out laughing. “Hell! Everyone's very busy. He could spare thirty minutes to drive into town. God knows, he's got half a dozen cars. That big fella who works for him is something of a mechanic in his spare time. He keeps the fleet on the road.”

“What sort of cars?” she asked curiously.

“There's a sixties Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, a thirties Studebaker and several assorted sports cars, mostly classics. He collects old cars and refurbishes them.”

“He arrived at our store in a truck,” she said flatly.

“From time to time that big fella wearing fancy suits drives him around.”

“Do you know where he came from?”

Harley shook his head. “Somebody said he was from Montana, but I'm not sure. He came here for a funeral about eight months ago. Nobody can remember whose.”

“A relative, you think?”

He shrugged. “It was at one of the old country churches. Mount Hebron Baptist, I think.”

“That's where I go to church,” she said, frowning. “Grandad's buried there. But I don't remember reading about any funeral in the bulletin for out-of-town people.”

“It was a private service, they said. Just ashes, not even a coffin.”

She pursed her lips and whistled softly. “I wouldn't like to be burned.”

“I would,” he said, grinning at her. “A true Viking's funeral. Nothing wrong with that. Then they can put you in a nice-looking urn and set you on the mantel above the fireplace. Nice and neat. No upkeep.”

She laughed. “Harley, you're terrible!”

“Yes, but I do have saving graces. I can whistle and carry a tune. Oh, and I can gather eggs. Just ask the boss's wife!”

They had a nice meal at the local Chinese restaurant and then Harley drove them to the high school. There were a lot of people on hand for the rare big city musical talent. Both Ballengers and their wives and teenaged kids, and a few of the Tremaynes and two Hart brothers and their families.

Harley caught Sara's arm gently to help her up onto the sidewalk from the parking lot, and then let his fingers accidentally catch in hers. She didn't object. She'd always liked Harley. It was nice, to have a man find her attractive, even if it was just in a friendly way.

He was smiling down at her when they almost collided with a man in line. The man, nicely dressed in a suit and a wide-brimmed top-of-the-line John B. Stetson cowboy hat, turned his head back toward them and green eyes glared belligerently.

“Sorry, Mr. Cameron,” Harley said at once.

Jared Cameron gave them both a speaking glance and turned his attention back to the line, which was rapidly moving inside. When he was out of earshot, Sara muttered, “He ran into us. You didn't have to apologize.”

He chuckled. “It isn't the place for a skirmish, you know,” he teased.

She grimaced. “Sorry, Harley. I don't like him, that's all. He's too full of himself.”

“He's just bought that huge ranch,” he reminded her. “He must live on a higher level than most of us. I guess he thinks he's above normal courtesies.”

She only nodded. She hadn't liked the antagonism in the tall man's eyes when he'd looked at Harley.

They got their tickets and found seats as far away from Jared Cameron as Sara could possibly manage. Then she lost herself in the beautiful musical landscapes created by the themes of Claude Debussy. Harley seemed to enjoy the concert as much as she did. It was nice to have something in common.

On the way out, they noticed Jared Cameron speaking earnestly with Police Chief Cash Grier, who'd shown up just after the concert began and stood at the back of the room. Sara wondered what they were talking about. But it was none of her business.

It was ten o'clock when Harley dropped her off at her home. She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Harley. I had a really nice time.”

“So did I. Want to go to a movie next Friday?”

Her heart jumped pleasantly. He liked her! She beamed. “Yes. I would.”

He chuckled. “That's great!”

He hesitated. So did she. Her experience of men was extremely limited. Her upbringing had been strict and unrelenting on the issue of morals. Her past wasn't widely known around Jacobsville, but her reputation was rock-solid. It was why she hadn't dated much. Harley knew that. But it didn't seem to bother him overmuch. After a minute's deliberation, he bent and brushed his mouth briefly, softly over hers. “Good night, Sara.”

She smiled. “Good night, Harley.”

He jumped back into the truck, waved and took off down the driveway,

She watched the truck disappear into the distance, frowning as she considered that brief kiss. It hadn't touched her. She liked Harley. She'd have loved having a steady boyfriend, just for the novelty of the thing. But she hadn't felt anything when he kissed her. Maybe you just had to work up to those feelings, she told herself as she unlocked her door and went inside. It was early days in their relationship. They had plenty of time to experiment.

It was the week after the concert before her nemesis placed another order. This time he did it on the telephone, and to Dee, who got to the telephone first early Monday morning.

“What a selection,” Dee exclaimed when she hung up. She read down the list, shaking her head. “Greek and Roman writers of the classics, some science fiction, two books on drug interdiction and two on South American politics. Oh, and one on independent contractors. Mercenaries.”

“Maybe he's thinking of starting a war,” Sara offered. “In some other country, of course.” She pursed her lips and her eyes twinkled. “Maybe he's anxious to skip town because he's so fascinated by me!”

Dee looked at her over her glasses. “Excuse me?”

“It's just a theory I'm working on,” she said facetiously. “I mean, I'm growing into a femme fatale. Harley Fowler can't resist me. What if my fatal charm has worked its magic on Mr. Cameron and he's running scared? He might feel a need to escape before he gets addicted to me!”

“Sara, do you feel all right?”

Sara just grinned. “I never felt better.”

“If you say so. I'll get these ordered.” She glanced at Sara. “He wants you to take them out to him on Saturday.”

Sara grimaced. “He just likes ruining my weekends.”

“He hardly knows you, dear. I'm sure it's not that.”

Sara didn't answer her.

On Thursday, Harley phoned with bad news. “I have to fly to Denver on business for the boss, and I'll be gone a week or more,” he said miserably. “So we can't go to the movies on Friday.”

“That's all right, Harley,” she assured him. “There will be a movie left when you get back that we can go see. Honest.”

He laughed. “You make everything so easy, Sara.”

“You have a safe trip.”

“I'll do my best. Take care.”

“You, too.”

She hung up and wondered idly why Harley had to go out of town just before they went on another date. It was as if fate was working against her. She'd looked forward to it, too. Now all she had to anticipate was delivering books to the ogre. It wasn't a happy thought. Not at all.

Well, she told herself, it could always be worse. She could be dating HIM—the ogre.

S
ara took the ogre's books home with her on Friday, just as she had the last time, so that she didn't have to go to town. At least it wasn't pouring rain when she went out to her car early Saturday morning to make the drive to the White Horse Ranch.

This time, he was waiting for her on the porch. He was leaning against one of the posts with his hands in his jean pockets. Like last time, he was wearing working garb. Same disreputable boots and hat, same unpleasant expression. Sara tried not to notice what an incredible physique he had, or how handsome he was. It wouldn't do to let him know how attractive she found him.

He looked pointedly at his watch as she came up the steps. “Five minutes late,” he remarked.

Her eyebrows arched. “I am not,” she shot back. “My watch says ten, exactly.”

“My watch is better than yours,” he countered.

“I guess so, if you judge it by the amount of gold on the band instead of the mechanics inside it,” she retorted.

“You're testy for a concert goer,” he returned. He smiled, and it wasn't sarcastic. “You like Debussy, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

She was taken aback by the question. “I like Resphigi, Rachmaninoff, Haydn and some modern composers like the late Basil Poledouris and Jerry Goldsmith. I also like James Horner, Danny Elfman, Harry Gregson-Williams and James Newton Howard.”

He eyed her curiously. “I thought a country girl like you would prefer fiddles to violins.”

“Well, even here in Outer Cowpasture, we know what culture is,” she countered.

He chuckled deeply. “I stand corrected. What came in?” he asked, nodding toward the books she was carrying.

She handed the bag to him. He looked over the titles, nodding and pulled a check out of his pocket, handing it to her.

“Is it serious?” he asked abruptly.

She just stared at him. “Is what serious?”

“You and the cowboy at the concert. What's his name, Fowler?”

“Harley Fowler. We're friends.”

“Just friends?”

“Listen, I've already been asked that question nine times this week. Just because I go out with a man, it doesn't mean I'm ready to have his children.”

Something touched his eyes and made them cold. His faintly friendly air went into eclipse. “Thanks for bringing the books out,” he said abruptly. He turned and went in the house without another word, closing the door firmly behind him.

Sara went back to her car, dumbfounded. She couldn't imagine what she'd said to make him turn off like a blown lightbulb.

The next day she went to church and then treated herself to a nice lunch at Barbara's Café in town. The ogre's odd behavior had disturbed her. She couldn't understand what she'd said to put that look on his lean face. She was upset because she didn't understand. She wasn't a woman who went around trying to hurt other people, even when they deserved it.

After lunch, on an impulse she drove back to her church, parked her car and walked out into the cemetery. She wanted to see her grandfather's grave and make sure the silk flowers she'd put there for Father's Day—today—were still in place. Sometimes the wind blew them around. She liked talking to him as well; catching him up on all the latest news around town. It would probably look as if she were crazy if anyone overheard her. But she didn't care. If she wanted to think her grandfather could hear her at his grave, that was nobody else's business.

She paused at his headstone and stooped down to remove a weed that was trying to grow just beside the tombstone. Her grandmother was buried beside him, but Sara had never known her. She'd been a very small child when she died.

She patted the tombstone. “Hello, Grandad,” she said softly. “I hope you're in a happy place with Granny. I sure do miss you. Especially in the summer. Remember how much fun we had going fishing together? You caught that big bass the last time, and fell in the river trying to get him reeled in.” She laughed softly. “You said he was the tastiest fish you'd ever eaten.”

She tugged at another weed. “There's this new guy in town. You'd like him. He loves to read and he owns a big ranch. He's sort of like an ogre, though. Very antisocial. He thinks I look like a bag lady…”

She stopped talking when she realized she wasn't alone in the cemetery. Toward the far corner, a familiar figure was tugging weeds away from a tombstone, patting it with his hand. Talking to it. She hadn't even heard him drive up.

Without thinking of the consequences, she went toward him. Here, among the tombstones, there was no thought of causing trouble. It was a place people came to remember, to honor their dead.

She stopped just behind him and read the tombstone. “Ellen Marist Cameron,” it said. She would have been nine years old, today.

He felt her there and turned. His eyes were cold, full of pain, full of hurt.

“Your daughter,” she guessed softly.

“Killed in a wreck,” he replied tonelessly. “She'd gone to the zoo with a girlfriend and her parents. On the way back, a drunk driver crossed the median and t-boned them on the side my daughter was occupying. She died instantly.”

“I'm sorry.”

He cocked his head. “Why are you here?”

“I come to talk to my grandad,” she confessed, avoiding his eyes. “He died recently of a massive coronary. He was all the family I had left.”

He nodded slowly. “She—” he indicated the tombstone “—was all the family I had left. My parents are long dead. My wife died of a drug overdose a week after Ellen was killed.” He looked out across the crop of tombstones with blank eyes. “My grandfather used to live here. I thought it was a good place to put her, next to him.”

So that was the funeral he'd come here to attend. His child. No wonder he was bitter. “What was she like?” she asked.

He looked down at her curiously. “Most people try to avoid the subject. They know it's painful, so they say nothing.”

“It hurts more not to talk about them,” she said simply. “I miss my grandfather every day. He was my best friend. He taught history at the local college. We went fishing together on weekends.”

“She liked to swim,” he said, indicating the tombstone. “She was on a swim team at her elementary school. She was a whiz at computers,” he added, laughing softly. “I'd be floundering around trying to find a Web site, and she'd make two keystrokes and bring it up on the screen. She was…a child…of great promise.” His voice broke.

Without counting the cost, Sara stepped right up against him and put her arms around him. She held on tight.

She felt the shock run through him. He hesitated, but only for a minute. His own arms slid around her. He held her close while the wind blew around them, through the tall trees that lined the country cemetery. It was like being alone in the world. Tony Danzetta was out of sight watching, of course, even if he couldn't be seen. Jared couldn't be out of his sight, even at a time like this.

He let out a long breath, and some of the tension seemed to drain out of him. “I couldn't talk about her. There's a hole in my life so deep that nothing fills it. She was my world, and while she was growing up, I was working myself to death making money. I never had time to go to those swim meets, or take her places on holidays. I wasn't even there last Christmas, because I was working a deal in South America and I had to fly to Argentina to close it. She was supposed to spend Christmas with me. She had Thanksgiving with her mother.” He drew in a ragged breath and his arms involuntarily contracted around Sara's slim figure. “She never complained. She was happy with whatever time I could spare for her. I wish I'd done more. I never thought we'd run out of time. Not this soon.”

“Nobody is ever ready for death,” Sara said, eyes closed as she listened to the steady, reassuring heartbeat under her ear. “I knew Grandad was getting old, but I didn't want to see it. So I pretended everything was fine. I lost my parents years ago. Grandad and I were the only family left.”

She felt him nodding.

“Did she look like you?” she asked.

“She had my coloring. But she had her mother's hair. She wasn't pretty, but she made people feel good just being around her. She thought she was ugly. I was always trying to explain to her that beauty isn't as important as character and personality.”

There was a long, quiet, warm silence.

“Why did you decide to live here?” she asked suddenly.

He hesitated. “It was a business decision,” he replied, withdrawing into himself. “I thought new surroundings might help.”

She pulled back and his arms fell away from her. She felt oddly chilled. “Does it help?”

He searched her eyes quietly. After a minute, the intensity of the look brought a flaming blush to her cheeks and she looked down abruptly.

He laughed softly at her embarrassment. “You're bashful.”

“I am not. It's just hot,” she protested, putting a little more distance between them. Her heart was racing and she felt oddly hot. That wouldn't do at all. She didn't dare show weakness to the enemy.

“It wasn't an insult,” he said after a minute. “There's nothing wrong with being shy.” His eyes narrowed. “Who looks after you, if you get sick? Your boss?”

“Dee's wonderful, but she's not responsible for me. I look out for myself.” She glanced at him. “How about you?”

He shrugged. “If it looked like I was dying, Tony the Dancer would probably call somebody if he was around—if he wasn't on holiday or having days off. My lawyer might send a doctor out, if it was serious and somebody called.”

“But would they take care of you?” she persisted.

“That's not their job.”

She drew in a long breath. “I know you don't like me. But maybe we could look out for each other.”

His dark eyebrows lifted. “Be each other's family, in other words.”

“No ties,” she said at once. “We'd just be there if one of us was sick.”

He seemed to be seriously considering it. “I had flu and almost died last winter,” he said quietly. “It was just after I lost my daughter. If Tony hadn't come back early from Christmas holidays, I guess I'd have died. It went into pneumonia and I was too sick and weak to get help.”

“Something like that happened to me this year,” she said. “I got sick and I had this horrible pain in my stomach. I stayed in bed for days until I could get up and go back to work. It was probably just the stomach bug that was going around, but I thought, what if it was something serious? I couldn't even get to the phone.”

He nodded. “I've had the same thoughts. Okay. Suppose we do that?”

She smiled. “It's not such a bad idea, is it?”

“Not bad at all.”

“I would be more amenable to the plan if you'd stop treating me like a bag lady,” she added.

“Stop dressing like one,” he suggested.

She glowered up at him. “I am not dressed like a bag lady.”

“Your socks never match. Your jeans look like they've been worn by a grizzly bear. Your T-shirts all have pictures or writing on them.”

“When you're working, you don't look all that tidy yourself,” she countered, not comfortable with telling him the truth about her odd apparel, “and I wouldn't dare ask what you got on your boots to make them smell so bad.”

His eyes began to twinkle. “Want to know? It was,” and he gave her the vernacular for it so wickedly that she blushed.

“You're a bad man.”

He studied her closely. “If you want to be my family, you have to stop saying unkind things to me. Give a dog a bad name,” he said suggestively.

“I'd have to work on that,” she replied.

He drew in a long breath as he glanced back at the small grave. “Why did you come out here today?”

She smiled sadly. “Today is Father's Day. I put some new silk flowers on Grandad's grave. Sometimes the wind blows them away. I wanted to make sure they were still there.”

“I meant to call one of the local florists and get them to come out and put a fresh bouquet on her grave. But I've had some business problems lately,” he added without specifying what they were. “I write myself notes about things like that.” He smiled wryly. “Then I misplace the notes.”

“I do that all the time,” she confessed.

He cocked his head, staring at her. “Why can't you wear things that match?” he asked, noting that she had on mismatched earrings.

She grimaced. It was much too early in their ambiguous relationship to tell him the real reason. She lied instead. “I'm always in a hurry. I just put on whatever comes to hand. Around town, people know I do it and nobody makes fun of me.” She hesitated. “That's not quite true. When I came here to live with Grandad, some of the local kids made it hard on me.”